The Witch and The Warrior (18 page)

“If she really wanted to murder you, then why are you still alive?” persisted Reginald, unconvinced.

“It takes more than one scrawny witch to do away with this MacDunn,” Munro boasted. “Besides, this head is as hard as rock.” He cracked his beefy fist against his skull, then winced.

“I can't believe MacDunn risked war with the MacSweens to bring her here,” fretted Lachlan. “An army is probably on its way to butcher us as we sleep! How am I supposed to get my rest at night?”

“Those cowardly MacSweens are no match for us,” Reginald scoffed. “Laird MacSween is a spineless fool. Let them come,” he declared, reaching for his sword, “and this is what they'll meet!” He groped at his empty belt a moment, then frowned and lowered his gaze to search for his weapon, as if he thought it might be hiding somewhere in his plaid. “That's odd—I'm sure I had it with me.”

“It's David we have to worry about at the moment,” Elspeth interjected. “His illness last night leaves no doubt that the witch has come to destroy him.”

“Strange weather we've been having since she arrived,” noted Owen, staring in sudden fascination at the rain-slick windows. “Before she came here, the days were fine.” He scratched his white head, trying to remember. “Or was that last summer?”

“There's many a peculiar thing happening since the witch arrived,” added Letitia, a pretty girl with dark, curly hair. “Last night my wee Gareth cried all night, and normally he's as quiet as a mouse.”

“For God's sake, Lettie, 'twas just last week he screamed every night until dawn,” countered Ewan, her husband. “Nearly drove me daft.”

“He was cutting a tooth,” Lettie returned defensively. “But it's all through now. There was no cause for him to shriek so last night.”

“Except to keep his neighbors awake,” grumbled Quentin, who lived in the cottage next to them.

“I heard an eerie howling last night,” said Garrick, changing the subject.

“That was Lettie's bairn,” joked Quentin, causing the clan to laugh.

“ 'Twas a screech not of this world,” Garrick countered. “I was searching for my dog Laddie in the storm, but the screaming froze my blood, so I ran home, bolted the door, and prayed to God for mercy.”

“And then what?” prodded Reginald, who had finally given up trying to find his sword.

Garrick shrugged. “I drank a pitcher of ale and fell asleep.”

“Exactly how many pitchers had you drunk before you heard this screeching?” demanded Lachlan suspiciously.

“Two or three,” he confessed.

“Did you ever find your dog?” Owen asked.

He shook his head. “Witch took him for one of her spells.”

Everyone gasped in sympathy.

A long, loud belch resounded through the hall, followed by the bang of an empty cup against wood.

“The ale is off,” Farquhar reported, wiping his dripping mouth on his sleeve. “I can barely drink it.” He blearily grabbed a pitcher and filled his cup to overflowing again.

“I've noticed that,” agreed Quentin. “Ever since the witch came. And the meat has been burned every night, as well.”

“It most certainly has not!” huffed Alice, the cook.

“Now, I'm not saying it's your fault, Alice,” Quentin swiftly assured her. “It's just that since the witch arrived, things have been a little charred—which is entirely her doing,” he added meekly, “not yours.”

“If it was so awful, then why were you cramming your mouth last night like it was an empty sack?” she demanded testily.

“I think we can agree that there have been many peculiar occurrences here since the witch arrived,” interrupted Lachlan.

“Even MacDunn has been acting strangely,” commented Robena.

“The witch has cast some spell over him,” Elspeth concluded. “That's why he allowed her to stay with David last night, when he should have locked the evil shrew in a dungeon!”

“MacDunn always acts strangely,” Reginald pointed out. “You can't put much weight in that.”

“Aye, that's true,” agreed Lachlan. “He's been a little odd since Flora died.”

Owen sighed. “Broke his heart, it did. And cracked his mind in the process.”

“He hasn't been talking to her again, has he?” asked Marjorie worriedly.

“No,” drawled an ominously low voice. “I haven't.”

Awkward silence gripped the clan as Alex entered the hall. Cameron, Brodick, and Ned followed him, their expressions hard with disapproval.

