The MacKinnon’s Bride(75)

“Aye, Broc,” Iain agreed, nodding, his expression grave. “Or one o’ us...” Iain, too, scrutinized them, taking in their sober expressions, their rigid stances. All of them had been closely knit too long to suspect a single one of them. Some, he’d seen their naked arses spanked by their mammies as laddies; a few others had been there to see his own walloped by his da. Their lives and their legacies were intermingled and belonged to the clan MacKinnon, their heritage handed down by the mighty sons of MacAlpin. It pained his heart to think of any one of them as guilty.

And yet one of them was.

“I say ‘tis Broc!” Dougal exploded, turning and shoving the titan youth with all his might.

Broc barely budged over the effort, and Iain nearly laughed out loud despite the gravity of their situation.

“You whoreson Sassenach abettor!” Dougal snarled.

To his credit, though, Broc’s eyes reflected his fury, he didn’t bother to return Dougal’s callow shove. He stood, frowning down at his peer. Broc and Dougal had long shared a friendly rivalry, one that seemed now to have become heartfelt.

“Enough, Dougal!” Iain reproved, his tone unyielding, lest they mistake his reasoning for lack of intent. “Fighting amidst ourselves gains us naught,” he told them.

Dougal, red faced over the lack of impact he’d had upon Broc’s massive form, and Iain’s rebuke, nodded his agreement as he stared, brooding now, at the ground before him.

“My charge to all o’ ye is this,” Iain told them, his eyes narrowing and alighting upon each and every one separately. “Watch your backs, all o’ ye. Guard each other well. Dougal and Broc,” he directed, “put your differences aside for now.” He cast them each a foreboding glance and said, “It seems there is a traitor amongst us.”

Each and every man nodded, looking as glum as Iain had ever seen them. There was no denying the truth.

The evidence was indisputable.

“A message o’ warning to whoever that mon might be,” Iain concluded. “When I discover who ye are... and I will unmask the bluidy whoreson... I’ll hold your heart in my hands and watch ye greet your maker as the heartless bastard ye are.”

Every man present shook his head, denying responsibility.

“I didna do it,” Dougal muttered, shaking his head adamantly.

“Nor I,” muttered another.

“Or me,” came the echo.

“Weel,” Iain answered, “ye can bluidy damned well pass it on, anyhoo.”

“The whoreson knows who he is,” Angus agreed somberly. “And I’d wager he dinna have in mind for that tumble down the mount to be poor Ranald’s either.”

“That he does,” Iain granted. “And nay... that tumble down the hillside was meant to put more than scrapes on a bluidy corpse. Mayhap ’twas meant for her...” He cast a nod in Page’s direction. “And mayhap ‘twas meant for my son.” His jaw went taut. His hands clenched at his sides. “Either way... may God forgive his cauld heart, because I mean to carve it from his verra body with my own hands and feed it to the raving wolves! Tell him that for me, will ye now,” Iain charged them, and left them to mull over his counsel.





chapter 23





The MacKinnon was in a foul mood.

Page didn’t need to hear the whispered warnings to know she should endeavor to stay out of his way. She’d learned her lessons well in her father’s home. She wasn’t precisely certain what it was that had turned his mood so foul, but she knew it had something to do with the discourse he’d shared with his men earlier in the day. She’d known by the way he’d stood talking with them, and then by the way he’d pivoted and left them. The scowl upon his face had been daunting enough to make her cower where she’d sat upon her little stone.

Without a word he’d saddled her mount with his own harness and trappings, and then had decreed she would ride with Malcom. And then without a word he’d ridden beside them, making only an occasional swoop over his cavalcade, speaking sharply to those he stopped to address.

Only Malcom seemed unaffected by his mood, and Page thought it either very foolish, or very telling. She was beginning to believe the latter, as she’d never heard Iain speak a single unkind word to his son, but she was beyond the point of feeling envious over that fact. On the contrary, she was glad for Malcom. He was a bright child, with a wit almost as sharp as his father’s. And no child deserved ill treatment—not from anyone.

She and Malcom whiled away the hours talking about everything. He told her of his home, Chreagach Mhor—that the stone walls of his father’s donjon had been built long before the first MacKinnon had set foot upon God’s earth. He told her all about his da, about things she wasn’t certain Iain would wish her to know—that his da sometimes had nightmares, and that he called out his mother’s name.