The Witch and The Warrior (8 page)

Her soul was all around him, watching over him as he tried his damnedest to live out the rest of his shattered existence without her.

The night his fragile wife finally died, Alex had stumbled blindly into the courtyard and raged at God, cursing him for stealing away the woman who meant more to him than life. He had bellowed at the top of his lungs, waking all of his clan as he vainly tried to purge himself of the pain tearing through him. And through his fury and despair he suddenly noticed a tiny, brilliant star that he was certain had not been there before. He had been so astounded, he went immediately to Morag, the clan seer, and demanded to know the meaning of it. And the wise old woman had assured him it was a sign that Flora was watching over him.

From that evening on, Alex never slept without first searching the sky for Flora's star.

Forgive me, my love. It meant nothing.

He laced his fingers behind his head and sighed. He had no doubt she believed him. His Flora was the most tender-hearted of women and would never imagine him capable of anything but honesty. Still, his confession did not ease his shame. He had betrayed his beloved wife, and he did not know how to cleanse himself of that unforgivable act.

Four years. It was not so long, really. Barely a drop in the ocean of time, and certainly not long enough to numb his suffering. At first he had been far too enraged with God to continue with his duties as a laird and father. What kind of God would bless him with unfailing strength and good health, while slowly leeching the life out of his innocent wife? Flora had been as lovely as a flower, and as delicate. When Alex met her at the MacLean holding, she had not known he was laird of the MacDunns. A lively, rosy girl with laughing eyes and hair the color of fire, she spurned his arrogant advances with her quick wit and saucy manner. And Alex, who was accustomed to women throwing themselves in his path, was completely enchanted. He courted Flora with a patience and determination he had not known he was capable of. And finally she gifted him with her love. He proudly brought her back to his clan as his bride, and a year later his son was born, making his life complete.

But after David's birth, Flora lost a child, and then another, each time losing a little more of her color and strength. She began to complain of internal pain and weakness, and could barely find the energy to rise from her bed. Overcome with worry, Alex sent for the finest healers in Scotland, who spared neither effort nor expense as they bled her and purged her and forced her to swallow all manner of foul potions. Poor Flora endured her suffering with courage, though Alex knew she often wept at night when she thought he was sleeping. At times he wondered if his love for her had made him cruel, for surely it was inhumane to make her bear such hideous ministrations. But he clung to the hope that her illness was but a fleeting blot on an otherwise perfect life. Eventually they would find the right treatment and one morning Flora would waken and smile, cured.

Instead his beautiful wife wasted away, until finally she was but a thin, pale wisp of the glowing girl he had so proudly presented to his people.

Her illness lasted for nearly a year. When she realized that she was going to die, her greatest worry was Alex's unhappiness. Over and over she pleaded with him not to grieve, but to promise her that he would marry again and get on with his life.
How can you ask such a thing of me?
he had demanded, pressing her slim, cold hand against his cheek.
I swear to you I will never love another.
He had sworn this oath as a way of binding her to him, of making her see she could not possibly desert him. But one night Flora was finally released from the torment of her treacherous body. Though he knew she was at peace, Alex had felt empty, abandoned. When Flora died, the light in his life was extinguished.

And now God was determined to take his son from him as well.

He could not imagine what terrible sin he had committed to make God want to punish him so viciously. His life had been far from pure, but whatever his sins, he did not think he deserved this additional, unbearable agony. He knew for certain David did not. The lad was scarcely ten and surely was entitled to live a much longer life than that. But David had been blessed with his mother's bonny features, and plagued with her frailty. Although Alex had done everything he could to shelter his son from the rigors of life in the Highlands, he had failed to protect the lad from the feebleness of his own body. That curse, it seemed, was beyond Alex's earthly control.

But not, perhaps, beyond the control of the darker forces.

