The Witch and The Warrior (20 page)

She was responsible for no one.

By contrast, MacDunn's responsibilities to his clan were immense. He was always working with his people—settling disputes, inspecting the cattle and the crops, overseeing new fortifications to the castle, orchestrating the production of weaponry and the preservation of food for storage, and of course leading his men in training. His warriors staged regular mock attacks on the castle, analyzing every possible weakness of the forbidding fortress and developing a strategy to strengthen it. At first Gwendolyn had assumed these exercises were part of the clan's regular training. But one day she had overheard two men complaining about MacDunn's arduous new regimen and the fact that it was her presence that had instigated it.

It was a cold reminder that Robert would eventually come for her.

In the beginning she believed the overwhelming burden of seeing to the demands of his clan kept MacDunn from spending time with his son. He saw David but once a day, and the visit was brief and oddly formal. MacDunn would calmly ask Gwendolyn how his son was faring, and then he would study him a moment, as if he did not quite trust her report. Once he was satisfied that the lad was in no imminent danger, he would turn abruptly and leave, as if there were matters of greater importance that commanded his attention. Not once had Gwendolyn seen MacDunn share a gentle word with David, or tenderly lay his hand upon his cheek, or bend and kiss his smooth brow. MacDunn's brusque demeanor with the lad bewildered Gwendolyn. She remembered the intense pain that had shadowed his eyes when he first introduced his suffering child to her. At the time she had believed his devotion to David was overwhelming. But as the days progressed and MacDunn's visits grew increasingly curt and strained, it became apparent that he barely knew the lad at all. She began to wonder if MacDunn's determination to save his son was not motivated by love, but by the more pragmatic necessity of preserving the life of the next laird.

“Good day, Gwendolyn,” said Robena, entering the chamber bearing a tray. “I came to see how David fares.”

Like MacDunn, Robena had also made a habit of visiting David once a day. She seemed to be fond of the lad and was always concerned about his progress. Although she had initially made it clear she did not support Gwendolyn's methods, she appeared to have accepted MacDunn's decree that Gwendolyn was now in charge of David's care, and was invariably polite to her.

“He is sleeping,” Gwendolyn murmured softly as Robena set her tray on the table.

“How is he?”

“He is well for the moment,” Gwendolyn answered carefully. “I am going to let him rest awhile, and then I will try to get him to eat something.”

Robena went over to the bed and studied him. “He looks terribly pale.”

“He has been ill for many months, and he has not been outside since early spring,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “It is not surprising that he has no color.”

“Perhaps not,” Robena allowed. She adjusted David's blankets, pulling them up to his nose, then moved over to the tray. “Clarinda mentioned to me that you had not had anything to eat since early this morning. I have brought you some bread and fruit.”

Gwendolyn regarded her in surprise. Robena was not in the habit of worrying about her welfare.

“The bread was freshly baked this morning, so it is still soft,” she continued, filling a goblet with wine.

“That was very thoughtful of you.”

Robena smiled and offered her the goblet. “Here.”

Before Gwendolyn could wrap her fingers around the cup, it slipped and fell into her lap, drenching her in wine.

“Oh!” exclaimed Robena. “I'm truly sorry, Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn stood and stared ruefully at the huge crimson stain spreading across the gold fabric of her gown.

“If you take your gown off right away and rinse it in cool water, the wine may not set,” Robena advised helpfully. “It would be a shame for the garment to be ruined, especially since Morag has kept it all these years. It must have been one of her favorites.”

She was probably right, Gwendolyn realized guiltily. Morag had carefully preserved this gown since her youth, so it was obviously precious to her. Gwendolyn dreaded the thought of having to tell her that it had been ruined.

“Why don't you go up to your chamber and change, and I will watch David for you while you tend to your gown?”

Gwendolyn hesitated, uneasy at the thought of leaving David with Robena. “But if he wakens—”

“If he wakens and needs something, I will fetch you. In the meantime, you must change out of that wet gown and see if it can be saved.”

“Very well,” said Gwendolyn reluctantly. She moved to the bed and drew back the blankets Robena had swaddled over David's face, so he could breathe fresh air once again. Then she went to the door. “Thank you, Robena. I won't be long.”

“Take as much time as you need,” Robena said amiably, settling into her chair. “I'll be here when you return.”

Gwendolyn hurried along the corridor and up the narrow staircase to her chamber, anxious to be out of her wine-soaked gown. As she pushed the heavy door open, she noticed a note lying on the floor. Remembering the ominous contents of the last missive left for her, she picked it up with a degree of trepidation.

Dear Gwendolyn,

You must come to my chamber immediately. I have had a vision that I must warn you about.

Morag

Gwendolyn smiled. When she first met Morag she had thought the elderly woman was simply pretending to have these mystical visions. It seemed a harmless enough deception, and since Morag had conveniently assured the MacDunns that Gwendolyn was a witch with great powers, Gwendolyn saw no reason to challenge her feigned abilities. But it was becoming clear that Morag actually believed she could see things that others could not.

Gwendolyn laid the note on the table and quickly stripped out of her gown. She placed it in the stone sink and carefully poured water from a jug over the wine stain, watching as the clear water turned crimson and drained away. Once the worst of the blot was gone, she plugged the sink and drenched the skirt with fresh water. Robena was probably right, she decided, briskly rubbing the fabric between her fists. If the gown soaked awhile, the stain might not set. After she visited Morag, she would fetch some fresh water and wash it again, she decided, putting on her green gown.

