CHAPTER 1

The Highlands of Scotland
Summer 1209

Her back ached from leaning against the frigid wall, forcing her to rise with slow dignity.

Squinting against the thin veil of light spitting from a torch, she made out the beefy figure of her jailer, Sim. Two others loomed behind him, their faces nearly obscured by the darkness. She studied them a moment, then eased her grip on the small, sharply edged stone she held in her hand.

Robert was not with them.

“They’re ready for ye,” announced Sim. “An’ a fine evenin’ for it, too,” he added, the black cave of his rotting mouth twisting with malevolent pleasure. “The wind is just right.”

Battling the desire to smash her fist into his face, Gwendolyn stepped forward.

“Give me yer hands,” he ordered, brandishing a rough length of rope.

Her fingers clenched into fists, hiding her pitiful weapon as the cord bit into her wrists. She could not imagine what Robert feared she might do as she was escorted to her death by these burly warriors. When her bonds were painfully secure, the two men grabbed her by the arms and shoved her into the dim corridor. The stench of unwashed flesh, rotting food, and human excrement filled her lungs. She moved swiftly along the slime-coated passage, her feet splashing in murky pools of water. A clump of fur scurried across her path. She stopped with a gasp.

The warriors laughed.

“A witch afraid of a wee rat!” snorted one. “Don’t ye bite their heads off afore ye bleed them into yer potions?”

“Why don’t ye just cast a spell on him, like ye did yer poor father?” taunted the other.

“I’m saving my powers for the spell I plan to cast over you,” Gwendolyn replied, deriving bitter enjoyment from his sudden fear.

They climbed the staircase to the main level of the castle. Here the terrible stench of the dungeons gave way to the heavy redolence of spilled ale and roasting meat. A magnificent feast was being prepared to celebrate her death, and all the clan had been invited to join Laird MacSween and his family on this glorious occasion. The greasy reek of charred animal flesh churned her stomach. She hurried past the smirking guards at the door and stepped out into the warm evening air.

“There she is!” someone shrieked hysterically.

“Witch!” hissed a wild-eyed girl, clutching her baby against her breast. “Ye’ve given my wee babe the fever!”

“Evil murderess!” snarled a skinny youth who didn’t look to be more than thirteen. “It was you who killed my mother last month, wasn’t it?”

“And ye caused my poor son to crush his leg beneath that tree,” cried an agonized woman with graying hair, “leavin’ him a cripple, ye whore of Satan!”

Everyone in the crowd began hurling awful names and accusations at her, their faces contorted with hatred, their bodies braced for violence. Gwendolyn stopped, afraid.

“Come on, witch,” growled one of the guards. “Move.” He gave her a push, and she stumbled.

The crowd instantly surged forward, clawing at her hair, her face, her gown.

“Devil’s bitch!”

“Spawn of Satan!”

“Filthy harlot!”

Gwendolyn was terrified. She raised her bound arms in a vain attempt to shield her face as her clan rained blows on her back and shoulders. When she could bear no more, she fell to her knees.

“Enough!” roared an enraged voice from somewhere beyond the fray. “Cease, or I’ll tear out your hearts!”

Her attackers hesitated, uncertain who had spoken. They looked questioningly toward the scarlet-and-gold-draped dais on which Laird MacSween reposed with his wife, his young son, and his brother, Robert.

“It seems our guest, Laird MacDunn, has little stomach for justice,” observed Robert dryly. He sighed. “Never mind. It is going to be a spectacular fire. Allow the witch to proceed to the stake.”

“Yes,” added Laird MacSween, not wanting it to appear his brother was giving an order without his consensus. “Let the witch pass.”

Her ring of tormentors eroded, and Gwendolyn was roughly hauled to her feet. She did not spare a glance toward the dais, where she knew Robert would be watching her triumphantly. Instead she fixed her gaze on the crudely constructed platform ahead of her, on which a slender stake had been erected.

The structure was high, to allow everyone in the clan a good view of her death, and had been strategically positioned at the end of the courtyard near the outer wall, as far from the castle as possible. This, Robert had informed her, was because Laird MacSween’s wife and daughter had complained that if the stake was placed in the middle of the courtyard, the stench of Gwendolyn’s burning flesh would waft into the windows and offend their delicate senses for days. Robert had been equally solicitous about the time of day for her execution. Early evening, he decided, would be best, so the flames could burn brilliantly against the advancing darkness, yet her lovely face would not be veiled by the shadows of night.

