She had defended his son.
Iain shook his head in wonder. He didn’t know whether to kiss her soundly for her unbiased defense of Malcom, or to strangle her where she stood.
God’s teeth, she was a sharp-tongued wench with a mouth the likes o’ which he’d never known a woman to possess in his lifetime. He grinned then, despite himself, because he couldn’t believe she’d been so barefaced.
Catching glowworms, indeed.
He chuckled. The looks upon his men’s faces had been worth a king’s ransom.
Aye, he was going to have to remain close to the wench, he resolved—but first things first. Right now he intended to retrieve her garments from the riverbank where she’d likely left them—he had to believe she had worn more clothes than those she bore upon her back just now. The last thing he needed was a bloody distraction.
God’s teeth! He couldn’t think straight while staring at those luscious breasts of hers. And damnation! Who could help but stare when she stood all but naked before him!
Which brought him to wonder yet again... what sort of man allowed his only daughter to roam the countryside free and naked as Eve?
Och, but there were daughters who were governable, and daughters who were not, he reasoned.
Had she been his wayward daughter, Iain might have locked her safely within a tower until the day she pledged her vows!
Impertinent, sour-mouthed wench!
While the rotten lot of them lay snoring upon their backs, Page sat, shivering with her back against a tree, arms twisted and bound behind her and a sour-tasting rag wedged within her mouth.
Loathsome Scots!
Not that she could have slept anyway, for she was much too miserable with worry and regret. Forsooth, she should never have come out alone. Why couldn’t she be content to simply sit within the solar and sew like other ladies?
Why couldn’t she be what her father wished of her?
Then again, she reflected somewhat bitterly, the answer to that question might better be known if only she knew what her father wished of her.
The truth was that Page couldn’t please him—never had been able to please him. And what was worse, she wasn’t certain she wished to try anymore.
She might not have to after tonight.
The thought sent a shudder through her.
What would they do to her once they discovered her father didn’t want her? The truth was that her father would no more give up the boy than he would spit in the king’s eye—not for her, he wouldn’t.
Well, she told herself, she didn’t care.
She truly didn’t.
But her eyes stung with hot, angry tears.
Well, she’d soon enough discover what they would do … if she didn’t manage an escape … so she set her wiles to that end. Trying not to deliberate on the dire possibilities should she fail, she regarded her captors.
To her dismay, the original four had not come alone as she’d first suspected. Worse, she couldn’t precisely make out how many there were, for their limbs and bodies merged together in the darkness—like cadavers huddled together in a common grave.
There were a lot of them, she surmised.
They’d dragged her shrieking like a fishwife into their camp, and the lascivious looks she’d gotten from the lot of them had made her resolve never to look at a man full in the face again.
Overweening boors!
The MacKinnon in particular!
She shuddered, remembering the way he’d looked at her, the knowing look in his eyes.
Unreasonably, she found herself wondering what color his eyes were. Blue? Green? She hadn’t been able to make them out in the darkness, but she was certain they wouldn’t be so common as hers. Alas, but there was naught ordinary about the infuriating man.
He had yet to return.
Not that she cared one whit whether she ever saw his too comely face again, she assured herself, but—well, damnation, mayhap she did, and frowned at the admission, her brow furrowing as she contemplated that fact. ’Twas only natural, she reasoned, that she wouldn’t wish to be left alone with these men of his. She didn’t trust them.
But had she anymore cause to trust the MacKinnon? a little voice nagged.
It wasn’t precisely that she trusted him. Just that she didn’t mistrust him quite so much—although why she should feel even thus toward him, she couldn’t begin to comprehend. He was likely no better than the rest.
Soon after she’d been bound to the tree, he and the one called Lagan had departed camp. She imagined they were scouting Balfour’s defenses as a precaution.
Good for them, because her father was going to tell them to go to Hell, she was aggrieved to admit. It mattered not what she’d said, or what she secretly hoped, she wouldn’t delude herself into thinking otherwise. They were stuck with her, didn’t they know.