The spicy sweet scent of roasting meat and simmering vegetables wafted through the air, reminding Gwendolyn of how hungry she was. Anxious to return to David and the tray of food Robena had thoughtfully brought to her, she moved swiftly along the dim corridors. The torch at the top of the stairs leading to the lowest level of the castle had died, leaving the narrow steps to disappear into a vast, black cavern. Gathering her skirts into her hands, she hurried down the steps, vaguely wondering what nonsense Morag was going to tell her.

Suddenly she was hurtling into the blackness, her startled cry silenced as her head slammed against the frigid stone floor.

         

There was darkness, and there was light.

Throbbing strands of wakefulness slowly roused her from a slumber that had been absolute, yet not restful. Pain began to seep across her, slowly at first, then faster, wrapping its tentacles around her head, her neck, her shoulders, moving down, until finally she was cocooned in it. She shifted onto her side. A fresh stab of pain streaked through her, clean and sharp. There was no question of sleep now. Using what seemed an extraordinary amount of effort, she opened her eyes, then blinked vacantly at the surrounding gloom.

MacDunn was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his long, muscular legs stretched out before him, sound asleep. The lines of his face were deeply etched in the soft candlelight, making him look far older than his years. His hair fell in tangled gold locks over his wrinkled shirt, which was smudged with scarlet. Gwendolyn stared at the stains in confusion, wondering if his wound had torn open and bled onto his shirt. Perhaps she should have stitched his injury again with proper thread once they reached the castle. Her gaze moved to the windows. How had night fallen so quickly? she wondered. David had no doubt wakened long ago and was wondering where she was.

She sat upright and then closed her eyes, disoriented by the extreme effort the action cost her. When she opened them again, MacDunn was staring at her, his harsh expression tempered only marginally with what might have been relief.

“David,” she said, her voice a dry rasp. “Is he all right?”

“David is fine, Gwendolyn.”

She stared at him dubiously, wondering if he was lying to her. The fierce set of his face did little to alleviate her concern.

“I must see him.” She pushed away the covers. “Now.” A sickening dizziness hobbled her movements, forcing her to stop and raise her fingers to her temples.

MacDunn's strong hands fastened on her shoulders and gently eased her back. “He is sleeping. You may see him in the morning.”

“I want to make him a special broth.”

“You can make it later. When you are feeling better.” He held a cup of cool water to her lips. When she had taken her fill, he reached into a basin of water, wrung out a cloth, and laid it over her forehead.

“I'm not ill,” Gwendolyn told him, wondering why he was treating her with such uncharacteristic gentleness. “I never get ill.”

“No, you're not ill,” he agreed.

She nodded. A terrible splitting sensation streaked across her skull. She raised her hand to her head, trying to press the pain away. Her hair was matted and sticky, and a crust of blood had formed on her scalp.

“I found you lying at the bottom of the stairs in the lower level,” Alex explained, seeing her confusion. “You had struck your head on the way down. Made quite a mess of the floor.”

That explained the pain. She ran her fingers tentatively over her hair, feeling the extent of the stickiness. “Head wounds do tend to bleed,” she murmured, remembering the night she had stitched Cameron's scalp.

“Aye. It makes it difficult to tell how serious the injury is. Especially when the victim refuses to wake up.”

“You can hardly blame me for resting a bit, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn grumbled defensively.

“Perhaps not,” Alex acknowledged. “But when a person who has struck her head cannot be stirred, one does start to become somewhat…”

He paused, searching for the right word. Frantic? Distraught? Terrified? All these things he had been, and more, though he had tried his damnedest not to let his clan see—for they would only think it was the madness rising up to claim him once again. And yet he had refused to let anyone else sit with her, not even Brodick, or Cameron, or Ned, each of whom he trusted with his life. The witch held the secret to his son's recovery, he had told them. This was why he wanted to watch over her himself.

But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.

“Concerned,” he finished. It seemed an innocuous enough word.

When he first learned she was gone, he had been overwhelmed with fury. He believed she had escaped, and her betrayal had been unforgivable, not just because she had broken her pledge to him, but because she had callously abandoned his son. Alex had ordered the castle and grounds searched and participated in the hunt himself, determined to find her and drag her back.

When he had discovered her lying unconscious in that dark passage, her pale cheek resting in a pool of blood, he had been so frozen with fear he could barely force himself to touch her neck for a pulse.

“You have been in a deep sleep since late yesterday afternoon. It will soon be dawn,” he told her, tilting his head toward the window.

A soft veil of amber light spilled across his gold-stubbled cheek. Gwendolyn gazed at him, perplexed. MacDunn was a busy laird, who barely made time to spend a moment with his own ill son. Why was he sitting here watching over her like some nursemaid?

“What were you doing down there, Gwendolyn?”

Her mind was cloudy with pain, making it difficult to concentrate. “I believe I was going to see Morag.” She closed her eyes, struggling to remember. “She had left a note in my chamber saying she wanted to warn me of something.”

Alex arched a brow.

“Perhaps she wanted to alert me about those stairs,” Gwendolyn reflected dryly.

“Where did you put the note?”

She thought for a moment, then raised her shoulders in a weak shrug. “I suppose I left it on the table.”

Alex rose to look for it. He inspected the table, the chest, and thoroughly searched the floor. “It isn't here.”

“Maybe I took it with me and dropped it in the passage,” Gwendolyn suggested, not terribly interested.

“Were you alone when you went downstairs?”

Gwendolyn closed her eyes. “I suppose I must have been. I remember it was very dark—I think the torch above the stairs had gone out.” She yawned. “That must be why I tripped.”