“If any of you have concerns about the welfare of the clan,” Alex began, raking his gaze over the uneasy assemblage, “I would prefer that you discuss them with me openly.”

“Quite so, lad, quite so,” agreed Owen, bobbing his white head. “Absolutely correct. We were about to do just that.”

“That's why we've gathered in the hall,” added Lachlan, feigning innocence. “So we could talk to you.”

“And now you're here,” Reginald finished. “Bloody convenient, I call it.”

Alex folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”

“Well, laddie,” Owen began hesitantly, “we were just having a wee chat about that comely witch you brought here.”

“Munro says she actually looks like a shriveled old toe,” supplied Lachlan.

“For God's sake, Lachlan,” grumbled Reginald, “MacDunn doesn't care about that!”

“Why not?” demanded Lachlan. “If I were him I'd want to know that, before her false comeliness had made a bloody fool of me!”

“If her appearance is that grotesque,” Alex said, struggling for patience, “then I am grateful to her for shielding me from it. Is there anything else?”

“She is going to kill your son, MacDunn,” Elspeth warned. “That is why she is here.”

Alex shook his head. “You're wrong, Elspeth. Gwendolyn MacSween is here because after I saved her from being burned I asked her to come and she generously agreed.”

That was stretching the truth considerably, but Alex didn't think the knowledge that Gwendolyn had been dragged here against her will would allay any of the clan's anxiety. “She is here to help David,” he assured her, “not to harm him.”

“You can't believe that, Alex,” Robena objected. “A witch cannot be trusted. She was sentenced to burn by her very own clan. She must have done something horrible to have merited such a punishment—no doubt she has killed others!”

“She was tried for witchcraft, Robena,” Alex returned, making it sound as if this had been her only crime, and not a terribly serious one. He disliked deceiving his people, and felt especially guilty at lying to Robena, whose friendship had been relentlessly steadfast. But his son was dying, and Gwendolyn's powers, whatever they were or wherever they came from, were his only hope. He had to get his clan to accept her presence until David was well again.

“I can't imagine that lovely lassie killing anyone,” Owen remarked. “Not on purpose, anyway.”

“That's because you can't see her as she really is,” objected Lachlan. “One swallow of my potion and you won't be able to look at that warty old crone without hurling up your breakfast!”

Owen frowned in bewilderment. “Why would I want to drink a potion like that?”

“Not you!” sputtered Lachlan impatiently. “Her!”

“If she means David no harm, then why is she subjecting the lad to cold air and frigid baths?” Elspeth challenged. “Why has she stripped his chamber of healing herbs and forced him to lie shivering on his bed with scarcely a plaid to cover him? And why did she stop me from bleeding him last night, when his body was seething with poison that needed to be drained?”

“Because her ways of healing are different than those we are accustomed to,” Alex replied. “I realize you are all afraid of her, and I cannot change that. But Gwendolyn MacSween is a skilled and caring healer who has used her powers to cure dozens of others who were thought to be nearly dead. And,” he finished solemnly, “she has sworn upon her very soul that she
will
cure my son.”

It was a complete lie, of course. He had no idea how many people Gwendolyn had actually cured, and as his prisoner she had reluctantly agreed to
try
to heal his son, nothing more. But the clan did not argue. Instead they regarded him in silence, suddenly intrigued. Seizing upon this unexpected shift in mood, Alex boldly continued, “It will not happen in one day, and it will not be the result of just one spell. But I ask that you be patient and assist her in any way you can. Gwendolyn MacSween may be a witch, but her unnatural powers also make her an exceptionally skilled healer. More than that,” he finished, “she is my last hope of seeing my son strong and whole again.”

“That is quite a burden, MacDunn,” observed a quiet voice. “Being someone's last hope.”