As she walked through the pearly, fading light, Gwendolyn felt a warm breath of wind caress her skin. Her jailer had been right, she realized dispassionately.

It was a fine evening.

Dry branches and peat had been heaped on the platform and below it, needing only a spark to burst into flame. Gwendolyn slowly mounted the steps, trying not to contemplate the heat of such a fire. It wasn’t her death that she feared, but the method of it. Drowning would have been preferable, or even having her throat slashed. But burning was the execution decreed for those condemned of witchcraft.

Robert had hoped her fear of such a hideous death would break her will and she would finally reveal to him the hiding place of the jewel.

But he had miscalculated her desire to live.

She took her place on the platform and raised her wrists so the guard could slash open the rope. Her arms were wrenched behind her around the stake and bound again, and another cord secured her body to the pike. In the process of burning, the stake would hold her upright and keep her from falling in a crumpled heap into the flames. She found the thought comforting. Somehow, it seemed more dignified to die standing.

After her escorts left her, the abundantly nourished Father Thomas haltingly ascended the platform steps.

“Well, Gwendolyn, are you ready to finally confess your sins and beg God’s forgiveness for the evil path you have chosen?” he demanded loudly, so his audience would be certain to hear.

She turned her head away from his ale-soured breath. “I have committed no sins, Father.”

Father Thomas frowned. “Come, now, lass, you will soon be facing God. He will send you straight to hell, where you will burn for all eternity, unless you plead for forgiveness now.”

“Not even a priest can help you, evil bitch!” a man shouted furiously.

“Nor the devil!” added another.

Gwendolyn eyed Father Thomas steadily. “And if I do confess, will I find mercy here, amongst my own people?”

“You are guilty of murder and witchcraft,” he pointed out, shaking his head. He turned toward his audience, raised his arms, and finished grandly, “No woman guilty of such vile crimes shall escape the everlasting torment of hell—for ‘the Lord will swallow them up in his wrath; and fire will consume them’!”

The crowd cheered.

She considered this for a moment. “If I have no hope of avoiding death, then I see no reason why I should refrain from confiding in you, Father.”

He looked startled, but quickly composed himself. He nodded sagely and folded his hands on the great swell of his belly. “God is listening, Gwendolyn,” he assured her.

“I am innocent. Consider that as you sit at the laird’s table tonight dressed in your finest robes, and gorge yourself on enough meat and ale to feed a child for a month. Reflect on the fact that you murdered me, Father, and pray that you don’t choke.”

His round face grew crimson with fury. “How dare you speak so to a man of God!”

“If you really were a man of God, you would have tried to protect me instead of destroy me.”

“This is the devil talking. You were just a child when your mother was burned, but evidently you were old enough for her to pass her wicked ways on to her daughter.”

“My mother was no more guilty of witchcraft than I.”

“You will burn, Gwendolyn MacSween, so that your black soul can be sent straight to hell, where it belongs.” He quickly made the sign of the cross, then began his labored descent down the stairs.

“God will know I have done nothing wrong,” she countered, “and when He realizes I was murdered, it is you who will be going to hell.”

“Burn her!” screamed someone from the crowd. “Before she works more of her deviltry on us!”

The crowd rumbled with agreement and began to chant, “Burn her—burn her—burn her!”

Laird Cedric MacSween rose from his seat and carefully unraveled a scroll. “Gwendolyn MacSween, you have been found guilty of the charges of witchcraft and murder. According to witnesses, evidence of your evil powers first became apparent some twelve years ago, when several children in your presence saw you cast a spell over a rock, causing it to fly through the air, until it eventually transformed into a bird. That was the same summer four beloved members of our clan died of causes that have since been attributed to your foul sorcery….”

Robert was watching Gwendolyn from his place beside his brother, his expression resigned, his fingers drumming impatiently on the arm of his ornately carved chair. They both knew it was too late for him to stop this travesty of justice. He had condemned her in a moment of panic, and by doing so, he had lost all hope of acquiring the one thing he so desperately wanted. With her death, the power of the jewel would elude him forever. She tossed him a derisive smile filled with triumph, as if she were the victor in this battle. Then she jerked her gaze away, unable to stomach the sight of him a moment longer.

