The MacKinnon's Bride Read Free Page A

she had her dagger!
    But it lay somewhere along the bank along
with—Mother of God!
    Her struggles ceased at once with the realization
that she was half naked to boot! Pure hysteria welled within her.
She couldn’t have made it easier for them to ravage and murder her
had she sent them bloody invitations!
    And no one would miss her.
    Her stomach wrenched.
    Aye, she’d be fortunate enough if her father even
noticed she was gone after a sennight. He was more attentive to his
Scots guest than he’d ever considered being to her. Well, she
thought despairingly, mayhap he would take note sooner, if only
because she seemed to have the most unfortunate gift for getting
herself into his ill graces—just as she had a genius for getting
herself into trouble! She was ill fated, to be sure! He was bound
to miss the mayhem.
    Fueled with a fresh wave of desperation, Page began
her struggles again, only to be jabbed with a knee for her
efforts.
    Damn their bloody heathen hides!
    She didn’t care if they bruised her body until every
inch of it was blue, she wasn’t going to simply lie quietly while
they raped and murdered her!
    The sound of new voices stopped her struggles
abruptly.
    Suddenly, without warning, the sack was overturned
and she was tossed unceremoniously upon the ground.
    Page shrieked in outrage.
    Reeling, she surged to her feet, only to sway
dizzily backward and fall back upon her rump to stare, dumbfounded,
at the barest pair of limbs she’d ever laid eyes upon.
    Strong male legs.
    Bloody rotten luck.
    Another giant.
    Her gaze flew upward and locked with eyes that
gleamed with amusement at her expense, eyes that were filled with
arrogance and cool disdain. Sweet Jesu, but she’d seen that look
too oft to mistake it! Like everyone else, he’d peered down his
nose at her and found her wanting.
    Well! She didn’t care what the dirty Scot thought of
her! Particularly as he was likely to be planning ahead to her
demise now that he’d changed his mind about the ravaging.
     
    She didn’t look much like an earl’s daughter—more
like a drowned wretch, Iain thought—save for the eyes. Nestled
within them he spied all the haughtiness of her breeding.
    Impudent little wench.
    Like some mad, cornered hare, she looked ready to
pounce upon him. And yet, for the briefest instant, when she’d
first peered up at him, a flash of pain had shadowed those soulful
dark eyes. A trick of the moonlight, no doubt, for as quickly as it
had appeared, the look vanished, replaced by that fierce glare of
open defiance she now wore.
    That and little else, he couldn’t help but note.
    A shudder coursed through him, for he hadn’t missed
her bold appraisal of his legs. Had she been the least bit nearer
and chanced to peer up his tunic, she might have earned herself an
eyeful. Despite her bedraggled appearance, he found himself fully
aroused by the sight of her. Christ, that body—even cloaked in mist
and shadows, her graceful curves were more than discernible. Even
through the silken shadows, her perfect breasts rose to tempt him,
dark nipples plainly visible, teased by the cold night air.
    His brows drew together as he considered her state
of undress. Garbed in little more than her sodden shift, she seemed
completely oblivious, in her anger, to the sight she presented to
his men.
    Shaking his head over her foolishness, he made an
effort to dispel the images that accosted him: long luscious legs
wrapped about his waist... full, ripe breasts arched in passion,
beckoning to his lips... He knew the taste of them would be like
manna from heaven.
    Bones o’ the bloody saints, he was just a bloody
man!
    What sort of father allowed his only daughter to
roam free at will? At night, no less?
    “ She was just where they said she
would be,” his cousin disclosed.
    “ So she was.” Iain’s voice was
husky with lust he couldn’t quite eschew.
    He didn’t want her, he told himself, shaking himself
out of his reverie. No good would come of