Alex turned to see Gwendolyn standing behind him. Her expression was contained, making it difficult to assess her mood. Her gray eyes were staring at him intently, however, suggesting that she had heard enough of his fabrications to know he was blatantly lying to his own people. In that moment he feared she would strip away his false assurances and expose him before his clan. She desperately wanted to leave, and his people wanted her gone. All she had to do was tell them she could not cure David and his clan would cheerfully send her on her way. They would question their laird's grip on his mind and relieve him of his duties, convinced that they were acting in the best interests of both his son and the clan. Gwendolyn would leave. David would die.

And Alex's mind would shatter completely.

He regarded her in stony silence, waiting for her to vilify him before his people. He had been a fool, he realized bleakly. Only a fool would keep hoping that God would be merciful and spare his son.

God loathed him and was determined to destroy the last fragment of his life.

“Your son fares better this morning, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn reported. “He is sleeping right now, but when he wakens he may be ready to take a little broth. We shall have to wait and see.”

Alex stared at her, uncertain he had understood her correctly. Was she saying she would stay?

Gwendolyn sensed MacDunn's confusion, but did not think it could begin to match her own. Other than her father, no one had ever risen to her defense before or even said anything remotely kind or generous about her. Certainly no one had believed her capable of doing something pure and good, like saving the life of a helpless child. From the time she was a little girl she had been blamed for every incident of evil and misery that befell her clan, until finally she wondered if perhaps there wasn't some truth to the ugly accusations. Other than loving and caring for her father, she had not had any opportunity to explore or demonstrate her capacity for compassion. In truth, the MacSweens had not elicited many tender feelings from her, and other than David, neither had any of the MacDunns.

Until this moment.

“That is…good news.” Alex felt oddly vulnerable as he stared at her, as if he had exposed some intimate secret he had not meant for her to know. Disconcerted, he pulled away from her intense gaze and tried to focus on something else, like the smooth contour of her cheek, the inky fall of her hair, the slender cut of her emerald gown.

He frowned. “That's not the gown I gave you.”

A nervous tremor rippled through the clan, silent, but perceptible to Gwendolyn nonetheless. She had come down here with every intention of telling MacDunn about the disgraceful behavior of his people. She would not tolerate harassment and sincerely hoped that MacDunn would discipline them. But as she stared at the gathering of anxious faces before her, she found herself suddenly reluctant to expose their cowardly action. MacDunn would be furious when he learned what they had done. He would no doubt want to punish the perpetrators, and if they did not come forward willingly, he might even decide to punish the entire clan.

“Gwendolyn,” persisted Alex, growing suspicious, “what happened to your gown?”

A few members of the clan coughed. A number of others became inexplicably fascinated with their feet. Perceiving their discomfort, Alex swept his gaze questioningly over his people. “Well?”

“MacDunn,” began Garrick uneasily, “I fear there is something we must confess to you—”

“I burned it,” burst out Gwendolyn.

Alex regarded her in astonishment. “You what?”

“Accidentally, of course,” she swiftly clarified. “I was standing too close to the hearth and didn't notice when a hot cinder flew out and set it afire. By the time I realized what had happened, the gown was completely ruined. Morag was kind enough to give me a few gowns that she no longer wears, and that's where I got this one.” She ran her hands briskly over the fabric, brushing away some imaginary specks of lint. “Do you like it?”

Alex regarded her skeptically, then studied his clan. Their apprehensive expressions told him he was not hearing an accurate account of the fate of Gwendolyn's dress. “Would any of you like to tell me what really happened?”

“I burned it,” Gwendolyn insisted, wishing he would let the matter drop. “There is nothing more to tell.”

“I see,” said Alex. “Let us hope that no more ‘accidents' happen to either you or your gowns, or I shall be most displeased.” He regarded his people sternly.

“You look lovely in that new frock,” Owen commented, breaking the tension. “I've always been particularly fond of green.”

“Or at least you
appear
to look lovely in it,” qualified Lachlan. He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to see her better.

Gwendolyn didn't know what to make of that bizarre comment. “I was planning to go into the woods this morning and collect some herbs and roots to make medicine for David,” she said, turning to Alex. “As you have asked me not to leave the castle unattended, I assume you will want someone to escort me.”