He glanced over at Gwendolyn, who lay huddled on the ground shivering beneath Brodick's extra plaid. His last hope, faint as it was, was that this witch would be able to save his son. He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. She was a condemned murderess, who looked as if a strong gust of wind might blow her away. Yet this was the woman he would entrust David's life to. He had brought in healers for the lad, who had solemnly purged and prodded and bled him, but David only grew weaker. Since neither God nor science seemed able to help him, Alex decided to turn to witchcraft. If Gwendolyn MacSween could not heal David with her sorcery, then he did not know what more to do.

The thought filled him with despair.

It was Morag who had convinced him to seek out Gwendolyn. There had been stories drifting through these mountains of the MacSween witch for years, bizarre tales of magic and devil worship, which had never particularly interested Alex. But suddenly David's condition deteriorated, and Alex feared he was dying. He went to Morag and begged her to tell him if anything more could be done for his son. And Morag had told him to find the MacSween witch and bring her to his castle.

At first he had thought he would simply offer to pay the witch for her services. But when he arrived to find she had murdered her father and was sentenced to death, he attempted to buy her, thinking that spineless fool, Laird MacSween, would be only too happy to make a profit from someone else's misery. What he had not anticipated was her clan's almost gleeful determination to see her burned. And so he resolved to rescue her, even though he had just four men to fight an entire clan of several hundred.

No wonder people thought he was mad.

He could not forget his shock when she first emerged from the bowels of the MacSween castle. How could this beautiful young woman be the murdering witch of whom her clan spoke with such dread? When they fell upon her with their battering fists, he had been ready to kill every bloody one of them. And then Gwendolyn rose and continued to walk toward her death with solemn, unwavering dignity. In that moment he had forgotten the crimes of which she stood accused, had forgotten even that she was his only hope of seeing his son well again. All he knew was, whatever the cost, he would not permit them to hurt her.

And he had felt the same powerful sensation today.

The terror that had gripped him when he saw that boar charging her was not so peculiar, he assured himself. After all, she was his last hope to cure his son. That was why he had barely been able to breathe as he thundered toward her on his horse. And surely it was blinding rage, not passion, that had caused him to crush her in his arms and kiss her. He had imprisoned her against him and roamed his hands over her delectable body because he wanted to punish her for trying to escape him. And more, he needed her to fear him. With fear, he would be able to control her.

“MacDunn.”

He looked at her through the darkness, surprised that she was awake. She was shivering with cold, which concerned him. “Yes?” he replied, rising to build up the fire.

“How many more days' journey is it to your lands?”

“Why? Are you planning your next attempt to escape me?”

Gwendolyn shook her head. She had not relinquished the possibility of escape, but she knew MacDunn and his warriors would prevent any opportunity of that. She would have to wait awhile. “I was wondering how far your holding is from the MacSweens.”

“Because you believe they will come after you again?”

She did not answer.

“Laird MacSween seems a reasonable man, Gwendolyn, and he knows I lead a formidable army,” he pointed out, tossing some dry twigs onto the dying embers. “Once he has his precious daughter back, I doubt he will be foolish enough to sacrifice more warriors in a battle over a condemned witch, especially since she was stolen by a madman.”

“You have insulted him,” Gwendolyn argued. “And you have sullied the clan's honor.”

Alex leaned low and blew onto the coals, coaxing a small flame to life. “I plan to send Laird MacSween a letter formally apologizing for my unseemly behavior while I was his guest, accompanied by a chest of gold. That should adequately restore his tarnished honor, and the gold will more than compensate him for any damages I have caused.”

“Your offering might appease Laird MacSween,” she acknowledged, “but Robert will not be so easily placated.”

“He does seem inordinately anxious to get you back,” observed Alex, tossing a few more sticks onto the fire. “Why is that?”

“I am a witch.” She shrugged. “Robert believes I must be destroyed.”

It was a reasonable answer, but something about it did not sound altogether sincere. Alex found himself recalling Robert's near obsession with Gwendolyn as he faced Alex in the woods, and his relative lack of interest in Isabella. For some reason Robert was desperate to have Gwendolyn back, and Alex sensed his motives had little to do with upholding justice or restoring his clan's honor.

