CHAPTER 1 #2
Robert was watching Gwendolyn from his place beside his brother, his expression resigned, his fingers drumming impatiently on the arm of his ornately carved chair.
They both knew it was too late for him to stop this travesty of justice.
He had condemned her in a moment of panic, and by doing so, he had lost all hope of acquiring the one thing he so desperately wanted.
With her death, the power of the jewel would elude him forever.
She tossed him a derisive smile filled with triumph, as if she were the victor in this battle.
Then she jerked her gaze away, unable to stomach the sight of him a moment longer.
If, by some miracle, she did have a spiritual existence after this world, she vowed to spend it tormenting Robert to his grave.
Her attention shifted to someone she did not recognize, an imposing stranger mounted on a gray charger, positioned in a place of honor near the laird’s dais.
This must be Mad MacDunn, she decided. When Robert visited her for a final time early this morning, he had told her Mad Alex MacDunn had just arrived in search of her.
On learning she was sentenced to death, he had offered to buy her.
Of course his offer was not accepted. But because Laird MacDunn and his men had journeyed far, Laird MacSween graciously invited them to stay and witness her burning, and enjoy the glorious feast afterward.
This was the man, then, who had ordered her clan to stop beating her.
Perhaps he’d been impatient to get on with the burning.
He was a startling figure of a man, tall and broadly cut, with a wide chest, enormous shoulders, and muscled arms that could easily wield the heavy broadsword glinting at his side.
His shoulder-length hair was the palest of gold and of a thickness and shimmer that would make any woman envious, which seemed incongruous with the rest of his ruggedly masculine physique.
She could not see his face, because in that terrible moment, as she was about to be burned alive, he was incomprehensibly absorbed with the task of rearranging the already meticulous folds of his plaid.
Unaware of being watched, MacDunn carefully adjusted the deep green and yellow fabric of his plaid and straightened his leather belt.
When his outfit was finally fitted to his liking, he glanced at the silver brooch tacking his mantle to his shoulder, frowned, and began to fastidiously polish the already gleaming piece with his sleeve.
This action caused him to raise his head, revealing a handsomely sculpted face with a wide, firm jaw, a deeply grooved chin, and well-defined cheekbones.
He seemed determined to elicit more shine from his jewelry and rubbed away at it with great concentration.
Only when a serving boy approached him with a tray of refreshments did he reluctantly permit himself to be distracted from his task.
He studied the platter of fruit and drink, then withdrew a heavily jeweled dirk from his belt and delicately speared a large red apple.
He examined it and, evidently finding some flaw, returned the offending fruit to the tray and chose another.
He buffed it well against his plaid before nibbling at it.
In that moment, perhaps sensing that he was being watched, he suddenly raised his head and looked at her.
His expression was infuriatingly insouciant—the look of a man who had few cares in his life and did not intend to let something as insignificant as her death detract him from either his attire or his hunger.
“…And because of these unholy activities, the fact that you bear the unmistakable mark of the devil on your person, and finally, the vile murder of your own father, a crime so fiendish, it could only be work of a filthy whore who lies with the devil…” ranted Laird MacSween, emphasizing as many words as possible for dramatic effect.
MacDunn studied her a moment, idly twirling his apple on his sparkling dirk, no doubt wondering if she was really capable of committing all the dreadful deeds of which she stood accused.
She glared back at him, wondering for what base purpose he had sought to purchase her.
His expression remained bland, but there was an intensity to his gaze that was strangely incompatible with his fatuous, lean-witted manner.
His scrutiny was unnerving. It made her feel as if he were penetrating the protective shield of her anger, searching for the real woman beneath.
A ripple of heat coursed through her, rendering her oddly breathless.
MacDunn regarded her another few seconds, then suddenly dropped his gaze to his apple and resumed pecking at it, as if she no longer merited his attention.
Shaken and humiliated, Gwendolyn looked away.
Laird MacSween continued to read the list of charges against her.
The MacSweens listened with rowdy enjoyment, regularly interrupting to hurl some crude insult at her.
