The Witch and The Warrior (14 page)

“I—I came to see if all was well,” Alex stammered, feeling like an idiot.

“Gwendolyn is telling me a story about an evil sorcerer who turns himself into a dragon and tries to burn up a kingdom,” David reported, peering at his father over the rim of the tub.

“Really?” Alex sheathed his sword, then stole a sheepish glance at Gwendolyn. Her expression had cooled, telling him she had guessed why he had charged in here waving his weapon like a madman.

“Perhaps you would like to stay and listen to the end of the story,” she invited politely.

Alex hesitated. A palpable change had fallen over the room. It was as if Gwendolyn and David had been safely ensconced in their own private little world and he had cracked it open and blasted them with freezing air. For a moment the need to stay and be a part of it was almost overwhelming. But he was acutely aware of the fact that he was an outsider. Alex had never been actively involved in his son's physical care. He had certainly never participated in something as intimate as his bathing. And storytelling was a recreation for women and children, he reminded himself impatiently, not for a laird who had the welfare of his entire clan weighing heavily on his shoulders.

“I have a number of urgent matters I must attend to,” he assured them, although at that precise moment he could not think of one. “I merely wanted to see how my son was faring.”

Gwendolyn nodded. She was certain the clan had been downstairs filling MacDunn's head with all kinds of dreadful tales about what she was doing to the lad. The surprise on MacDunn's face when he stood staring at them indicated he had expected to find the child half dead.

“Gwendolyn says I can watch the stars from my bed,” David chirped, breaking the awkward silence. “She says the stars have special healing powers that will help me get better. And she says my mother is up there, watching over me as I sleep.”

Alex looked at Gwendolyn with uneasy surprise. Did she know he studied the sky each night, searching for Flora's star? That he desperately clung to the belief that his wife's spirit was all around him, watching over him? Had she guessed the root of his madness?

She returned his gaze steadily, her gray eyes veiled, betraying no hint of her thoughts.

“He must not stay in the bath too long,” Alex said gruffly, feeling ill-at-ease. “He might get cold.”

“Are you ready to come out, David?” Gwendolyn asked.

“I guess so.”

“Lean into my arms, then,” she instructed, easing him back, “so I can rinse your hair.”

Alex watched as his son lay in the cradle of Gwendolyn's arms and allowed her to pour a jug of fresh water over his head. She handled the lad tenderly, taking care that no soap slipped into his eyes and making sure that the dark slick of his hair was well rinsed before she helped him out of the tub. David looked as thin and fragile as a twig when he stood on the floor and let Gwendolyn wrap a warm towel around him. He was too weak to stand without her support.

Alex's heart clenched.

“I wish to speak with you in my chamber,” Alex informed her. “Once you have the lad dried and settled in his bed.”

“Very well.” Gwendolyn playfully draped a second towel over David's head so that he was completely cloaked in fabric. “Why—where did he go?” she sputtered, sounding completely bewildered. “That's very strange. I know he was here just an instant ago—do you see him, MacDunn?”

Alex frowned. He was totally unfamiliar with the games of children and had no idea how to respond.

“David, you're being very naughty,” Gwendolyn scolded with mock severity. “Stop being invisible at once.”

A muffled giggle emanated from the ghostly little figure standing before her.

The unexpected, sparkling sound filled Alex with such emotion that he turned and fled the chamber—for it was a sound that he had long forgotten, and never imagined to hear again.

         

Gwendolyn knocked hesitantly on the scarred wood.

“Enter.”

Inhaling deeply, she lifted the latch and stepped inside.

MacDunn's chamber was large, as befitted a laird, but it was dimly lit and sparsely furnished, suggesting its occupant either enjoyed austerity or took little notice of his physical surroundings. A massive bed of dark wood occupied one end, which had no doubt been specially constructed to accommodate MacDunn's unusual height. There was a small table beside the bed, bearing a candelabra, and a simply carved chest for MacDunn's belongings positioned at its foot. A more substantial table and a heavy chair occupied the center of the room, on which a few more candles wavered. MacDunn himself stood before an enormous hearth of roughly hewn stone, his hands clasped behind his back as he contemplated the low fire spilling golden light into the chamber. There were no tapestries gracing the walls to add color to the room or warm the stone, but there were several large windows framing the silver-flecked night. Perhaps, Gwendolyn reflected, the view of the mountains and the sky during the day was sufficient to mitigate the oppressively dreary environment.

“You wished to speak with me?”

“I want to discuss your assessment of my son's condition,” Alex murmured, his gaze still locked on the fire. “As you may be aware, some members of the clan have…” he paused, searching for the appropriate word, “misgivings about your methods of treatment.”

“And what about you, MacDunn?” Gwendolyn challenged sharply. “Do you believe I am intentionally causing your son harm by giving him fresh air and light?”

“Not intentionally, no,” Alex replied. “Your freedom depends upon my son's recovery, therefore you have nothing to gain by his suffering. But David's health is extremely delicate. The healers who have attended him in the past have been vigilant about protecting him from all sources of cold and draft, assuring me his lungs and chest could not endure the strain of a chill.”

“And these healers have not cured David, have they?”

“No,” he admitted. “But they have kept him alive through horrendous bouts of illness, when there was every indication that he would die.”

“Perhaps,” Gwendolyn allowed. “Or perhaps David survived in spite of their treatments.”

Alex turned and regarded her curiously. “Is that what you believe?” The thought had occurred to him many times, but he had never voiced it.

“I don't know,” Gwendolyn answered. “The air in David's chamber was hot and foul and thick with smoke. I cannot see how anyone could lie imprisoned in such a haze for weeks on end and not be sickened by it. I also fail to see how it can possibly be healthy for a child to be deprived of fresh air and sunlight for extended periods of time.”

