The MacKinnon’s Bride(66)

Instead, she’d tossed herself from the accursed window, and had stolen his chance with her youngest sister. Stupid bitch. His dire warnings against Iain had been meant to frighten her, make her life miserable, not send her out upon a window ledge.

And yet... he had to admit... she’d succeeded in wounding the whoreson in a way that might never have been possible elsewise, for Iain had not once, since Mairi’s death, taken a woman to his bed.

Until now.

He smiled, for this was one more way to see the bastard bleed before he died.

His one dilemma now... to decide who should depart the world sooner... the son... or the lover.

Mayhap both.

Together.





Long after Page awoke from her sated slumber, she clung to the pretense of sleep, not quite able to face Iain.

Nor could she deal with the accusations from his men as Iain returned with her in his arms. She overheard their grievances, their voiced indignation over her foul treatment of poor Ranald, and felt more than a twinge of guilt over the havoc she’d wreaked once more. Certainly she’d not meant to dump the cadaver in the lake! It had been an accident, no more. But her heart had filled with joy to hear Iain MacKinnon become her champion. He’d commanded them all to silence, and with his unsolicited defense, a gladness had flowered in her heart.

If the truth be known, more than aught else, she didn’t wish to leave the refuge of his arms as yet. He held her like a babe, his strong arms enfolding her within an embrace that felt more like Heaven than even those puffy white clouds could possibly.

Nay... she didn’t want to wake... wanted to cling to him always.

To this illusion of love.

She felt cherished by the way he held her, the way he stroked the hair from her face. But it was an illusion, no more. She understood that well enough—just as she understood that once she opened her eyes, she would no more be his lover, but his hostage once again.

Oh, but how wonderful it had been for the time.

She would cherish the memory of their loving deep in her heart, remember every wonderful instant... and on those evenings when she stared out from her chamber window... no more would she wish for things that had never been, could never be... She would carefully unwrap the crocus she held in her hand. Though it might be faded and brittle with age, she would see it bright and yellow and kissed by the dew. She would see his face—would feel the great sweep of emotion that had twisted her heart and made a mockery of her avowal that she felt mere lust for him. Aye, for in that moment, she had loved him fiercely. In that magical instant she had wanted to stay with him always.

Aye, and she’d wanted him to love her.

Her throat thickened with overwhelming emotion when she recalled the way he’d plucked the bloom and placed it within her hand. It was a simple gesture, one he might have performed a thousand times, for a thousand different lovers... but this one had been for her and her alone.

She wanted to weep, but didn’t dare, lest he discover her awake.

The trail they were following veered upward, a steeper incline than any they’d traveled as yet, and Page sighed contentedly as she was forced closer to the man who would ever after haunt her dreams.

As far as she could tell, it was late afternoon.

Through the haze of her lashes, she could spy ribbons of rose-red stretching across a faded blue sky. The sun bathed the heathered hills in a buttery light, like a gentle mother kissing all it touched before snuffing its light.

When the path turned steeper yet, Page dared to cling to her dubious savior, taking comfort in his strength to keep her safe. Her hand at his back took great pleasure in exploring the sinew of his flesh, the broadness of his back, her pretense of slumber affording her a boldness she would never have dared elsewise.

He was a marvelous exemplar of a man, every part of him well formed. She sighed at the memory of him kneeling unclothed before her, magnificent and primeval.

The way he’d gazed at her; no one had ever looked at her just so.

His eyes... they were the sort to make a woman weak when they fell upon her in full measure. Something flittered down deep within her belly with scarce the memory of his smoldering gaze. Arrogantly confident, they appraised like one who knew what he wanted and knew instinctively how to get it. They probed for secrets, used them to ravage the heart... and the body.

She shivered at the thought.

Of his hands upon her...

And his lips... lips that promised unspeakable things... promises kept with such great relish. Jesu, but he’d taken immense pleasure, judging by the mischievous turn of his lips, in all that he’d done to her. He’d made love to her again with that exquisite mouth, taking more pleasure in the endeavor than it seemed possible a man could take in such a thing.