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

told himself.
    And with that decided, he set Broc to guard her, and
anticipated Lagan’s and Ranald’s return, pacing as he waited, all
the while aware of the dagger looks FitzSimon’s daughter cast at
his back. He dismissed her for the time being, anxious for the
bargain to be put forth.
    It wasn’t long before his cousin returned—without
news of Henry’s camp. It mattered not, Iain assured himself, he
wouldn’t need it. ’Twas a simple enough trade—the man’s gaddamned
daughter for his son!
    So why did he have a sense of doom creeping through
his bones?
    Something wasn’t right.
    He gathered the men he would ride with, leaving only
Ranald to watch over FitzSimon’s daughter. The greater their
numbers, he reasoned, the better it would go for them. But he
couldn’t quite dispel the sense of unease slithering through
him.
    Nor could he banish FitzSimon’s daughter from his
thoughts.
    Even as he awaited FitzSimon’s emergence upon the
battlements, her expression continued to haunt him. He kept seeing
her face as he’d left her, proud but glum.
    Something plagued him... something, though he could
not put a finger to it as yet.
    The bastard was taking too long.
    Although Iain remained mounted, some crazed part of
him paced before the barbican gates, shouting obscenities and
rattling the damnable portcullis. God, he wanted his son back! He
was desperate to have Malcom back.
    And he was close—so close, and yet...
    The man had been disinclined to meet face-to-face.
He would, instead, hide behind stone walls and the bows of his
men.
    Nor did he appear much in a hurry to show
himself.
    Not the mark of a man who held great affection for
his daughter and desired her return at any cost.
    The realization lifted the hairs upon Iain’s nape,
and he found himself heartily glad for the slip of the lass’s
tongue. Though Lagan and Angus had scoured the area all night for
the English camp, to no avail, the information might still work to
his advantage—provided she’d spoken the truth and King Henry was,
in fact, due.
    Finally, when FitzSimon deigned to appear, Iain
thought the man arrogant and unmoved. For one whose daughter had
strayed into enemy hands, he reacted with too little concern over
the news. Iain braced himself for the man’s dubiety, telling
himself that he might react the same without ample proof—perhaps
he’d taken so long in showing himself because he’d been searching
for his daughter within. With a wordless gesture, he demanded the
lass’s shoe from auld Angus. Angus complied at once, spurring his
mount forward to hand it over. Seizing it, Iain prepared to fling
it up into the ramparts. FitzSimon’s declaration arrested his
hand.
    “ So you have her, and what?” The
older man shrugged, bracing his hands imperiously upon his hips.
“What is it you wish of me, MacKinnon?”
    It took Iain a full moment to comprehend the import
of the question. Like the instant Mairi had flung herself from
their chamber window, he felt helpless and momentarily unhinged. He
could feel Malcom wrenched away suddenly, the possibility of his
return dwindling, and the sensation was almost physical. He
tempered himself, knowing his emotion would only get in the way
now. There would be time enough to feel once he held Malcom within
his embrace once more.
    “ My son for your daughter,
FitzSimon!” Iain proffered, disposing with ceremony. He flung up
the shoe.
    FitzSimon didn’t bother to catch it, merely eyed it
disdainfully as it fell behind the rampart wall, unclaimed at his
feet. He laughed suddenly, uproariously, his belly heaving with the
effort. “God’s breath, man! What need have I of that brat ?”
he asked, and shook his head. “I’ve sons aplenty and the means to
forge myself more!” He smacked his belly in a gesture of
beneficence. “Take her if it please you, MacKinnon. I shall be
keeping the boy, I think. I’m not witless enough to risk Henry’s
wrath over a bothersome wench—daughter of mine