The MacKinnon’s Bride(8)
He spat a mouthful of indecipherable oaths, and commanded his men, “Take her! Bind her to the stoutest tree you can find! I mean to be certain she remains come morning light!”
They seized her by the arms.
“Nay! My father will flay you alive, MacKinnon!”
She shrieked in outrage when he dared to turn his back upon her and walk away, leaving her at the mercy of his men.
“Brute! Oaf! He’ll gouge out your eyes!”
He stopped abruptly and turned to assess her once more, this time without the slightest pretense at civility.
“He values you, then?”
Did he challenge her? Page thought her heart would burst with misery at his question. For a moment she couldn’t speak to answer. “Of course he values me!” She felt the burn of tears in her eyes, but refused to shed them. Tears were for the feeble, and she was anything but. Aye, her father had taught her well. She lifted her chin, daring him to refute her. “I am his daughter, am I not?”
He didn’t respond.
Sweet Jesu! Did he know? Could he possibly know? Was he laughing at her behind those turbulent blue eyes?
Rotten knave! She knew he must be.
“Good,” he said, and continued to scrutinize her with narrowed eyes. “You say King Henry comes on the morrow to take my son? Where does he plan to take him?”
Page straightened to her full height, her lips curving with a smugness she ‘didn’t quite feel. “Aye, he comes, blackguard! And when he does, he’ll—”
“What?”
Her heart twisted. What, indeed, would he do? Naught, she determined, for she knew Henry not at all and she doubted he would trouble himself for her benefit if her father did not value her. And her father did not. She swallowed the knot that rose in her throat and tried to wrench free of her captors. To no avail.
“Where does he think to take my son, wench?”
“My father will tear out your bloody hearts and I will stand by and watch and laugh!”
Unaffected, he advanced upon her, demanding, “Where?”
Page loathed herself for cowing to him in that instant. “I-I don’t know!”
His gaze scrutinized her through the night shadows. Recognizing the lie?
“For truth?”
Her voice sounded much too feeble to her own ears. “Aye.”
“No matter,” he yielded. “Henry will never set eyes upon my boy. Silence her now, Lagan! I dinna wish to hear another bluidy word come out o’ her Sassenach mouth!”
chapter 3
Never in the whole of his life had Iain met a wench so troublesome—or so impertinent! He was mightily glad to know her father would deal with him come morning, because he couldn’t wait to be rid of her!
The sooner the better.
And yet, much as he wished to summon FitzSimon from his bed at this hour, to ransom Malcom this very instant, if the wench spoke true, and King Henry arrived on the morrow, then that was one more advantage he could press if the need arose.
He’d never been one to waste opportunity. ’Twas said that, forsaking comfort, and in favor of celerity, the English king oft rode with a minimum retinue. Iain was counting on it. He had nigh forty men at his command—more than most traveled with at best—more than enough to give FitzSimon pause.
Tomorrow would have to be soon enough.
In the meantime, he was going to have to keep the mouthy wench bound and gagged, lest she drive his men to murder.
Or him to worse.
Of all the impudent, foolhardy... plucky females.
She’d actually defended his son! Against him! The notion was ludicrous, and yet...
She’d said Malcom would not speak.
Iain tried to consider the news rationally—for Malcom’s sake. ’Twould serve no purpose at all to be losin’ his wits now when he needed them most.
The fact that FitzSimon’s shrewish daughter thought him responsible for Malcom’s ills led him to believe that she, in truth, had had no part in his affliction.
Else she protected her da...
Though after the manner in which she spoke of him, Iain doubted she thought he needed protecting. She made her bastard da out to be some venerable champion! To hear her speak, she bore little fear of Iain’s reprisal against him. On the contrary, she expected her da to flay him alive. He shook his head with wonder over the callowness of her words.
’Twas like to be the simple fact that Malcom was frightened that kept his tongue stilled. His son liked to think of himself as a man, but he was yet a child, with a child’s heart.
Christ, but when he discovered the traitor...
His jaw clenched.
It had to have been someone from within their clan, for the bastard had left no witnesses, nor evidence, to betray himself. He’d simply come, like the proverbial thief in the night, stolen Malcom, and then had fled, leaving no one the wiser.