If, by some miracle, she did have a spiritual existence after this world, she vowed to spend it tormenting Robert to his grave.

Her attention shifted to someone she did not recognize, an imposing stranger mounted on a gray charger, positioned in a place of honor near the laird’s dais. This must be Mad MacDunn, she decided. When Robert visited her for a final time early this morning, he had told her Mad Alex MacDunn had just arrived in search of her. On learning she was sentenced to death, he had offered to buy her. Of course his offer was not accepted. But because Laird MacDunn and his men had journeyed far, Laird MacSween graciously invited them to stay and witness her burning, and enjoy the glorious feast afterward. This was the man, then, who had ordered her clan to stop beating her. Perhaps he’d been impatient to get on with the burning.

He was a startling figure of a man, tall and broadly cut, with a wide chest, enormous shoulders, and muscled arms that could easily wield the heavy broadsword glinting at his side. His shoulder-length hair was the palest of gold and of a thickness and shimmer that would make any woman envious, which seemed incongruous with the rest of his ruggedly masculine physique. She could not see his face, because in that terrible moment, as she was about to be burned alive, he was incomprehensibly absorbed with the task of rearranging the already meticulous folds of his plaid.

Unaware of being watched, MacDunn carefully adjusted the deep green and yellow fabric of his plaid and straightened his leather belt. When his outfit was finally fitted to his liking, he glanced at the silver brooch tacking his mantle to his shoulder, frowned, and began to fastidiously polish the already gleaming piece with his sleeve. This action caused him to raise his head, revealing a handsomely sculpted face with a wide, firm jaw, a deeply grooved chin, and well-defined cheekbones. He seemed determined to elicit more shine from his jewelry and rubbed away at it with great concentration.

Only when a serving boy approached him with a tray of refreshments did he reluctantly permit himself to be distracted from his task. He studied the platter of fruit and drink, then withdrew a heavily jeweled dirk from his belt and delicately speared a large red apple. He examined it and, evidently finding some flaw, returned the offending fruit to the tray and chose another. He buffed it well against his plaid before nibbling at it. In that moment, perhaps sensing that he was being watched, he suddenly raised his head and looked at her. His expression was infuriatingly insouciant—the look of a man who had few cares in his life and did not intend to let something as insignificant as her death detract him from either his attire or his hunger.

“…And because of these unholy activities, the fact that you bear the unmistakable mark of the devil on your person, and finally, the vile murder of your own father, a crime so fiendish, it could only be work of a filthy whore who lies with the devil…” ranted Laird MacSween, emphasizing as many words as possible for dramatic effect.

MacDunn studied her a moment, idly twirling his apple on his sparkling dirk, no doubt wondering if she was really capable of committing all the dreadful deeds of which she stood accused. She glared back at him, wondering for what base purpose he had sought to purchase her. His expression remained bland, but there was an intensity to his gaze that was strangely incompatible with his fatuous, lean-witted manner. His scrutiny was unnerving. It made her feel as if he were penetrating the protective shield of her anger, searching for the real woman beneath. A ripple of heat coursed through her, rendering her oddly breathless. MacDunn regarded her another few seconds, then suddenly dropped his gaze to his apple and resumed pecking at it, as if she no longer merited his attention.

Shaken and humiliated, Gwendolyn looked away.

Laird MacSween continued to read the list of charges against her. The MacSweens listened with rowdy enjoyment, regularly interrupting to hurl some crude insult at her. It seemed everyone in her clan was crammed into the courtyard to witness her death, from the tiniest of infants to the frailest of elders. Judging by their fiercely righteous expressions, it was clear they believed they were merely carrying out God’s will on this day. She scanned the crush of faces, vainly searching for a scrap of pity or compassion. But the MacSweens had feared and ostracized her for as long as she could remember, and there was no one she could call a friend, who might feel empathy for her. She did, however, notice another stranger, whom she assumed was a warrior of Mad MacDunn’s, as he sported the same dark green and yellow plaid. He was a huge bear of a man, with long, fiery red hair and a thick red beard. His considerable bulk had enabled him to force his way through the crowd and he now stood just below the platform, swaying drunkenly as he lifted a bucket of ale to his mouth. The dark brew sloshed down his face and chest, soaking his shirt and plaid before it dripped onto the ground. Finally, when it appeared his enormous body could absorb no more, he lowered the bucket, wiped his mouth with his arm, and expelled the most resounding belch Gwendolyn had ever heard.

