The Witch and The Warrior (37 page)

“Shut your mouth,” snapped Robert.

“Why don't you let them kill me, Robert?” Gwendolyn taunted. “That is what you came here for, is it not? To finally put an end to my evil powers? Now is your chance to save the MacSweens from all the devastation I have wrought on them, and punish me for murdering my father at the same time. Why do you hesitate?”

“You must be burned, witch,” Robert told her, grappling for some reasonable explanation for his reticence. “Your cursed form must be consumed by fire.”

“Then have one of your brave warriors shoot a burning arrow through me. That will suffice, I think. Once I fall, you can heap dry twigs and peat around me, to be certain I burn to nothing.” She raised her arms slightly higher, wobbling on her tiny perch.

Alex stood paralyzed, afraid if he moved she would plunge to her death. A cool wind had begun to gust, blowing the silky black of her hair and gown out behind her like great, dark wings. She looked utterly glorious as she stood precariously on that merlon, her small, slender form a wisp of shadow against the brilliant wash of moonlight glowing behind her. His people were willing to protect her, yet she had chosen to face Robert's army alone, bravely offering her life in exchange for the safety of a clan that had been hostile toward her from the day she arrived. She was completely magnificent to him, as courageous and honorable as the finest warrior he had ever known. He swallowed thickly, humbled by her.

“You have erred, Gwendolyn,” said Robert, the corners of his mouth curling in a predaceous smile. “You have just revealed your weakness.”

“I have nothing to lose, Robert,” countered Gwendolyn. “You have stolen everything from me.”

“Is that so?” he drawled. “Then you won't mind what I am about to do.” He raised his sword and gestured at the neat little cottages scattered upon the hill. “Burn them,” he commanded harshly. “Destroy the fields and gardens. And slay anything that breathes, be it human or animal.”

The torch-bearing warriors circling him immediately disbanded.

“My God,” murmured Cameron, watching in horror. “He's going to destroy our homes and kill our livestock.”

“Cowards!” shouted Owen, shaking his gnarled fist in the air. “Come back and fight like warriors, not demons!”

“My grandfather built my cottage,” reflected Ewan, his voice filled with despair. “I was born in it, as was my son.”

“It will be all right,” said Quentin, resting his hand on his friend's shoulder. “We will build again.”

Sick horror welled in Gwendolyn's throat as she watched Robert's men touch their torches to the roofs of the MacDunns' cottages. The flames leaped eagerly onto the thick nests of thatch, consuming the sweet, dry straw with voracious hunger. In little more than a breath a half dozen homes were blazing, their orange and gold flicker strangely beautiful against the charcoal cape of night. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the hideous sight. Somewhere in the darkness a dog was frantically barking.

“That's my Laddie,” said Garrick. “He must think I'm trapped in my house.”

“Kill that goddamn dog!” Robert commanded, wheeling his mount about.

“Run, Laddie!” Garrick shouted, leaning over the parapet. “Run!”

The barking stopped.

And then it started again, only now it was coming closer.

“No, Laddie!” said Garrick, his voice rough with emotion. “Go away! Run, damn you! Run!”

“I see it!” snarled Robert. “It's coming up the hill. Shoot the damn thing!”

Gwendolyn did not bother to open her eyes. Instead she raised her arms high, reaching into the clear black of the sky. A deafening roar filled her ears, blocking out the sound of the dog barking, the cottages burning, the MacDunns' despair as they watched their beloved homes being destroyed.

You cannot do this, Robert. I won't let you.

A brilliant ribbon of light suddenly tore across the cloudless sky, cracking it open for the torrent of rain that burst forth. It poured down in hard, icy needles, drowning the flaming cottages and extinguishing the MacSweens' torches and flaming arrows. The sharp water lashed against the attacking warriors with such force they could scarcely open their eyes. Another streak of lightning ripped through the night, and another, the searing flashes of light as blinding as the rain. Earsplitting waves of thunder crashed over the mountains, causing the MacSweens' horses to whinny and rear up in fear as their masters shouted at them to be still. The rain fell in heavy sheets and began to pool on the ground, swiftly turning the grass and earth to a slippery, muddy slop.

