“He ran oot upon the bluff.”
Her gaze returned to the window. The rosy sky was fast turning to violet-gray shadows.
“I’ll go,” Page agreed. “Only give me a moment to dress.”
“Certainly,” he said, and stood. But he didn’t leave, nor did he turn away.
He stared a long instant at the sheet she had clutched to her bosom, and her face burned under his scrutiny. “Alone, please,” she urged him.
“Ye dinna mind Iain watching, do ye, though?” he snapped at her, and then seemed to snake himself free of his anger. “Verra well, I’ll be just beyond the door—come quickly,” he urged. “The hour grows late, and I wouldna have Malcom come to any harm.”
“Nor I,” Page assured him, shuddering at the sharp sway of his mood. She waited until he’d left her, closing the door in his wake, and then she scrambled out of the bed to dress.
It was evident Lagan did not like her—less did he seem to relish finding her in Iain’s bed. But then it was a mutual disgust, for neither did she care for him. Though it mattered not at all, for only Malcom mattered at this moment. She would have done anything for Iain’s son, and bearing Lagan’s company seemed a small enough price to repay Iain for all he’d done for her.
It was certainly the least she could do in return.
Upon entering the small croft, Iain found the room dark with descending shadows, no candles lit at all.
Glenna sat hunched over a table, weeping disconsolately into her hands. It wrenched at his gut to see the woman who had raised him feeling so aggrieved. She was still a bonny lass, though time and toil had carved their marks upon her face, and he never once looked upon her without wondering if his own mother’s face had been so fair.
“Glenna,” he called out softly.
Startled, she lifted her tear-streaked face at once, and then quickly swiped the telltale wetness from her cheeks. “What is it, Iain, love?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
It was so like her to put aside her own cares for those of the kinsmen she loved. It had never mattered to Glenna whether she herself was sick, or tired, or simply downcast, if she was needed by any of her kin, she was always there. He’d not quite spoken true when he’d told Page that here all fended for themselves, for Glenna looked diligently after them all. Malcom particularly. Ever eager, she performed her duties with nary a complaint.
The night Malcom had been born, she’d been sick with her lungs, yet she’d stayed all the night long with Mairi, brushing the hair from Mairi’s face, dampening her lips when she’d thirsted. Och, but she’d always found room in her heart for a little boy who’d craved his mother’s skirts as desperately as a leper for human touch—so hungry for notice and human compassion that he would cherish the passing smile from a stranger’s lips. His own need for her affection had been great. Malcom’s too. And she had loved them both as she had her own.
Christ, but he’d envied Lagan.
Iain would have given all just to know his mother’s voice, while Lagan had never treated his own with a modicum of respect—not even as a child had he allowed her to succor him. He had shunned her motherly touch, as though ashamed of the woman whose hands had mopped his brow and whose breasts had suckled him as a babe.
“In truth,” he told his aunt, as he came into the room, closing the door behind him, “I came to see to you.”
“Naught is wrong,” she answered much too quickly, shaking her head, stubbornly denying him the truth.
“So I see,” Iain replied.
She suddenly burst once more into tears, concealing her face within her hands. “Oh, Iain!”
Iain went to her at once. Kneeling beside her, he placed an arm about her sturdy shoulders. “Glenna,” he whispered. “Naught could be so bad as all that! Tell me what’s happened. I shall help to make it right.”
“Nay!” she wailed unhappily. “Ye canna!” She turned and thrust herself into his arms. “’Tis done! Och, but naught will bring back the years!”
Confusion clouded his thoughts, robbed him of response. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what it was she was speaking of, for she was speaking in riddles. “What is it that canna be undone?” he persisted. For the first time in his life, it seemed his wise aunt was making about as much sense as a tenet-spouting prelate. He patted her back, consoling her. “Tell me, Glenna,” he urged her. “Let me help you. What is it?”
“Lagan!” she cried, weeping all the more earnestly against his shoulder, soaking his breacan. “He was here and we fought!”