The MacKinnon’s Bride(87)

This time, he wasn’t alone in the room, he told himself. He wasn’t alone in the entombing darkness.

Nor was the silence so deafening or impenetrable.

Though his heart pounded fiercely still, the warmth of the body lying within his arms assured him that it had merely been a dream.

Willing his breath to ease and his heart to calm, he analyzed the dream.

There had been a new element this time. The lay. The eyes. Familiar eyes.

But whose?

And whose voice?

Always before he had awakened with the impact of silence. A silence that was damning and irrevocable. A silence that fell like the dread of the thunder.

Not this time. This time there was light—faint though the candle’s afterglow might be. And sound. The sound of a woman’s sighing breath as she slept. His woman. The very thought made his lips turn with pleasure. And when his senses cleared enough, he made out yet another sound. He heard and understood the faint wail of a pipe coming from deep in the night, and without hesitation rolled free of the tangled, sleeping form beside him to seek it.

Page was uncertain what prompted her from slumber, but the closing of the door brought her full awake.

Though she awoke disoriented within the darkened chamber, her eyes were drawn at once to the door. And though she knew instinctively she would find the bed empty beside her, she rolled into the space where Iain had lain, sighing contentedly. It was still warm from his body, and she caressed the sheets adoringly with her palms, her fingers... as though to drink in the intoxicating heat of the man who had rested there mere moments before.

Had she ever thought herself immune to him? How could she have thought it possible? Jesu, but she was both terrified and exhilarated at once—terrified because she knew instinctively that this was the last time she could dare lay her heart so bare.

And it was bare... No matter that she would deny it... she could scarce deceive herself.

Somehow, without even trying, he’d found his way beyond the carefully tended barriers that had long since kept her safe... and so alone.

Once upon a time she’d sworn never to care about love, or even the respect of others—she couldn’t control those things—had even ceased to vie for them, choosing instead to go her own way. That frame of mind had gotten her into so much difficulty with her father! She knew that, and yet had provoked him nevertheless—not because she’d so desperately craved his affection, but because she was furious with him. She knew that now because Iain had forced her to acknowledge the truth of the matter. That she was furious with her father—enraged with a strength and depth of emotion that could never have waxed so full overnight.

God, help her... dare she open her heart completely? Dare she hope he could love her in return, when no one else had?

Page nipped at her lip, biting until she felt pain, for she wanted to so very desperately.

Swallowing the knot that rose to choke her, she lay there and contemplated the sparseness of the room. Even in the darkness she could sense its nagging emptiness. There was nothing here to give even the slightest insight into the man with whom she’d lain with so freely.

The man she dared to love.

She knew Iain MacKinnon loved his clan fiercely—knew he loved his son even more. But who was he?

There was a brooding sadness about him—a sadness he hid behind that mask of unrelenting good humor. She sensed that. She knew, too, that he suffered nightmares... but of what?

As she lay there, contemplating the possibilities, she came aware of the distant wail of a pipe. Melancholy and haunting, the melody drifted through the night like a shuddering cry.

Driven with curiosity, she rolled from the bed and searched out her clothing, intending to follow the piper’s haunting song.





“Da!” Malcom shouted at seeing him. He came running, leaping into Iain’s arms, his smile brilliant, his eyes shining.

Iain laughed as he caught his son. He squeezed him tightly, embracing him unabashedly.

“Glenna told me no’ to pester ye,” Malcom complained. “She said I couldna go an’ wake ye!”

Iain’s grin widened at hearing his son’s grievance. “Did she now?”

“Aye,” Malcom declared, squeezing him back with all the strength his stout little arms possessed. “I wanna ride your shoulders, da!” he declared.

“Verra well, y’ wee auld man.”

Malcom giggled a mischievous little giggle and nearly strangled Iain with his glee. When, at last, he released the hold upon his throat, Iain hoisted his son atop his shoulders and waited until he was settled before making his way toward the gathering of kinsmen. “Well, now,” he remarked, more to himself than to Malcom. “I see everyone is ready at hand.”