CHAPTER 3 #3
Gwendolyn stood paralyzed as MacDunn’s mouth slanted over hers.
She had never been kissed before, for no one in her clan would have dared dally with the girl marked from childhood as a witch.
But even in her innocence she could feel the unleashed fury in the way his lips ground against hers.
A flame burst to life in the pit of her stomach, and her blood quickened, making her feel flushed and strange.
MacDunn’s tongue swept demandingly along the soft crease of her lips, and the sensation was so exquisite Gwendolyn opened her mouth slightly.
He instantly plunged inside, hungrily exploring.
Gwendolyn leaned into his muscular frame and locked her arms around his neck, clinging to him as she urgently returned his kiss.
He growled and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her even closer, kissing her even harder, until there was nothing but the solid wall of MacDunn wrapped around her and the incredible fire that raged between them.
Power seemed to emanate from him as his hands roamed down her back, cupping her hips and pulling her firmly into the hardness of his arousal.
Pleasure washed through her as she pressed against him, and a soft little cry escaped her throat.
Alex continued to taste Gwendolyn as his hands began to explore the narrow path of her back, the satin skin of her shoulders, the delicate cage of her ribs.
And then he laid his palm against the lush swell of her breast and groaned, for he could not remember ever touching anything so soft.
It had been four years since he had felt the least flicker of desire, and the lust surging through him in that moment was beyond measure.
He wanted to take this witch now, here in the forest, to lay her down on a bed of fragrant pine and bury himself deep inside her, to lose himself to her softness and heat, without even taking the time to remove her gown.
His desire was staggering, it stripped him of his ability to think, until he was aware of nothing but the blaze devouring him, and the certainty that only this mysterious smoke- and heather-scented woman could slake his need.
He could not remember a moment in which he had been so overwhelmingly possessed, not even with Flora, though there had been many a time when he had spread his plaid over a mattress of ferns and pleasured her in the golden warmth of sunlight.
But that was a lifetime ago, when she had been fit and glowing with laughter and love, and he had laid his face against the creamy softness of her breasts and vowed with all his heart and soul that he would never love another.
Shame sliced through him, dousing his ardor. He released his hold on Gwendolyn and stepped back, appalled by his behavior.
“Forgive me,” he murmured roughly, not certain whether he was asking for her forgiveness or Flora’s.
Gwendolyn regarded him blankly, bewildered by his abrupt change in manner.
A moment ago he had been powerful, aroused, a great laird who was thoroughly in control and who was using that control to spin the same veil of desire over her.
Yet now he seemed distant, almost sad. The grim set of his mouth told her he was still angry.
But she sensed his fury was no longer directed at her.
“MacDunn!” called Brodick from the distance. “Did you find her?”
“Aye.” Alex didn’t take his eyes off Gwendolyn. “We’re over here. Tell Ned to come and fetch her.”
Gwendolyn was staring at him in confusion.
Ripples of sunlight and shadow were playing over her, glossing the tangled mass of her black hair.
Her gray eyes were wide and pensive, her cheeks and lips flushed from the heat of his kiss.
In that moment, standing amid the green and gold light of the forest, she seemed more mythical creature than flesh-and-blood woman.
“You will abandon this absurd notion of escape,” he commanded tautly, resisting the impulse to lay his hand against her cheek and feel its softness.
He turned and moved toward his horse, anxious to have distance between them.
“Next time,” he continued, hoisting himself into his saddle, “I may just leave you for either Robert or the wild boars to find.”
With that he galloped away, leaving Gwendolyn alone with the slain boar.
I’m sorry.
He lay back and contemplated the sparkling cape of night, only vaguely aware that the ground was damp and the air unseasonably cold.
The physical discomforts of the body had never bothered him much, and tonight he was far too preoccupied to give them any notice whatsoever.
Flora’s star was smaller this evening, and the light it cast was sad and flat.
At first Alex had had trouble finding it amid all the others.
He had wondered if she was so injured by his betrayal that she would not show herself to him at all.
If so, he could not blame her. But long after the camp rumbled with the sounds of sleep, he finally found a pale glimmer in a distant corner of the sky.
Of course he knew Flora’s spirit did not actually dwell within that shimmering silver orb.
Her soul was all around him, watching over him as he tried his damnedest to live out the rest of his shattered existence without her.
The night his fragile wife finally died, Alex had stumbled blindly into the courtyard and raged at God, cursing him for stealing away the woman who meant more to him than life.
He had bellowed at the top of his lungs, waking all of his clan as he vainly tried to purge himself of the pain tearing through him.
And through his fury and despair he suddenly noticed a tiny, brilliant star that he was certain had not been there before.
He had been so astounded, he went immediately to Morag, the clan seer, and demanded to know the meaning of it.
And the wise old woman had assured him it was a sign that Flora was watching over him.
From that evening on, Alex never slept without first searching the sky for Flora’s star.
Forgive me, my love. It meant nothing.
He laced his fingers behind his head and sighed.
He had no doubt she believed him. His Flora was the most tender-hearted of women and would never imagine him capable of anything but honesty.
Still, his confession did not ease his shame.
He had betrayed his beloved wife, and he did not know how to cleanse himself of that unforgivable act.
Four years. It was not so long, really. Barely a drop in the ocean of time, and certainly not long enough to numb his suffering.
At first he had been far too enraged with God to continue with his duties as a laird and father.
What kind of God would bless him with unfailing strength and good health, while slowly leeching the life out of his innocent wife?
Flora had been as lovely as a flower, and as delicate.
When Alex met her at the MacLean holding, she had not known he was laird of the MacDunns.
A lively, rosy girl with laughing eyes and hair the color of fire, she spurned his arrogant advances with her quick wit and saucy manner.
And Alex, who was accustomed to women throwing themselves in his path, was completely enchanted.
He courted Flora with a patience and determination he had not known he was capable of.
And finally she gifted him with her love.
He proudly brought her back to his clan as his bride, and a year later his son was born, making his life complete.
But after David’s birth, Flora lost a child, and then another, each time losing a little more of her color and strength.
She began to complain of internal pain and weakness, and could barely find the energy to rise from her bed.
Overcome with worry, Alex sent for the finest healers in Scotland, who spared neither effort nor expense as they bled her and purged her and forced her to swallow all manner of foul potions.
Poor Flora endured her suffering with courage, though Alex knew she often wept at night when she thought he was sleeping.
At times he wondered if his love for her had made him cruel, for surely it was inhumane to make her bear such hideous ministrations.
But he clung to the hope that her illness was but a fleeting blot on an otherwise perfect life.
Eventually they would find the right treatment and one morning Flora would waken and smile, cured.
Instead his beautiful wife wasted away, until finally she was but a thin, pale wisp of the glowing girl he had so proudly presented to his people.
Her illness lasted for nearly a year. When she realized that she was going to die, her greatest worry was Alex’s unhappiness.
Over and over she pleaded with him not to grieve, but to promise her that he would marry again and get on with his life.
How can you ask such a thing of me? he had demanded, pressing her slim, cold hand against his cheek.
I swear to you I will never love another.
He had sworn this oath as a way of binding her to him, of making her see she could not possibly desert him.
But one night Flora was finally released from the torment of her treacherous body.
Though he knew she was at peace, Alex had felt empty, abandoned.
When Flora died, the light in his life was extinguished.
And now God was determined to take his son from him as well.