Free The MacKinnon's Bride by Tanya Anne Crosby Page B

wrenched at his gut.
    He opened his eyes and sought out his son,
focusing upon the future, not the past. The sight of Malcom, his
soft golden hair shining under the sun, laughing and talking with
his cousin, comforted Iain at once. He allowed the issue of her
name to pass for now, and lapsed into silence along with her, more
than aware of the glances he was receiving from his men.
    They were trying to understand, he knew.
He’d shocked the hell out of them with his lies about her father’s
intentions, but it couldn’t be helped. At the first opportunity he
would explain... what? His brows drew together into a frown. God’s
teeth, but what would he explain? He wasn’t even certain he
understood it himself. That he’d been driven to the lie? That he
couldn’t bear to hurt her? That something about the beautiful,
contentious, troublesome wench sitting so stiffly before him
brought out a fierce protectiveness in him... something apart from
the lust she aroused in him?
    Christ, but he found himself wondering if,
in truth, she’d been championing his son last eve rather than
herself. He thought it might have been both, for behind her
bluster, Iain feared she masked a lifetime of her father’s scorn. A
lifetime of trying to please the unpleasable. He sensed in her the
same hunger, the same hopes and the same fears that he’d once
harbored himself for Mairi’s favor.
    All for naught.
    He could scarce bear to be the one to deal
the lass another blow.
    She roused in him so many inexplicable
emotions, such irrational yearnings. Like the one he felt now to
undo the plait in her hair and comb through the soft strands with
his fingers until they were silk in his callused hands. He wanted
to see the play of sunlight upon her hair—somehow knew it would be
splendid. In the noonday light, her brown color turned the shade of
fire-lit henna.
    And, God, her scent... sunshine and
verdure... the freshness of mountain mist on a day when the heather
was in high bloom. Like a wolf scenting his mate, it was all he
could do not to bury his face into the crook of her neck and
breathe the essence of her into his lungs.
    Christ, but he needed to think of other
things—needed to get her away from him, somehow. His eyes lifted,
scanning the cavalcade for his son once more. He needed to speak
with Malcom, needed to hold his son, and yet here he sat, playing
nursemaid to a fork-tongued wench instead. He frowned at the
thought of her riding with someone else, anyone else, and cursed
himself for being an unreasonable arse.
    Why should he care whether she affected
another man the way she affected him? She wasn’t his woman, after
all—nor did he desire her to be.
    Bedamned, he could be wounded by a wit so
cutting as hers!
    But he didn’t wholly trust his men not to
tell her the truth.
    Nay, he resolved, until he could speak to
them privately, and until he had the opportunity to think of what
he would say to them—to her—she would continue to ride with him.
Malcom would be well enough riding with Lagan for the time being.
It was enough, for now, to know he was safe.
    They continued on in silence, and when the
lass seemed to waver a little before him, Iain drew her back
against him once more, smiling over her indomitable will.
    Stubborn wench.
    This time she didn’t resist him. She went
slack against him and blew a spent breath. Iain smiled, for he knew
that somehow she’d managed to fall asleep sitting straight in the
saddle. She hadn’t slept well the night before, and he was
surprised she’d lasted so long. He allowed her to nap well into the
afternoon, all the while trying not to think about how good it felt
to hold the woman in his arms, how right it felt to protect
her.
    It had been so long.
    So bloody long.
     
     
    “ Wake up,
lass!”
    Page awoke to an insistent whisper.
    “ Mary!”
    A strange woman’s name, but whispered in her
ear... and she recalled groggily that she’d given the name instead
of her own. Her eyes flew open