CHAPTER 5

A river of light stretched all the way to her bed and radiated through the rumpled blankets, warming her.

Gwendolyn sighed and closed her eyes, assuring herself it could not possibly be as late as the brilliance of the sun suggested. Burrowing deeper into the sheets, she tried to enter the hazy respite of sleep once more. Just a few minutes, and then she would rise and prepare her father’s breakfast.

The scent of baking bread filtered into her chamber. Frowning, she opened her eyes.

Despondence surged over her in a cold, black wave, washing away the drowsy shreds of languor. Her father was dead. He lay deep within the ground, trapped forever in the darkness. She would never hear his rumbling voice, or kiss his bearded cheek, or find comfort in his gentle presence again. She was alone in the world, a prisoner and an outcast, feared and despised because she had been branded a murderess and a witch. For a moment the pain was unbearable. She squeezed her eyes shut and curled into a ball, feeling small and afraid, like a helpless child. She wanted to fall asleep again and awaken to find that the bitter realities of her life were nothing but a hideous dream.

But her mind was sharp and her body restless, rendering slumber impossible. The sounds of the MacDunns going about their day slowly penetrated her despair. She had to remain strong, she reminded herself. She would never escape this place and have vengeance on Robert if she allowed herself to crumble. That realization enabled her to master her anguish as she threw back her covers and padded across the cool stone floor to the window. The sun was burning through the last gauzy veils of mist shrouding the mountains, telling her that the morning was advanced and the day was certain to be a fine one.

She filled the stone basin hewn into the wall of the tower with cold water from a jug that had been left in her chamber and quickly washed her face and hands. Then she dressed in her drab gray gown, deciding the crimson one was too fine a garment to wear during the day. Until her escape tonight she must act as if she were reconciled to her situation, and that meant assuming her duties as healer to David. Although sleeveless and singed, her gray gown was still serviceable and seemed a more appropriate choice for the work of tending a severely ill child. She searched through the chest at the foot of the bed and found a comb, which she dragged impatiently through the tangles in her hair. She had no ribbon or scrap of cord to tie it back, so she left it to fall where it might, indifferent to the matter of her appearance.

She climbed down the narrow tower staircase and headed straight for young David’s chamber, praying her sickly charge hadn’t died during the night. The stench of burning herbs filled her nostrils as she approached, and the air grew heavy and warm. On reaching his door, she hesitated, preparing for the confrontation she would surely face if Elspeth was with the lad. Reminding herself that she was caring for the boy by MacDunn’s order, she rapped firmly on the door. No one answered, but she heard a muffled cough. Encouraged by the fact that David might be alone, she lifted the latch and entered the dark room.

The fire was blazing away, and the containers of herbs were smoldering thicker than ever, rendering the hot, dank air almost noxious. Clearly someone had been there earlier that morning tending these things, but David was alone at the moment, lying forlornly beneath a crush of heavy blankets and animal skins. He was hacking and coughing against his pillow, sounding as if every hoarse breath might be his last. Anger streaked through Gwendolyn, obliterating her melancholy. She might not have much experience in healing, but she could certainly see when a child was suffering. Blinking against the stinging smoke, she managed a smile.

“Good morning, David,” she called cheerfully, heading straight for the windows. “My goodness, one would almost think your room was on fire, the smoke is so thick. Let’s see if we can’t clear it.”

She threw open the wooden shutters to all three windows, flooding the dingy room with light. Fresh air blew in with a soft gust, whirling the smoke around as it chased it out of the chamber.

David eyed her fearfully from the bed. “Elspeth and Robena won’t like that.”

“Probably not,” Gwendolyn agreed. “But don’t you hate lying in the dark breathing that horrible air all the time? I know I would.”

He hesitated, as if uncertain how to answer. “Elspeth says it is good for me, and my father says I must heed Elspeth.” He began to cough again.

“Well, that is about to change.” She picked up an iron rod beside the fire and poked at the logs to separate them, reducing their hot blaze. “If Elspeth’s methods are certain, then why are you so ill?”

“God gave me a weak constitution—like my mother.”

He said it tonelessly, with neither anger nor self-pity. Gwendolyn suspected this explanation for his failing health had been drummed into him from the time he was very young.

“Is that all?” she scoffed. “For a moment I thought it was something serious. If weakness is what ails you, then we must work on making you strong. But I cannot see how you will get better lying in the dark, breathing foul air that would fell even the heartiest of warriors.”

She proceeded to carry the smoldering jars of herbs out into the hallway. By the time the last container was removed, the warm breeze puffing through the windows had almost cleared the chamber, and David’s coughing had subsided considerably.

“Elspeth will be angry that you did that,” he warned.

“I’m sure she will be,” agreed Gwendolyn, giving him a conspiratorial smile. “But your father has asked me to help you get better, and my methods are not the same as Elspeth’s.”

His face froze. “Are you going to cast an evil spell on me?”

“What a ridiculous idea,” she scolded. If she was to care for this lad, even just for today, it was important that she gain his trust. “I’m not going to do anything of the sort, David. All I want is for you to get better.”

He studied her as she approached him, as if wondering whether or not to believe her. The room had cooled considerably, but David’s face was still beaded with sweat, and the linen of his pillow was damp. Gwendolyn lay her hand against his brow, then frowned at the mound of blankets and skins pinning him to the mattress.

“Would you like me to remove some of these blankets?”

He regarded her with surprise. “I’m very hot,” he confessed, “but Robena says I’m not allowed to disturb my coverings.”