The crowd roared with laughter, causing Laird MacSween to pause and regard them in confusion.

“Your pardon, MacSween,” apologized the warrior thickly. “ ’Tis an exceptionally spirited ale.” With that he raised the bucket and began to drink once more.

Disgusted, she shifted her gaze, only to notice another MacDunn warrior perched in the second-floor opening of a window, his slim legs dangling against the castle wall. This slight fellow was almost elfin compared to his burly clansmen, and only the light brown growth upon his cheek assured Gwendolyn he was actually a man and not a boy. Though he had managed to procure a most enviable seat, he appeared uninterested in the drama playing before him in the courtyard and was absorbed, instead, in whittling a stick.

Another MacDunn warrior with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard leaned casually against the outer wall, shamelessly flirting with Laird MacSween’s daughter, Isabella. Clearly he held Isabella enchanted. He leaned inappropriately close to her, his lips nearly grazing her hair as he whispered something into her ear. She raised her hand to her throat in feigned shock and giggled prettily. Gwendolyn watched her with irritation. As Laird MacSween’s only daughter, Isabella did not have a worry in life beyond what gown she was going to wear that day and which of her many suitors she might ultimately decide to wed.

Meanwhile, while Mad MacDunn and his boorish warriors were engaged in coy seduction, crafting toys, or getting blinding drunk, Gwendolyn awaited her death by burning at the stake.

“…therefore the devil within her must be sent back to the fires of hell, so she can no longer unleash death and destruction on this clan,” finished Laird MacSween.

“Burn the bloody bitch!”

“Quickly, before she casts more of her evil upon us!”

“Burn her, burn her, burn her…” The chant rose like a prayer, until the entire clan was demanding her death.

As Gwendolyn stared at their snarling faces, she understood the utter despair her mother must have endured on the day she was executed. But her mother had suffered more, for she had died leaving an anguished husband and a tiny daughter. At least Gwendolyn left no one behind. Her father was dead and was therefore spared the horror of watching his child die as her mother had died before her. There was some solace in that, she assured herself, fighting the tears that stung her eyes.

“Light the fire,” commanded Laird MacSween, striving to be heard above the chanting crowd.

The clan raised their arms in the air and cheered.

Two men stepped forward bearing torches. Gwendolyn’s breathing grew shallow. She braced herself against the stake.

Please God, let me faint before the flames begin to devour my flesh.

She hurled one last, hate-filled look at Robert. He lounged back in his chair and regarded her with something akin to triumph, but she knew his victory was hollow.

You’ll never have the jewel now, you bastard.

The first torch began its descent. Terror gripped her, but she willed herself not to whimper.

One guard smiled as his torch hovered just above the dried grasses and branches. “Away with you, witch,” he snarled. “To the fires of—”

She waited for him to say hell, but all that came out was a stifled groan. Gwendolyn watched in confusion as his eyes widened, then rolled upward. With a sigh, he collapsed heavily onto the ground, the jeweled hilt of a dirk protruding from his back, his fallen torch abandoned in the branches.

The other torchbearer stared at his dead partner in shock. Then he tossed his torch onto the arid nest at her feet.

The red-haired, drunken warrior at her left heaved his bucket of ale over it, extinguishing the flames. Then he slammed the pail hard onto the guard’s head, spun him around, and gave him a solid kick to his backside, sending him flying into the crowd of astonished MacSweens.

“What’s happening?” demanded Laird MacSween, straining to see through the crowd. “Is that red-haired fellow truly so drunk—”

“Stop him!” roared Robert as Mad MacDunn began to gallop toward the stake. He sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair. “Stop MacDunn!”