“Damn you, MacDunn!” bellowed Robert, as if he felt that Alex were somehow responsible for the sudden squall.
“It
will be mine!”
He stared up at him a long moment, his face twisted with fury, heedless of the water whipping against him.

And then he jerked his mount's head to one side and galloped into the thundering darkness.

The MacSween warriors turned and scrambled after their retreating commander, their heads held low as they vainly tried to shield themselves against the lash of the rain.

The MacDunns raised their weapons into the air and cheered.

“That was simply splendid!” exclaimed Owen, dabbing at his dripping face with his sopping-wet mantle. “In all my years, I've never seen such a beastie of a storm.”

“The lass has a fine way with the weather,” yelled Reginald, trying to be heard above the crashing thunder. “Brought it on just in a whisker of time.”

“A bit excessive, if you ask me,” shouted Lachlan, irritably squinting into the gale. “A tempest of half this potency would have sufficed.”

Alex was barely aware of their comments as he cautiously moved toward Gwendolyn. She rose from the parapet like a magnificent stone sculpture teetering over the precipice of death, her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, apparently oblivious to the fact that the MacSweens had retreated. The pelting rain had reduced her gown to a liquid black sheath that poured over the curves of her breasts and hips, turning her into a rippling shadow against the jagged strips of light flashing around her. Alex locked his gaze on her as he closed the distance between them, willing her not to fall.

“Gwendolyn.” He reached out to her. “Take my hand.”

Her lids fluttered open. Even through the heavy veil of rain he could see that her gray eyes were distant and blurred, like someone who has just been roused from a long and restless sleep. She regarded him in confusion, as if wondering who he was and how he had come to be there.

And then she sighed and fell into the blackness.

Alex roared as he threw himself forward, his arms outstretched. For an endless shred of time he felt nothing but rain and darkness and death, and his mind began to shatter, as surely as it had the night Flora had forever escaped his grasp.
No, by God, no.
He extended his body farther, reaching through the night until every bone and tendon and muscle was strained to the very limits of his skin.

And then he had her, her slender form whole and firm as she dangled helplessly in the crush of his aching hands.

With a savage groan he heaved her up, too overcome to be gentle as he hauled her over the parapet. Holding her tight against him, he sank to his knees, fighting the splintering pain tangling like a web through his skull.

She is all right,
he told himself fiercely.
She is not going to die.
The stinging rain thrashed against them as he cradled her in his arms, soaking their hair and skin and clothes, and he leaned over her, vainly trying to protect her from the rain, the cold, the night, from every dark force that might seek to harm her or steal her from him.

He did not know how long he remained huddled over her. When Brodick's voice finally penetrated the aching fog in his brain, the wall head was all but deserted.

“Let's take her inside, Alex,” Cameron was saying, resting his hand upon Alex's shoulder. “Come.”

“The battle,” Alex murmured stupidly.

“The battle is over,” Brodick said. “Everyone is safe and accounted for, including Garrick's dog. I have posted men to watch from the towers for any further disturbances, although there is little Robert can do as long as this storm rages. Just to be certain, the entire clan will be spending the night within the confines of the castle. There is nothing more to be done tonight, Alex. Come.”

Dizzy and disoriented, Alex rose to his feet, still holding his precious burden tightly against him. Gwendolyn's eyes were closed and her body was limp. “She is not dead,” he said dully, staring down at her.

“I believe she has fainted,” Brodick told him. “You've been holding her out here a long while.”

“He has,” Gwendolyn agreed, the chalky line of her lips barely moving. “But I'm awfully cold, MacDunn.” Her gray eyes opened and she regarded him with a steady clarity that had been completely absent when she regarded him just before she fell. “Could we go inside now?”