“If Robert comes again, I will protect you,” he stated flatly. “As will all the MacDunns.”

“You cannot expect that your people will want to risk their lives for a witch,” she countered.

“My people will do as I tell them,” Alex told her, arranging two huge logs on the fire. A brilliant spire of flames began to lick hungrily at the well-seasoned wood. “Whether you are a witch or a murderess has no bearing on their loyalty to me. Now come here and warm yourself, before you are wracked with fever.” He moved away from the fire and stretched out once more on the ground.

It was only then Gwendolyn realized he had been restoring the flames just for her. She rose and hurried toward the blaze, which was blasting a delicious aura of heat. After warming her bare hands and arms, she curled up beneath Brodick's extra plaid and wearily closed her eyes. MacDunn was only concerned with her welfare because he wanted to use her, she reminded herself fiercely.

The moment he learned she had no special powers, he would cease to care whether she was cold, or hungry, or dead.

C
HAPTER
4

“By God, there's no sweeter place in all of Scotland,” Cameron remarked happily, inhaling a deep breath of air.

Alex stared vacantly at the whitewashed cottages tidily arranged on the green and purple mountain rising before them. The fields were crowded with shaggy, plump cows, fat geese, and apple-cheeked, bare-legged children who were squealing with excitement as they ran to greet their laird. He raised his gaze to the dark castle at the crest of the mountain. On the day he brought Flora home, he had proudly boasted to his new bride about the splendor of the enormous stone fortress—how it was a testament to simplicity, order, and the latest developments in military defense. Now, as he looked at it, he could think of only one thing.

This is where my son lies dying.

“MacDunn! MacDunn!” called the children, their voices bright. “You're back!”

“They seem happy,” observed Brodick. “That's a good sign.”

Alex nodded. If David had died during his absence, the clan would be in mourning, and dreading their laird's return. But his people were gathering together and waving at him, their faces lit with guarded optimism. Obviously they hoped he had found the witch and that she would be able to cure the lad.

“Come,” he said, anxious to see his son. “Let's hurry.”

Gwendolyn clung to Ned as they galloped past the waving MacDunns. The moment their eyes fell upon her, their smiles were erased by wariness and fear. It was a look she knew well. Ignoring their stares, she gazed at the enormous castle looming above her. It was a cold, forbidding structure, roughly chiseled from black stone, with four ominous towers and a massive curtain wall that stretched some sixty feet into the air. The stronghold had been built solely for the purpose of defending its occupants. It was so lacking in either warmth or grace that it seemed more a prison than a home. As she drew closer, she noticed that every window in the keep was tightly shut, which seemed peculiar, since the day was warm and bright.

MacDunn and his warriors clattered through the yawning iron jaws of the gate and entered the courtyard. Men and women were pouring out of the dark castle, hastily adjusting their plaids and gowns while rushing to greet their laird. On stepping into the bright sun, they squinted and shaded their eyes, as though they found its brilliance almost blinding. Several men were taking in long, greedy drafts of air, leading Gwendolyn to wonder about the purity of the air inside the castle.

“Welcome back, MacDunn,” called a slender, brown-haired lad who ran up to catch hold of his horse.

“Thank you, Eric,” said Alex, dismounting. “The horses require extra care today. They have been ridden long and hard.”

“Aye, MacDunn,” said the boy solemnly. “I will see to it.” He stole a curious glance at Gwendolyn, and then turned to carry out his order.

Gwendolyn slid down from Ned's horse, acutely aware of everyone's eyes upon her. Their expressions ranged from uncertainty to outright dread. The men had positioned themselves in front of the women, and the women in front of the children, each trying to shield the other from Gwendolyn's evil. She returned the MacDunns' wary stares with frigid calm, giving no hint of the emotions roiling within her. Long years of being treated as something vile and dangerous had not hardened her feelings, but those years had taught her how to conceal her own fear and humiliation. For a brief moment during her journey here, she had actually thought that the fact that the MacDunns were seeking a witch might mean they would treat her differently than her own clan had.