It seemed everyone in her clan was crammed into the courtyard to witness her death, from the tiniest of infants to the frailest of elders.
Judging by their fiercely righteous expressions, it was clear they believed they were merely carrying out God’s will on this day.
She scanned the crush of faces, vainly searching for a scrap of pity or compassion.
But the MacSweens had feared and ostracized her for as long as she could remember, and there was no one she could call a friend, who might feel empathy for her.
She did, however, notice another stranger, whom she assumed was a warrior of Mad MacDunn’s, as he sported the same dark green and yellow plaid.
He was a huge bear of a man, with long, fiery red hair and a thick red beard.
His considerable bulk had enabled him to force his way through the crowd and he now stood just below the platform, swaying drunkenly as he lifted a bucket of ale to his mouth.
The dark brew sloshed down his face and chest, soaking his shirt and plaid before it dripped onto the ground.
Finally, when it appeared his enormous body could absorb no more, he lowered the bucket, wiped his mouth with his arm, and expelled the most resounding belch Gwendolyn had ever heard.
The crowd roared with laughter, causing Laird MacSween to pause and regard them in confusion.
“Your pardon, MacSween,” apologized the warrior thickly. “ ’Tis an exceptionally spirited ale.” With that he raised the bucket and began to drink once more.
Disgusted, she shifted her gaze, only to notice another MacDunn warrior perched in the second-floor opening of a window, his slim legs dangling against the castle wall.
This slight fellow was almost elfin compared to his burly clansmen, and only the light brown growth upon his cheek assured Gwendolyn he was actually a man and not a boy.
Though he had managed to procure a most enviable seat, he appeared uninterested in the drama playing before him in the courtyard and was absorbed, instead, in whittling a stick.
Another MacDunn warrior with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard leaned casually against the outer wall, shamelessly flirting with Laird MacSween’s daughter, Isabella.
Clearly he held Isabella enchanted. He leaned inappropriately close to her, his lips nearly grazing her hair as he whispered something into her ear.
She raised her hand to her throat in feigned shock and giggled prettily.
Gwendolyn watched her with irritation. As Laird MacSween’s only daughter, Isabella did not have a worry in life beyond what gown she was going to wear that day and which of her many suitors she might ultimately decide to wed.
Meanwhile, while Mad MacDunn and his boorish warriors were engaged in coy seduction, crafting toys, or getting blinding drunk, Gwendolyn awaited her death by burning at the stake.
“…therefore the devil within her must be sent back to the fires of hell, so she can no longer unleash death and destruction on this clan,” finished Laird MacSween.
“Burn the bloody bitch!”
“Quickly, before she casts more of her evil upon us!”
“Burn her, burn her, burn her…” The chant rose like a prayer, until the entire clan was demanding her death.
As Gwendolyn stared at their snarling faces, she understood the utter despair her mother must have endured on the day she was executed.
But her mother had suffered more, for she had died leaving an anguished husband and a tiny daughter.
At least Gwendolyn left no one behind. Her father was dead and was therefore spared the horror of watching his child die as her mother had died before her.
There was some solace in that, she assured herself, fighting the tears that stung her eyes.
“Light the fire,” commanded Laird MacSween, striving to be heard above the chanting crowd.
The clan raised their arms in the air and cheered.
Two men stepped forward bearing torches. Gwendolyn’s breathing grew shallow. She braced herself against the stake.
Please God, let me faint before the flames begin to devour my flesh.
She hurled one last, hate-filled look at Robert. He lounged back in his chair and regarded her with something akin to triumph, but she knew his victory was hollow.
You’ll never have the jewel now, you bastard.
The first torch began its descent. Terror gripped her, but she willed herself not to whimper.
One guard smiled as his torch hovered just above the dried grasses and branches. “Away with you, witch,” he snarled. “To the fires of—”
She waited for him to say hell, but all that came out was a stifled groan. Gwendolyn watched in confusion as his eyes widened, then rolled upward. With a sigh, he collapsed heavily onto the ground, the jeweled hilt of a dirk protruding from his back, his fallen torch abandoned in the branches.