Malcom nodded, as well. “And she sings verra pretty, too.”
Iain’s gaze was drawn to where she sat upon a small stone. “That she does,” he agreed. “That she does.” He stood, staring pensively.
“So d’ ye think we can keep her?” Malcom ventured.
Iain found himself grinning down at his son, and soon to be coconspirator. “D’ ye wish to keep her, Malcom?”
“Aye, da!” Malcom answered at once. “Sometimes...” he imparted, “dinna tell anybody, now... I wish for a mammy to sing me to sleep.”
Iain’s heart squeezed a little at his son’s admission. There was no need to stretch the truth this time as he confessed, “I used to wish for the same, Malcom, when I was your age.”
“Did ye truly, da?”
“Aye.” More often than he could ever count, he had wished for that very thing. Mayhap, even, ’twas why he heard the echo in his mind of a voice that could never have existed. His mother’s voice. A haunting lilt that tugged at his heart and plagued his very soul.
“Guid, then. Let us both woo her together. You work on her heart,” he charged his son.
“And what part o’ her will you work to woo?” Malcom asked innocently. “Her brain, da? Will ye work to woo her brain?”
Again Iain’s gaze was drawn to her. She sat, hugging a knee to her breast. The other leg stretched out, long, lean, and luscious, from beneath the tattered hem of her skirt. The very sight of it caused his blood to simmer and stir. God, but he could almost feel the soft, supple flesh of her calf slide beneath the touch of his hand. He watched an instant longer, shuddering, and then relented, turning back to his son. “Aye,” he said, his throat thick with a longing he could not suppress. “That, too.” He winked at his son conspiratorially.
“Iain!” shouted Angus.
Iain’s attention was drawn to the group of men who had gathered about Ranald’s body.
Angus was holding the harness in his hands. He held it up for Iain to see. “I think ye’d better take a look at this,” he urged.
Iain nodded, and turned back to his son. He ruffled a hand through Malcom’s hair. “Go on wi’ ye now, son, and woo her guid, ye hear?”
Malcom beamed. “Aye, da!” he said, winking back in an exaggerated version of his father’s wink. “I will!” And then he turned and raced away.
Iain watched Malcom scurry to where Page sat, knowing his son would succeed with her in ways he could never. No one could resist that dirty, plump little face. Certainly Iain couldn’t. Sure enough, she peered up from her melancholy thoughts to spy him, and even as Iain watched, Malcom managed to coax a smile from her lush lips.
Satisfied that his son’s endeavors were going well enough, he went to see what it was that seemed to have Angus in a stir. All eyes remained upon him as he approached. The hairs at his nape stood at end. “What is it?”
“Take a look for yourself,” Angus directed.
Iain did, accepting the harness into his hands. At first glance, he saw nothing awry. He turned the harness, searching, and then his eyes fell upon the cleanly sliced cinch. He stiffened, knowing instinctively what it meant. He lifted the leather strap at once, inspecting it closer, ran a finger across the cut edge, and his body tensed.
“Someone cut it.”
“Aye,” agreed Angus. “Someone did.”
“But who?” Iain’s gaze searched the lot of them.
Angus shrugged. Broc stared at the mutilated harness, his brows drawn together into a frown. Kerwyn, Dougal, and Kermichil shook their heads and shrugged.
Lagan held out his hand, asking without words to see the damage. Iain handed the harness to him, and he inspected it thoroughly. “Without doubt, ’twas cut,” he yielded after a moment’s deliberation. “But I saw no one among us do such a thing,” he avowed, casting a meaningful glance in Page’s direction. “Only the Sassenach wench was near the mounts alone,” he proclaimed.
“’Tis the truth,” Dougal attested. “Only she was near the horses alone when she made her escape.”
“Nay,” Broc argued. “She dinna do it. I watched her every moment, and she dinna do it!”
Iain was too damned furious to consider Broc’s sudden change of heart toward Page. And if the truth be known, too damned relieved. He had no doubts over Page’s innocence, but he was glad she had a champion aside from himself, one who’d been present, while he had not been.
Page was certainly no genteel princess, but she would never have stooped to this, even to gain her freedom, he was certain. One look into her eyes while she’d defended her bastard da, or even his own son, told him as much. If she could defend a man who deserved to be drawn and quartered for his sins against her, there was no way she would harm another human being. Aye, and if she could defend a child she scarce knew, against a man such as he was reputed to be, he knew her heart was pure.