She had been mistaken.

MacDunn was striding purposefully toward the castle, apparently oblivious to the cold reception his people were giving her. On realizing Gwendolyn was not with him, he stopped and turned.

“Are you coming?” he demanded impatiently.

Gwendolyn tossed the MacDunns a dismissive look, then slowly began to walk toward their laird. The MacDunns instantly parted, giving her a wide path. Brodick and Cameron positioned themselves on either side of her, while Ned walked behind her. Evidently the warriors were trying to reassure their clan that she was their prisoner and therefore the MacDunns had naught to fear. Her head held high, her expression serene, she moved toward the castle with unhurried dignity, exuding what she hoped was a compelling aura of power. Above all, she must not let these people think she cared about what they thought of her. To do so revealed weakness, and weakness would only invite persecution and contempt.

She joined MacDunn in front of the massive oak door leading into the keep. The stone arch framing the door was festooned with a garland of rowan branches and berries, and a small, bulging sack had been tied with red wool and nailed to the scarred boards of the door.

“What is this?” Frowning, Alex tore the linen bag off the door. A foul stench instantly filled his nostrils, causing him to gag.

“Sweet Jesus,” he swore, flinging the bag aside. “What is the meaning of this?” He turned to face his clan.

The MacDunns regarded each other uneasily. No one spoke.

“The mixture in that bag is meant to ward off evil spirits,” offered Gwendolyn calmly. “The nail and the length of red wool are charms against witches, and the rowan garland is supposed to ward off curses or prevent anyone with an unholy purpose from entering.”

Alex regarded her with surprise. “You have seen these things before?”

“Of course. The MacSweens were quite skilled at making items of this nature.”

Her voice was flat and her expression contained, as if this attempt to drive her away was no more than she expected. But her hands gripped the gray fabric of her gown. It was this wholly unconscious gesture that stirred fury within Alex. Reaching up, he tore down the arch of rowan branches in one powerful motion, then cast it into the crowd.

“I ask that you welcome Gwendolyn, formerly of the Clan MacSween, to the MacDunn holding. During her stay, I expect her to be accorded the reverence due an honored guest. Is that understood?”

The MacDunns exchanged uncertain glances.

“Aye,” called out a man reluctantly. “Welcome, m'lady.”

A few unenthusiastic welcomes followed.

Marginally satisfied by their acquiescence, Alex threw open the door to his castle and went inside.

“Bloody Christ!”

A few choicer expressions came to mind, but he had to be content with that, for the noxious cloud of smoke he had stepped into had reduced him to a violent fit of coughing.

“That's it, laddie, get it out, get it out,” advised a cheerful voice.

Gwendolyn entered hesitantly behind Alex and blinked until her eyes became accustomed to the smoky interior. The chamber they had stepped into was dark, save for the sunlight fighting its way in through the open door behind them, and a number of oily torches spitting far more smoke than flame. A gust of fresh air was stirring the heavy veil that choked the room and as the haze thinned she was able to make out an enormous great hall. Two fires roared at opposite ends of the huge room, over which numerous cauldrons were placed, each spewing an acrid funnel of black. The heavy wooden tables around the room were crowded with pots, bowls, and jars of every size and description, all smoldering with a variety of pungent substances. The walls and ceiling of the room had been draped with drying herbs, elaborate amulets, and more rowan branches, giving it a strangely mythical appearance, and the stone floor was covered with a mass of rotting rushes. The resulting heat and stench and smoke made the air virtually intolerable, although the snowy-haired man who suddenly emerged through the fog seemed to be bearing it well enough.

“Don't worry, laddie, it just takes a minute to get used to,” he said, whacking Alex on the back. “Come, now, take another breath—there—you see?”

