Somewhere, in the dusty, cobwebbed recesses of her heart, she had dared to believe that he’d been enticed by her—that he’d taken her because he’d wanted her. Not so. He’d pitied her—had been forced to bring her along solely because he had a conscience. Simple as that.
And their afternoon? A simple tryst. No more. He was a man, and she a woman, after all, and he had needs that she could satisfy. And, God save her soul, she had done so readily, wantonly.
Remembering the bloom in her hand, she opened her fist, only now realizing she’d held it so tightly closed, and stared at the crushed crocus. She was too disgusted with herself to even feel chagrined that she’d held on to it for so long. It was faded now, its petals worn and veined. Pursing her lips in self-disgust, she tossed the blossom to the ground, turned, and walked away, not daring a glance backward at Iain MacKinnon lest he spy her shame upon her face.
The entire lot of them were coming near to blows now, still squabbling over who would carry Ranald. Page heard them, and yet heard nothing at all. Sweet Mary, but they were fickle souls, these Scots. Well, let them kill themselves over the dubious honor. She no longer had intentions of carrying poor damned Ranald! Poor damned Ranald could carry himself for all she cared! She had half an inclination to go find the nearest rock and sit down upon it until she withered away.
chapter 22
Iain had to restrain himself from going after her.
Keeping him from it was the knowledge that any words he might think to utter would be wholly inadequate to ease the incredible sorrow he saw reflected there in her eyes.
His gaze was drawn downward to the crumpled crocus blossom she had discarded. It was beaten beyond repair, its petals folded and distorted, but the fact that she had kept the memento told him it was somehow important to her, and just as he had felt compelled to pluck the blossom in the first place, he felt bound now to retrieve it to save for her. He bent, lifting it as gingerly as his big, unwieldy hands could manage, and then placed it within the folds of his breacan.
“I really like her, da,” his son said in a whisper, appearing suddenly at his side.
Iain glanced down at the smaller, begrimed image of himself and smiled. “Me too,” he said, and patted a hand over the crown of Malcom’s head.
“But she has a mean da,” Malcom proclaimed. “I didna like him!”
Iain’s gaze returned to Page. “Aye, son, that she does.” He stared pensively, thinking of her bastard da, only half listening to his son. “I didna like him either.”
“He howled like a banshee and was verra mean!”
Iain’s gaze snapped down to his son. “To you?”
Malcom shook his head, and his little brows drew together into a frown. “Nay... to her. I was gain’ to beat him up!” he revealed with no small measure of pride.
Iain chuckled and ruffled his son’s hair. “Were ye now?” He didn’t see any reason to point out the unlikely outcome of such a venture. “And what stopped ye, Malcom?”
His brows lifted and he nodded. “I was verra scared,” he confessed.
Iain’s grin widened at his son’s innate honesty.
And then his little brows drew together once more. “Da,” he ventured. “Were ye afeared o’ her da, too?”
Iain came to his haunches to face his son, sensing his question was not one to be taken lightly. In it he heard all the confusion of childhood—the irresolutions carried into manhood. It was an echo of his own childhood—the self-doubt never voiced for fear that his da would disparage him for it. He placed his hand to his son’s shoulder and confessed, “Verra much, Malcom.” Certainly not in the sense his son was speaking of, but he had been terrified unto death for Malcom’s sake. In truth, he’d been too damned furious, too afeared for Malcom’s safety to consider his own. Nor, he was ashamed to concede, did he consider the safety of his men. Nonetheless, Malcom was too young to understand the difference between the two, and Iain sensed his son needed to know his fear was only natural. He placed a hand to his son’s shoulder. “In truth, I was verra scared,” he confided in a whisper.
Malcom nodded, and returned the embrace, placing his little hand upon Iain’s shoulder. “Dinna worry, da,” he said. “I willna tell, all right?”
Iain smiled.
Malcom returned the smile and drew himself up to his full height, straightening his back. His gaze slid to Page and then back to his da, and then he said, patting Iain’s shoulder, “She’s a right bonny lass, Da. Dinna ye think so?”
Iain choked on a chuckle. He managed a sober nod. “Aye, son, I do.”