Free The MacKinnon's Bride by Tanya Anne Crosby

her? And then had promptly lost her, as well?
    Why hadn’t he sent men to see to her
return?
    How could he have trusted the word of a
Scotsman?
    Curse the MacKinnon! The ignoble wretch!
    The trees now were less abundant with
foliage. A few were lush with new green growth; some sprouted new
leaves that reminded Page of green feathers. Some trees were as yet
bare, still to be touched by God’s masterful hand and miraculous
paint.
    She had always loved the land.
    A wildling, her father had called her. It
didn’t matter; it had never disturbed her in the least that he’d
thought her so, for she’d always felt more as though she were
Nature’s child than his. In truth, it was the only time she ever
felt truly whole—when she was at one with God’s earth. That was the
reason she’d stolen away from the castle all those many nights. It
gave her soul great peace.
    But it was also the reason she was in this
damnable predicament.
    Page frowned as she thought of the man
seated so intimately at her back. She’d managed to shut him out of
her thoughts for most of the morning. Only when he so arrogantly
drew her back against him did she deign to acknowledge him,
elbowing him and shrugging free to sit forward once more. The more
distance she was able to place between them, the more at ease she
felt.
    Now, again, he drew her back against him and
she wrenched forward, turning to glare at him. “Do you mind
overmuch?” she asked, exasperated. “Force me to ride well nigh in
your lap, if you will, but you cannot force me to abide your
touch!”
    “ Suit yourself, vixen.”
She felt his sigh more than heard it. “God’s teeth, but you’re a
sour- mouthed wench, if e’er I knew one.”
    “ Truly?” she asked
sweetly, mocking him. “I do wonder why that is.”
    “‘ Tis likely you were born
that way,” he answered uncharitably.
    Page felt like turning and slapping his
arrogant face. “Nay, but you’re a mean brute!” she returned. “You
must realize my father will come after us,” she apprised him. “He
does not like to be thwarted, I assure you!”
    For an instant he didn’t respond, and Page
could almost feel his tension mounting at her back. “Will he?” he
answered, after a moment. She thought he might have been
contemplating the possibility. Good. She hoped he was considering
the repercussions of his actions, and fearing for his life. Neither
her father nor King Henry would stand for his perfidy.
    “ Sit back, lass,” he
commanded, though not unkindly, and drew her against him once more,
this time pinning her against his chest.
    Page struggled against his unwelcome
embrace, to no avail. “Arrrghhh!”
    “ You’ll end up lame riding
in that unlimber position. Rest yourself. I willna
bite.”
    “ I don’t believe you!”
Page said through clenched teeth, sinking her nails into the arm
that held her like plaster to his massive frame. “Sweet Jesu, but
you’re a brute!” she accused him when he would not budge. Neither
did he seem to be affected by the pressure she was inflicting upon
his arm. Rather he sat there in stony silence, and it was as though
he felt nothing at all. With a disgruntled sigh, she relented and
released his arm, allowing herself to slacken against him, though
she could not, by any means, rest.
    “ That’s it,” he said,
bending to whisper his approval into her ear.
    Page tried to ignore the shudder that swept
down her spine at the solicitous tone of his voice.
    “ You havena spoken all the
morn,” he said low, and his voice was like warm silk against her
face, soft and soothing. She reminded herself that he was a
faithless Scotsman, not some overly attentive beau who cared for
her well-being. “I dinna mean to aggrieve you, lass.”
    And still her heart hammered. “Did you not?”
she asked, hiding her confusion behind anger.
    His chest expanded with another sigh. He
released it, and it blew across the pate of her head. The feel of
it gave her gooseflesh. He didn’t