“What in the name of God is going on here, Owen?” demanded Alex hoarsely.

“Why, we're preparing for the witch,” Owen replied, as if the answer were obvious. “And a damned unpleasant task it's been, I must say. Bloody awful, if you must know. Oh, beg pardon, m'lady,” he apologized, noticing Gwendolyn. “Sometimes an old warrior forgets to soften his language in front of a lady. Do forgive. Owen MacDunn, at your service.” He tilted forward in a slow, creaking bow and pressed a gallant kiss against her hand. “She's very comely, MacDunn,” he remarked, smiling as he eyed Gwendolyn up and down. “Is she Brodick's?”

“No,” said Brodick, entering the hall with Cameron and Ned. “Jesus, Owen, what is that hideous stench?”

“Mind your language,” scolded Owen, wagging a gnarled finger at him. “There is a lady present, and I would ask that you behave accordingly, you young scoundrel. High time you abandoned your rakish ways and settled down. Our Brodick has broken many a fair maiden's heart,” he confided to Gwendolyn. “Too damn handsome for his own good, that's what. Well, now,” he continued, stroking his white beard, “you can't be Cameron's, or Clarinda would have something to say about that. Yes, indeed, I'm sure she would.” He chuckled, clearly amused by the idea. Then his blue eyes suddenly grew wide. “Good God,” he gasped, stunned, “you're not…”

Gwendolyn stiffened.

“…Ned's lady friend, are you? Because that would be just marvelous if you were,” he exclaimed, “simply marvelous.”

She glanced helplessly at Alex.

“She is not Ned's,” Alex said, looking irritated. “Can we please get back to the subject of the hall?”

“Why, I told you, laddie,” Owen reminded him. “We're preparing for the witch. Do forgive, my dear,” he apologized, patting Gwendolyn's hand. “A frightful mess, I know, and the stench is absolutely abominable. But we have to make certain the old hag can't cast spells on the lot of us, now, don't we? We MacDunns must show her we will not be subject to her wicked mischief. Why, I remember when I was just a wee thing, there was a witch who came here and tried to turn our laird into a goat. The spell didn't quite take, but for years afterward poor old MacDunn had the most dreadful habit of gnawing on the table at mealtimes. Completely destroyed one perfectly fine table within a year. Do you remember that, MacDunn?”

“I wasn't born then.”

Owen frowned, considering. “No, of course not.” He swept his gaze appraisingly over the rest of them. “None of you were,” he decided. “Oh, well. No matter.”

“I've really got it, this time!”

Gwendolyn turned to see a thin, dour-faced little man enter the hall carrying a bubbling silver cup. He appeared to be very close in age to Owen, with thin scraggly white hair circling his virtually bald head, and a heavily creased face that seemed to be screwed into a permanent mask of disapproval.

“Here, now, MacDunn, we must get the witch to drink this at once,” he instructed, indicating the dark green potion that was frothing grotesquely down the sides of the goblet.

“Why, Lachlan?” asked Alex.

Lachlan glanced suspiciously at Gwendolyn, wondering whether she could be trusted. Deciding she could, he lowered his voice and explained, “This elixir I made will prove whether or not the witch really is a witch. If she is, her evil powers will protect her from the effects of the poison. That is how we will know for sure!” he finished triumphantly.

“And what if she is not a witch?” Alex inquired.

Lachlan regarded him in bewilderment. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if you give that ghastly-looking concoction to someone who is not protected by evil powers?”

Lachlan scratched his bald head, baffled. “You said you were going to get a witch, MacDunn,” he pointed out, sounding somewhat defensive. “You never said anything about getting someone who only
might
be a witch. Might being a witch and being a witch are two entirely different things.”

“He's right, laddie,” Owen agreed, nodding. “You can't argue with that.”

“Blast it! That's it!” roared an infuriated voice from the corridor. “I've had just about all
any mortal man can take
!”