Broc, too, came and offered his blanket, unsettling Page, and making her eyes burn with tears. She tried to refuse him, but he held his hand out resolutely.
“For the lad,” he said low, nodding and urging her to take it.
Swallowing her pride, for Malcom lay sleeping against her bosom with nary a single shiver—she knew the gesture was for her—she accepted the blanket, her eyes stinging horribly.
Broc remained at her side a moment longer, making idle talk about his dog, Merry Bells, and reminding her belatedly of his unfortunate affliction. She stared down at the blanket she’d placed over Malcom and herself, and endeavored to hide her grimace of disgust. She fought the urge to fling the blanket back at the fair-faced behemoth, but was reluctant to offend him. Poor child would likely end up with fleas—and herself, as well. She cast a glance at Broc to find him scratching his head, and determined to help rid him once and for all of his infestation.
Broc remained by her side, regaling her with tales of the world’s most clever dog, until Iain returned to ride beside her. A single glance from his laird sent Broc on his way. And then once again Page rode in silence, for Iain didn’t deign to speak to her.
He wouldn’t even look at her.
Though she knew it was ludicrous, she was still angry with him—couldn’t help herself. In withholding the truth, he had, after all, merely had the audacity to consider her feelings. She should have been grateful, but somehow couldn’t gather the sentiment. She wanted to cut out his tongue for lying to her—for keeping the truth from her. It was the same as a lie, wasn’t it? She wanted to slap his mouth for daring to kiss her—for having the gall to make her feel cherished, when she dared not feel anything at all.
Sweet Jesu, but more than aught else, she wanted to fling herself into his arms and weep until the last tear was shed. She wanted him to hold her, kiss her, love her. She wanted to forget herself within his arms, let him carry her again to that sweet place where only the body mattered, the heart did not—and she wanted to stay there for all of eternity, never to return.
She wanted to force him to acknowledge her, to look at her again as he had—not with that piteous expression that made her heart ache and made her want to gouge out his eyes.
As ever, it seemed, she wanted too much, for Iain MacKinnon continued to ride beside her deep in silence, casting her only the occasional brooding glance.
He was running out of time.
It wouldn’t be long now before Iain began to unravel the tangled thread of clues.
And where would that leave him? With nothing once again—damned if he’d allow it to happen!
Nay, he’d have to accelerate his plans, make the most of every opportunity. Bluidy troublesome wench had managed to set them all to rights without even lifting her voice in censure. Christ, but she’d had them all scurrying with shame o’er the honor of carrying Ranald’s stinkin’ body.
He hadn’t offered, and he wondered now if Iain had noticed. He cast a furtive glance at the laird of the MacKinnons, and found him brooding still, his expression black as his da’s heart had been. He hadn’t said much since Ranald’s tumble. Not to anyone—not even to his Sassenach whore, though he watched her every second he thought she would not spy him at his lovelorn glances.
For her part, she sat there, her expressions too easy to read: a mixture of longing, fury, and pain. Aye, well, he’d put the bitch out of her misery afore long.
God, but merely the thought of it brought an anticipatory smile to his lips.
chapter 24
Soaring upon a gently sloping, heathered hill, Chreagach Mhor seemed an enchanted place. Not even Malcom’s tales, pride filled though they were, could have prepared her for the rustic, fantastical beauty of the stone sentinel upon the hilltop. The very sight of it stole Page’s breath away.
As cool as the weather remained high in these hills, the heather bloomed a brilliant violet against a vivid carpet of green. Scattered across the lush landscape, rugged stones stood like proud sentries to guard the mammoth tower. Small thatch-roofed buildings spattered the hillside. The rounded donjon itself was like no other donjon Page had ever set eyes upon. The structure rose against the twilight sky, a sleek, tapering grayish silhouette against the darkening horizon.
Page held her breath as they climbed the hill toward it, her expression one of awe. It was a dream vision of incomparable beauty, nothing at all like the ugly stone fortress that was Balfour.
Built solely for defense, Balfour was a monstrosity, a scabrous creation that sullied the beauty of the English meadow upon which it was seated.
This place, this rugged fortress settled high upon a violet mantle, with its single visible high window, was like a majestic suzerain reigning over the landscape.