“His previous healers said he was too weak to endure the impurities that exist in outside air,” Alex explained. “By keeping his room sealed and burning various herbs, the air was kept warm and purified, and the constant darkness enabled him to rest.”

Gwendolyn snorted with contempt. “The air was stale and corrupt. Even I could barely tolerate it, and I am far stronger than David. Having spent time in a dungeon, I can attest to the fact that perpetual darkness rapidly weakens both the body and the spirit.”

Alex studied her in silence. He could find no indication that the woman standing before him suffered from anything akin to a frail spirit. Her tattered gray gown clung loosely to her slender frame, its dampness accentuating both her feminine curves and the exquisite delicacy of her. Her hair was spilling in ebony ripples over her thin shoulders and down her pale arms. He found himself remembering how selflessly she tore off her sleeves to bind his chest, after stitching him closed with her own hair. He knew for a fact that her appetite was poor and her body excessively thin. He did not know whether she had always been like this or whether the trauma of her father's death and her subsequent arrest had reduced her to this state. Whatever the cause, she looked as if she would snap beneath the force of a stiff gust of wind. And yet, incredibly, a powerful strength emanated from her as she stood there facing him. It was a strength of conviction and courage, and he found himself both fascinated and aroused by it.

Desire pounded through him, clouding his mind and interrupting his thoughts. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw her into the fold of his arms and press himself against her, to hold her fragile form tight as he hungrily kissed the sweetness of her mouth, the silk of her cheek, the enticing hollow at the base of her throat. They were alone in his chamber. He could easily take her. She was his prisoner, alive only because he had torn her from the jaws of death. No one would question his right to bed her if he chose. And he knew he could make her want him, for he had felt the same hunger burning in her when he had kissed her before. He thought of her cradling his son, holding him with tender strength as she poured warm water over his hair, remembering how the soapy stream washed across her slick flesh. And suddenly Alex wanted to caress her there, on the velvet cream of her arms, to run his rough palms down the length of them and drag his tongue languidly over the soft, clean skin.

Gwendolyn regarded MacDunn uneasily, flustered by the intensity of his gaze. She had seen this look before, and the memory quickened her breathing and heated her blood. She was vaguely aware of the fact that she should speak, or move, or do something to shatter the charged stillness, but her throat was dry and her body leaden, rendering action impossible. MacDunn moved toward her with slow, sure purpose. Gwendolyn shivered, not because she was afraid, but because she remembered what it was like to be crushed against the muscular wall of his body. MacDunn reached out and laid his hands on the bare skin of her shoulders, his touch searing her cool flesh. Gwendolyn stared at him helplessly, mesmerized by the painful need burning in his gaze. He languidly drew his palms down the slender length of her arms, then wrapped his powerful fingers around the narrow bones of her wrist, chaining her to him. The amber pulse of the fire flickered around him, sculpting the hard lines of his face in shadows and light, and turning his hair to gold. He seemed achingly beautiful to Gwendolyn in that moment, like a magnificent pagan god who had somehow fallen to earth. His grip was just on the threshold of bruising, as if he feared she might suddenly try to flee, but she kept her arms still and regarded him steadily, betraying not the slightest hint of fear.

And so he bent his golden head over the softness of her inner arm, inhaled deeply, and tasted her with his tongue.

A low, feline sound curled up the back of her throat as MacDunn caressed her with his hot, wet touch. He dragged his tongue up the length of her arm, then lifted her hair so he could rain hungry kisses along the smooth curve of her neck and jaw. Now that her wrists were free, Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around his massive shoulders, clinging to him for support as he roughly captured her lips with his. He tasted her with urgent possessiveness, stealing her breath away as he plundered the deepest recesses of her mouth. His hands began to roam her back, her shoulders, her hips, touching her and tasting her and drawing her further into his embrace, until she was pressed intimately against the hard length of him, separated only by the thin barrier of their clothes.

Somewhere in a corner of her mind Gwendolyn was vaguely aware that this was wrong, that she was a prisoner and he a mad laird, but an incredible need had veiled her perception, so that nothing made sense except the wine-sweet taste of MacDunn's mouth, the rough feel of his jaw scraping her cheek, and the shifting ripple of his muscular back beneath her fingers. She was MacDunn's prisoner, yes, but in this moment no more so than he was hers, for she could feel the desperate yearning in his touch, and knew that somehow he did not want to want her. And that made their forbidden kiss hotter and darker, because the deeper he tasted her, the more she desired him, until finally her fingers were threaded in the thickness of his hair and she was pulling him down onto the softness of his bed. MacDunn growled with pleasure as she hungrily returned his kiss; then he wrenched his mouth away so he could nibble on her chin, her neck, the delicate bones at the base of her throat. He lowered his head to the lush swell at the neckline of her gown and caressed it with his tongue, sending a shiver of fire through her.

A sudden pounding at the door made her gasp.

“MacDunn, you must come quickly!” called Elspeth, her voice shrill.

Alex inhaled deeply, but remained stretched over Gwendolyn, fighting to regain his senses. “What is it, Elspeth?”

“ 'Tis David, m'lord,” she reported anxiously. “The lad has taken horribly ill. That witch has cast some evil spell on the wee thing, and I don't know how to save him!”

The smoky languor in Alex's blue eyes froze. Without a word, he rolled off Gwendolyn and raced to the door.

         

Gwendolyn hurried into David's chamber just behind MacDunn and Elspeth, and found the poor child retching violently into the chamber pot Marjorie was holding for him. He had vomited all over his fresh bedclothes, and his dinner tray had been knocked to the floor, suggesting this attack had come on without warning. Robena was busy closing the shutters, and the sour smell of sickness was rapidly permeating the air.