The flames from the first torch had spread hungrily through the branches untouched by ale and were now lapping at the hem of Gwendolyn’s gown. The bear warrior leaped onto the platform and hacked at the ropes binding her to the stake as Mad MacDunn thundered forward on his horse, his great broadsword raised high in warning to anyone foolish enough to get in his way. The astonished MacSweens obligingly parted, realizing he truly was mad, or perhaps thinking this was some terrible feat of magic Gwendolyn was working. As MacDunn reached the burning platform, Gwendolyn felt the last rope give way. She started to fall, but the enormous warrior easily lifted her off her limp legs and threw her onto MacDunn’s horse.

“Hold on to me!” commanded MacDunn. He jerked her arm forward around his waist.

One of Robert’s men was racing toward them, his sword aimed at the chest of MacDunn’s horse. “You’ll not get away so easy, MacDunn,” he swore, drawing back his blade.

An arrow sliced through the air and neatly punctured the warrior’s back. Gwendolyn glanced up to see the elflike warrior in the window positioning another sharply carved arrow against the string of his bow.

“Surround them!” shouted Robert, jumping from the dais and running toward his own horse. “Don’t let them escape!”

MacDunn began to thrash mercilessly with his sword at the advancing crowd, forcing them to part as he urged his horse toward the gate. Gwendolyn clung to him, her arms wrapped around his waist, aware of the power emanating from him as his muscles shifted and flexed beneath her hands. His plaid was soft against her skin, but the body it covered was rock-hard, and she leaned closer, drawing courage from his strength.

Someone grabbed her leg and began to drag her off the charger.

“MacDunn!” she cried.

MacDunn turned and drove his sword into the man, then swiftly pulled the dripping blade out and speared another MacSween who had been about to hack his ribs open with an ax. The man crashed heavily against MacDunn’s horse, causing the animal to rear. Gwendolyn began to slide backward. MacDunn’s hand clamped painfully onto her arm and held her fast as he continued to use his other arm to hack at anyone daring to come near them.

“Hold on!” he commanded furiously.

In that instant Gwendolyn saw another of Robert’s warriors taking aim at MacDunn with his bow and arrow. Suddenly remembering the sharp stone hidden in her hand, she hurled it through the air. The warrior howled and dropped his weapon, then raised his fingers tentatively to the ugly cut leaking blood just below his eye.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered MacDunn.

Gwendolyn sensed he was impressed, but he wasted no time thanking her, for they had nearly reached the gate.

“The gate!” bellowed Robert, who by now had mounted his own horse and was thundering toward them. “Close the bloody gate!”

The MacSweens surged toward the gate, each one clamoring to get there first. This resulted in a great deal of tripping, cursing, and ultimately wrestling among themselves. From the corner of her eye, Gwendolyn could see both the bear warrior and the elf were now mounted and racing toward the break in the curtain wall.

She leaned into MacDunn and pressed her face into the warmth of his plaid.

Thank you, God.

The wooden portcullis crashed to the ground.

Having reached the end of the courtyard, MacDunn was forced to abruptly halt his horse. The snorting animal reared once more.

“You really must be mad, MacDunn,” Robert called out scornfully as he rode up to them, “to attempt such a ridiculous abduction.”

It was over, Gwendolyn realized. For some reason these men had risked their lives to save her, but they had failed. Now they would all be killed.

“I am sorry,” she said to MacDunn, her voice ragged. “You shouldn’t have tried. Now you will all die.” She eased her grip on his waist, preparing to slide off his charger and meet her fate.

His hand clamped firmly over her wrist, holding her to him.

“I really think you should open the gate and let us pass, MacSween,” said MacDunn pleasantly, ignoring Robert.

Laird MacSween, who had not ventured from his honored seat on the dais, looked uncertainly at Robert.

“I don’t believe you quite understand your situation, Laird MacDunn,” drawled Robert, his tone heavily mocking. “Permit me to enlighten you. You are surrounded by my warriors.”

MacDunn lifted a brow in surprise. “Forgive me. I was under the impression that your brother was laird.”

“He is,” Robert conceded stiffly, “but I lead the MacSween army. And by my estimation, there are but three of you against hundreds,” he added, gesturing to his clan.

“You are right,” agreed MacDunn, not sounding overly concerned. “But if you do not permit us to leave, I am afraid we will have no choice but to kill her.”

