The Witch and The Warrior (11 page)

He was Flora's husband.

Appalled by his brutish behavior, he abruptly released Gwendolyn and stepped away. He regarded her warily, wondering if she had cast some spell over him. The thought gave him some comfort, for it almost explained, if not pardoned, his staggering desire for her. But she had raised her fingertips to her lips and was staring at him in bewilderment, as if she, too, could not understand what was happening between them.

“Very well,” he said, his voice strangely hollow. “Cure my son, and I will grant you your freedom.”

She said nothing. He interpreted her silence as acquiescence.

“You will dine in the great hall tonight with the rest of the clan,” he commanded, moving toward the door. The chamber had grown smaller, somehow, and he was overcome with a need to have distance from her. “I will instruct my people that they are not to try to poison you while you are here.”

“I do not wish to dine with your clan,” Gwendolyn informed him, shaken by what had just transpired between them. “As I am here as a prisoner, I will take my meal alone in my chamber.”

“You will eat where and when I tell you to eat,” Alex countered. “And I order you to join me in the great hall.”

Gwendolyn shook her head. “I won't come down.”

He jerked open the door. “Then I'll send someone to carry you down.”

Sunlight was pouring through the open windows, wrapping her small form in a brilliant haze as she glared at him. It shimmered through the black silk of her hair and etched the slim outline of her body in gold, making him achingly aware of how fine and womanly she was, even in that tattered, smoke-stained gown. Desire pulsed through him once again, so intense it was almost painful.

“You will need another gown,” he murmured thickly. “I will arrange for it.”

He slammed the door as he left.

         

“…The pot flew in a great loop, and then it stopped, just sat there in the air, as if it were being held by terrible, ungodly hands,” said Munro, cupping his own plump hands to better illustrate his tale.

A murmur of awe rippled through the great hall.

“And what did you do?” prodded Reginald.

“Why, I just stood and stared at it, frozen, for my legs had been turned to stone, and when I opened my mouth to yell, no sound came out. That was when I knew the witch had cast one of her wicked spells upon me and there was nothing I could do but pray for mercy.”

“Then what happened?” asked Lachlan.

“Well, the vessel hung there a moment, casting its great, black shadow over me,” continued Munro, waving his arms for effect. “And all at once I felt chilled to the very bone. Just as I was certain I could bear no more, the pot suddenly began to fly toward me, like a falcon swooping down on a hare. I let out a long, terrified scream before it banged me most cruelly on the head, knocking me out cold.” He tilted his head forward and pointed to the egg-sized lump swelling from his scalp.

The women of the clan gasped in horror.

“Do forgive, Munro, but how could you scream?” Owen wondered. “I thought you said you could make no sound.”

“It was a silent scream,” Munro clarified. His eyes narrowed and his voice grew ominously low as he finished, “The most terrifying scream of all.”

“But why has the witch chosen to harm you?” asked Reginald. “You've done her no wrong.”

“Don't think for a moment that Munro will be the only one to suffer from her spells,” warned Elspeth grimly. “Witches need no reason to create mischief. They bring harm to others purely out of sport!”

“Dear me,” said Owen, shaking his head. “She seemed like such a nice lass.”

“I didn't think so,” countered Lachlan petulantly. “A nice lass would have tried my elixir, just to be polite.”

“Good God, Lachlan, that potion you made would have dissolved steel!” observed Reginald. “MacDunn would have been most annoyed if you'd poisoned his guest the moment she arrived.”

“It may have been a trifle strong,” Lachlan conceded. “But I have been working on another one, and this time I have the measurements just right.” He patted the small ewer next to his goblet.

“If she truly is a witch, her powers must be great, for she seemed unaffected by the herbs and amulets in the hall,” fretted Marjorie, laying a platter of roasted meat on the table. “I wish MacDunn had permitted us to leave them a while longer.”

“I don't,” said Reginald. “The place looked bloody awful, and smelled even worse.”

“The witch was not unaffected,” Elspeth assured Marjorie. “She merely used her powers to disguise her distress. But she did not fare so well in the lad's room. I could see the smoke was bothering her.”

“What the devil does that prove?” Reginald demanded impatiently. “That stinking haze you women have created in every room bothers me, and I'm certainly not a witch.”

“It is not the same,” Elspeth replied testily.

“What are we going to do?” lamented Robena. “Poor David is terrified of her, but MacDunn is determined that we submit the boy to her care.”

“She will certainly kill him,” Elspeth predicted. “If not with her spells, then with ignorance. Today she wanted to open a window in his chamber.”

“Does the lass not realize how dangerous that could be?” sputtered Owen, clearly horrified.

“It would seem not.” Elspeth's expression grew pensive. “And then again, perhaps she does.”

“This is terrible,” Marjorie fretted. “Someone has to talk to MacDunn.”

“MacDunn won't listen to reason,” said Lachlan. “Not when it comes to his son.”

“Aye, that's true,” Owen agreed. “The poor lad just hasn't been the same since dear Flora died.”

“MacDunn is much better than he was,” pointed out Robena. “If we can just get him to see that this witch will only use her evil ways to inflict misery and suffering—”

“Good evening, lassie,” called Owen brightly, waving. “We were just talking about you.”

Startled, everyone in the hall turned and looked fearfully at Gwendolyn, who was standing at the top of the stairs.