He drew her closer to his chest as he carried her along the battlements, down the stairs, into the corridor. Neither Cameron nor Brodick spoke as they made their way along the torchlit hallway, the only sound being the spatter of their sodden garments as they dripped streams of water onto the stone floor. Alex did not pause at Flora's old sickroom, but continued to his own chamber. He carried Gwendolyn inside and closed the door on Cameron's and Brodick's confused expressions. He didn't give a damn what they thought of his taking Gwendolyn to his chamber. He didn't give a damn what anyone thought.

She was his, and she belonged here, with him.

He placed her in a chair before the hearth, then quickly heaped a mound of twigs and dry logs in the fireplace. He lit it with one of the candles flickering in the room, watching impatiently as the amber flames began to billow and snap. When the fire was blazing, he added several more lengths of wood to the pyre, ensuring its heat would last for several hours. Then he turned to her.

“We must remove that wet gown before you catch your death from a chill.”

Gwendolyn obediently stood and began to remove her gown. Alex went to his bed and stripped off the plaid covering, then quickly wrapped her in it as her black gown and chemise dropped to her bare feet.

“There, now.” He rubbed her through the softness of the plaid, trying to restore blood and heat to her chilled flesh. “Feel better?”

She stared up at him in numb silence. The lines of his handsome face were deeply etched in the flickering firelight, making him look far older than his years. His pale blond hair spilled like shimmering wet satin over his shoulders, and he seemed heedless of the fact that his shirt and plaid were lying cold and wet against his own skin. His touch was achingly gentle as he warmed her with his hands, the steady, sure stroke of a man who was well accustomed to tending someone weak. The thought of Flora filled her mind—Flora lying trapped in a dark, stifling room, but in a bed that had been carefully embroidered with flowers and sunshine and waterfalls. A bed that Alex had insisted on sharing with her as she lay dying, so she would not be alone. A bed that he had ordered burned after she died, so he would never have to endure the agony of looking upon it and remembering her in it.

Pity lanced Gwendolyn's heart. MacDunn had risked everything for her this evening, she realized, bewildered by the incredible selflessness of his actions. He had been willing to sacrifice his people, his castle, even himself, all for the sake of her safety. And she had been equally ready to die, so that he and his clan might be spared Robert's brutality. In that moment on the battlements, as she stood trembling over the dark embrace of death, she had suddenly understood the depth of her feelings for this mad, tormented laird.

And she had been terrified.

With a little cry she wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him desperately as she pressed her trembling lips to his. She wanted to be enveloped by him, to lose herself to his extraordinary strength and courage, to banish all thought of David and Clarinda, Cameron and Brodick and Ned, and even silly, spoiled Isabella, who had so courageously leaned out of a window and shouted at the top of her lungs that Gwendolyn was not evil. She wanted to wash all of them from her mind, and the cruel, irrefutable fact that by staying here, she endangered each and every one of them. And so she pressed herself against Alex's hard, rain-soaked length, kissing him deeply as the plaid he had wrapped around her slipped to the floor in a rumpled pool of wool.

Alex groaned and drove his tongue deep into the sweetness of Gwendolyn's mouth as he swept her up into his arms. He had not planned this, he assured himself as he crossed the chamber and lowered her onto the bed, but he could no more douse the passion blazing within him than he could have stopped the storm still raging outside. He wanted her with a voracity that was staggering. For weeks now he had feared her, not because of her unearthly powers, which he could not begin to comprehend, but because of her physical fragility, which made her seem like a tender blossom that would wither in the sun, or be swept away by the faintest gust of wind. The agony of Flora's suffering was still raw in his mind, and he had been wary of Gwendolyn from the moment he saw her lashed to the stake, thinking such a feeble wisp of a girl could never endure even the simplest hardships of life. But he had been wrong. She had withstood the rancor of his own people with a stubborn resolution that would have tested his most seasoned warrior. She had endured fire and loathing, injury and humiliation, and the bitter knowledge that everyone she encountered either despised or feared her. Yet she had remained, tending to his son with tenderness and compassion, ignoring everything else in her bid to make a dying lad well. And then, when her mission was nearly completed, she had climbed upon the parapet and offered herself in exchange for the lives of those who had conspired to be rid of her.