Gwendolyn gasped and tried to wrench her hand away. MacDunn tightened his grip, holding her fast.

Robert regarded him in disbelief. And then he threw back his head and laughed. “This is your threat to me?” he sputtered. “By God, it seems you really are light in the head. Kill her, then, MacDunn, if it pleases you. You will merely be saving me the trouble.”

“Really?” said MacDunn. He appeared genuinely perplexed. “I would have thought you were fonder of her than that.”

Robert’s amusement increased. “I care nothing for her,” he assured MacDunn. “Do what you will.”

MacDunn contemplated this a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, then. Kill her, Brodick.”

Gwendolyn squirmed to get down, but MacDunn did not release his iron grip.

“Papa!”

Everyone turned and gasped. Isabella was seated on a horse in front of the same MacDunn warrior who moments earlier had been making her breathless with desire. Her need for air seemed even greater now, but that obviously had something to do with the dagger he was pressing to her throat.

Laird MacSween’s wife stood, screamed, then fainted dead away.

“Are you sure you want her dead, MacDunn?” asked Brodick. “She’s rather comely.”

“I don’t want her dead at all,” MacDunn assured him. “Robert does. He doesn’t care for her.”

“Release her!” snarled Robert.

“Really, Robert, I wish you would make up your mind,” said MacDunn. “You just finished telling me I should kill her.”

“You know bloody well I wasn’t talking about Isabella!”

“Then who would you like me to kill?” asked MacDunn, trying to be patient.

“Papa, do something!” pleaded Isabella.

Laird MacSween opened his mouth to speak but was instantly cut off by his brother.

“What can you possibly want with this witch?” Robert’s expression was reserved, but Gwendolyn knew he feared MacDunn had somehow learned of the stone. Affecting a more persuasive tone, he added, “Surely you must realize that by stealing one of our clan, you risk war.”

“I am mad,” replied MacDunn, shrugging. “Mad men do mad things. Besides”—he tilted his head toward the blaze now raging around the stake—“I thought you were finished with her.”

“She is evil,” Robert persisted gravely. “And a murderess. You cannot take her, MacDunn. She must be killed or she will destroy you and your people.”

MacDunn smiled. “Thank you, Robert, for your concern. I am deeply touched. Now raise the portcullis or Brodick will slit fair Isabella’s throat.”

Robert hesitated.

“Papa, make them open the gate!” squealed Isabella.

Laird MacSween finally rose from his chair. “Surely you are not so heartless, Laird MacDunn, that you would kill a helpless young woman.”

MacDunn studied the anguished father a moment. Then he sighed. “You’re right, MacSween,” he conceded. “I’m not.”

Robert smiled, realizing his adversary was now trapped.

“But Brodick is,” MacDunn assured him pleasantly. “Aren’t you, Brodick?”

“Aye,” replied Brodick, giving Isabella a little squeeze.

Isabella whimpered.

“Raise the portcullis,” ordered Laird MacSween, “and let them go.”

Gwendolyn watched as Robert battled his frustration. Reluctantly, he lowered his sword.

“Now, that is the decision of a rational man,” commented MacDunn appreciatively. “I’m impressed. Your entire clan will fall back, Laird MacSween, permitting us to ride through the gate. If anyone attempts to harm us as we leave, or if any of your fine warriors come after us tonight, Brodick will cut your charming daughter’s throat. If, however, you exercise patience and restraint, then fair Isabella will be released unharmed tomorrow morning. I am certain with their considerable abilities, Robert and his men will have no trouble finding her and returning her safely to you.”

“I will have your word, MacDunn,” said Laird MacSween, “that she will not be harmed.”

MacDunn regarded him seriously. “You have my word.”

Satisfied, and having no other choice, Laird MacSween signaled for the portcullis to rise.

“His word is nothing!” protested Robert, enraged. “He is a madman!”

“So they say,” agreed MacDunn cheerfully, adjusting his plaid as his warriors rode through the open gate.

“You know, you were absolutely right, Robert,” he reflected, tossing a final glance at the burning stake. “It really is a spectacular fire.”

He winked at him, then turned and thundered into the advancing darkness, leaving the MacSweens staring in bewilderment.