She shouldn't have come, she realized miserably. She had not wanted to. It was only the threat of MacDunn sending someone to carry her down that had finally wrested her from her chamber. That, and the spicy sweet aroma of roasted meat and freshly baked bread. The sudden, agonizing loss of her father had left her far too numb to care much about the needs of her body these past few days. But as she sat in her chamber gloomily watching the fading purple ribbons of summer light from her window, she suddenly grew aware of a great, almost painful emptiness. The tantalizing scents filtering up from the kitchen and the great hall only intensified this sensation, until finally hunger was clawing impatiently in her stomach. It was at that moment that two men appeared at her door, carrying a metal bathing tub. MacDunn thought she might be wanting a bath, they explained, hurriedly setting it down in her chamber. A parade of men followed with sloshing buckets of water, which they swiftly dumped into the tub before racing from the room.

Just as Gwendolyn was about to climb into the bath, there was another knock at her door. She opened it to find an extremely timid serving girl cradling a beautiful gown of crimson wool. A gift from MacDunn, she stammered, thrusting it nervously into Gwendolyn's arms and scurrying away. At first Gwendolyn was tempted to call the girl back and tell her she wanted no such gift. But the woolen fabric poured like warm wine over the bare skin of her arms, and she found herself fascinated by its softness, which was so unlike the familiar coarseness of her own gown. She draped the garment across her body, marveling at the intricate gold embroidery decorating the low neckline and cuffs. She had always been responsible for making her own clothes, and without a mother or woman friend to guide her, her handiwork had never been accomplished. Suddenly her own gown seemed not only tattered, but ugly and crudely constructed. Perhaps there was no harm in accepting this gift, she decided. After all, if she was to dine in the great hall with the clan, she could not appear dressed in what was little better than a rag.

But now as she stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at the wary glances of the MacDunns, she wished she had not come. She endured their silent, hostile scrutiny with an air of cool detachment, a manner she had learned to call upon from the time she was a child. Reminding herself that MacDunn had ordered her to join the clan for the evening meal, she slowly descended the staircase.

Uneasy murmurs rippled through the room. On reaching the floor, Gwendolyn realized she had no idea where she was supposed to sit. Owen, Lachlan, Reginald, and Morag were seated at the laird's table, which was situated on a raised dais in the center of the hall. Owen had cheerfully waved at her as she entered, but stopped when Lachlan poked him disapprovingly in the ribs. The rest of the clan members dining in the hall that night were crowded on benches arranged around long, cloth-draped tables. Seeing an empty place at one of them, Gwendolyn moved toward it. As soon as the MacDunns there realized her intent, they immediately shifted positions so that the opening previously there was now gone. Gwendolyn stopped, straightened her spine, and began to move purposefully toward another table. The people there quickly closed ranks, effectively preventing her from seating herself. She hesitated a moment and then approached a third table. The MacDunns glared frostily at her as she drew near, making it clear her company was not welcome.

Shaken and humiliated, her hunger all but forgotten, Gwendolyn moved quickly toward the archway leading to the corridor, only to plow straight into MacDunn as he rounded the corner with Brodick and Cameron.

“Where are you going?” he demanded.

“I—I am returning to my chamber,” she stammered.

“Then your sense of direction is askew,” observed Cameron, amused. “The stairs to your chamber are on the other side of the hall.”

Alex studied her a moment. The gown he had sent to her poured over her slender form in a glorious wash of crimson and gold, its brilliant color accentuating the paleness of her skin and the inky cape of her hair. But the fabric draped too loosely across the narrow width of her waist and hips, reminding him of her fragility. He found himself wondering if she had always been this thin, or if the death of her father and the bleak days spent in a dank dungeon had melted her flesh away.

“Have you eaten anything?” he demanded.

“I am not hungry.”

“Are you ill?” he persisted, troubled by her lack of appetite.

Her gaze lowered, Gwendolyn shook her head.

“Then you will stay and eat something,” he commanded. “I will not have you starving yourself to death.”

“Please, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn implored softly, “I wish to return to my chamber.”

Her voice was small and strained, as if on the verge of breaking. Alex frowned. Though he had vowed he would not touch her again, he found himself grasping her chin and gently raising her head. Her wide gray eyes were sparkling with pain, and her expression was pleading. Stunned to see her so obviously hurt, he raked his gaze questioningly over the rest of the clan. Their guilty expressions quickly told him that they had driven her to this state. Anger reared within him, anger and an oddly protective sensation, which made him want to wrap his arms around her and soothe her battered spirits with gentle words. Instead he gave her a small bow and offered her his arm.

“Do forgive me, m'lady, for arriving so late.” His tone was purposely contrite, as if she had every reason to be angry with him. “But now that I am here, I hope you will reconsider and agree to join me at my table.”

Gwendolyn regarded him in confusion. There was no hint of mockery in MacDunn's expression. Instead he seemed genuinely remorseful, as if her sudden flight from the hall were somehow due to his unforgivable neglect of her. He was trying to salvage her wounded pride, she realized, by apologizing before his clan and giving her the choice of either accepting or rejecting his gesture.

Moved by his sensitivity, she reached up and laid her hand on the firm muscle of his arm.

Alex escorted her across the silent hall to the laird's table, where he pulled out a chair and seated her. Then he took his place beside her and sternly addressed his clan.

“Gwendolyn MacSween is our guest. During her stay here, I have faith that you will treat her with the honor we normally extend to our guests, and give her any assistance she may require as she heals my son.”

The clan remained silent. Satisfied that he had made his expectations clear, he turned and began to pile food on Gwendolyn's trencher.

Although Gwendolyn felt somewhat fortified by MacDunn's support, there was no mistaking the animosity swirling through the room. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Elspeth and Robena glaring at her, and they were not alone. The MacDunns feared and resented her presence. A command from their laird could not change their feelings toward her.