Mairi.
Of all names to choose, it was the first false name she’d given him, she realized. He’d fallen silent. She wondered if he found her lacking compared to his wife.
Likely so.
He plainly loved her still.
The fact bothered Page more than it should have. God’s truth, she didn’t understand it, but somehow, knowing that Iain could never have harmed his wife, she’d rather have thought he might than to think he yet loved her, and dreamt of her so oft. She didn’t understand it, didn’t even try to, for it seemed a ludicrous notion, and she rather thought that if he were capable of such a horror as murdering a wife, she couldn’t even like him. Tangled emotions. Even more tangled thoughts.
The only one thing that she did know was that, like it or nay, she would have to make the best of this situation God had cast her within. Her father wasn’t coming after her. She could stop peering over her shoulder now, and dropping scraps of cloth for him to follow. She could stop hoping, and start living as best she could.
But God have mercy upon her soul, she refused to stop loathing him. Somehow, with the knowledge that he had so easily and so completely repudiated her—to strangers!—she found that every last shred of kindly emotion she’d once harbored for him fled. And in truth, it had never been easy to love him, she acknowledged. She had loved him only because she’d felt she must. Because he was the only kin she’d ever known. Well, no more! The knowledge had freed her of whatever obligatory love she’d once had for him.
For better or for worse, these were to be her people now.
Sitting there alone upon that stone, she’d felt so far removed from everything and everyone she’d ever known.
And then Malcom had come to speak with her, and he’d brightened her heart with his smiles and his words. This dirty little Scots boy, with the green eyes, golden hair, and a face that was an almost perfect replica of his father’s.
Aye, these were her people now, she resolved.
Mayhap she would never have chosen them—nor they her—but God had seen fit to cast them together, and she was determined to feel grateful, despite the anger and hurt she felt. And she was even more determined to earn her keep, however possible.
They continued the northward ride mostly in silence, but for Malcom’s occasional familiar illumination. When the winds lifted, Malcom turned and buried his little face against her bosom, and she sheltered him as best she could, singing to him to pass the time. Amazing, she’d never thought a body could withstand such frigid temperatures, though while Malcom seemed ready enough to snuggle against her, she was the only one left shivering.
Mayhap it was the emptiness within her that made her feel so chilled. Absurdly, the thought that Iain MacKinnon pitied her made her feel more depleted even than her father’s betrayal.
Foolish girl, she berated herself.
How could you have possibly believed he could love you?
She hadn’t expected love, she told herself, and hadn’t gotten it. So why should she feel so disheartened?
God’s truth, she didn’t know, but she did.
The weather became more insane the farther north they traveled.
They awakened the next morning to a fine, cold mist that no sooner settled upon the flesh than it began seeping down into the bones. And still she was the only one shivering. These Scotsmen surrounding her seemed wholly immune to the savage weather they faced.
It seemed remarkable to Page that it could be so cold when the sun shone brightly down upon them. But it was. And it was a cold that benumbed the flesh and paralyzed the body. They gained an early start, covering more ground than it seemed conceivable for the horses to cover, when her own fragile bones seemed frozen and incapable of motion.
When it ceased to rain at last she had no chance to rejoice in the fact, for within mere instants of the rain’s departure came the snow. Stunned, she put out her hand to be certain she wasn’t imagining it, and was stupefied to find white feathery flakes alighting upon her sun-pinkened flesh—such fine flakes, they melted upon contact, but flakes, they were.
And Jesu, it was in that moment, as she scrutinized the MacKinnon men, that she realized what remarkable fortitudes they each possessed. Not a one of them complained even the least, though more than half wore not even shoes. Bare legged and bare of feet, with only their breacans to buffer them from the piercing wind and cold, they rode with their spines rigid and their heads held high and proud.
Not Page. She, on the other hand, while she dared not voice her discomfort, was huddled over Malcom, trying desperately to warm her body. Her feet were bare as well, but she did not endure it so nobly. Her distress must have been evident, for Iain removed his breacan and approached her, throwing the thick woolen blanket as a mantle over her shoulders. She was loath to take his charity, but didn’t dare refuse it. As it was, were it not for Malcom’s little body seated before her, she thought she would have perished long before now. Sweet Jesu! Whatever the rain left untouched, the chill wind permeated.