“I will deal with Robena,” Gwendolyn told him, peeling away the heavy layers of wool and fur.

She suspected they had not been aired for weeks, for the smell of smoke and sweat and sickness clung to them. Once she had stripped the bed down to a sheet, she selected two relatively fresh blankets, which she arranged neatly over him. As she positioned his thin arms on the soft wool, she noticed one of them was bandaged with a strip of bloodstained cloth, while the other was heavily etched with small, ugly gashes at various stages of healing. These were the cuts Elspeth and the other healers had made when they bled him, she realized. She recalled Robena telling MacDunn that the boy had been bled both yesterday and the day before, to release the poisons from his body. She frowned at the marks, wondering if it was wise to bleed a child so frequently.

“There, now,” she said, giving a final tuck to the corner of the blankets. “Are you warm enough?”

He nodded.

“Good. Have you eaten anything today?”

“I’m not hungry.”

His face was gaunt and his body thin, suggesting that his illness had eroded his appetite for some time. Gwendolyn recalled MacDunn telling her that David’s affliction had begun as a stomach ailment. MacDunn had also said that the boy had had trouble keeping food in him, until finally he could scarcely eat at all.

“You cannot get better if you don’t eat,” Gwendolyn remarked, pulling a chair over to the bed and seating herself. “Your body needs food to get strong.”

The lad regarded her with weary indifference. No doubt he had been told this many times before. “I feel too sick to eat.”

“Does your stomach hurt?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does it hurt now?” she persisted, trying to better understand his symptoms.

“No.”

“Do you have pain anywhere else?”

“Sometimes.”

“Where?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders. “All over.”

Gwendolyn thought about this a moment. “Piercing pain, like an arrow shooting through you, or an overall ache?”

“An overall ache.”

“Do you ache now?”

He nodded.

“Do you ever feel any better after Elspeth has bled you?” she asked curiously.

His blue eyes widened. “I don’t want to be bled today,” he whimpered.

“I have no intention of bleeding you,” Gwendolyn quickly promised him. “I was just wondering if it has ever made you feel better.”

He shook his head. “It hurts when she cuts my arm, and I always feel sicker afterward. But Elspeth says you don’t feel the good of a bleeding right away. And I would rather be bled than purged. Being purged is awful.” He wrinkled his nose in revulsion.

Gwendolyn considered this a moment. In truth, she had no experience with bleedings and purgings, although she knew these practices were common among healers. But the hatch marks on David’s arm indicated he had been bled often. If his condition hadn’t improved in spite of this, and if it made the poor lad feel even sicker, then why continue to do it?

“I don’t think you should be bled again for a while,” she decided. “But your body cannot get well if you do not eat, so that is something you must try to do, whether you are hungry or not.”

“Eating makes me feel worse,” he protested.

“But eventually it will make you feel better,” she countered. “So when you eat you must think of all the things you love to do when you are well, like riding and swimming, and spending the day hiking in the mountains.”

“I’m not allowed to do those things.”

“You’re not?” she said, amazed. “Why not?”

“I’m not allowed to tire myself.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have a weak constitution,” he repeated. “Like my mother.”

“I see,” said Gwendolyn, although in fact she did not. From the time she was a little girl, she and her father would find happiness in the pine scent of the woods, or the bracing feel of a cold wind blasting against a mountain. Her father had loved the glorious beauty of nature and encouraged Gwendolyn to know it and embrace it as a friend. Perhaps he foresaw that as she got older, she would have no friends among her clan.

“Well, then, what things do you enjoy doing?”

David thought for a moment. “I like listening to stories.”

“So do I,” Gwendolyn admitted enthusiastically, pleased that they shared this in common. “My father was a wonderful storyteller. When I was a little girl we would sit together by the fire and he would tell me tales about terrible dragons and savage warriors. Does your father do that?”

“My father is laird.”

Gwendolyn regarded him blankly.

“A laird has many duties to his clan,” he elaborated. “He doesn’t have time for telling stories.”

She supposed that might be true. “Then who tells them to you?”

“My mother used to. Before she got sick and went to live in heaven. And Elspeth does, sometimes,” he added. “But hers are not the same.”

No, thought Gwendolyn acidly, I’m sure they’re not.

“If you like, while I am here, I will tell you stories,” she offered.

A spark of pleasure lit his eyes. “Really?”

“Most of the stories I know are scary, though,” she qualified, sensing this would appeal to him.

“I like scary stories,” he assured her eagerly.

Gwendolyn cast him a doubtful look. “Are you sure? I don’t know. Maybe I should just tell you the one about the beautiful princess who lived in a magnificent pink flower, with petals as soft as feathers—”

“That’s a story for girls,” interrupted David, rolling his eyes in disgust.

“You can’t be certain of that,” Gwendolyn chided, feigning offense. “Maybe the princess gets swallowed up by a giant rat who chews her into little bloody pieces.”

That idea seemed to please him. “Does she?”

“Of course not. Princesses are never killed. That’s the rule.”

“And that’s why it’s a story for girls,” grumbled David. “Or babies.”

“I can see you are not going to be easy to please,” Gwendolyn observed, sighing. “What kind of story would you like?”

“Tell me a story with a monster in it,” he suggested.

“Very well.” She thought for a moment. “My father used to tell me a really terrifying one about a great, black monster who was bigger than this castle. His teeth were long and sharp, like a thousand jagged swords—”

“What are you trying to do,” demanded an infuriated voice, “kill the lad?”

Startled, Gwendolyn looked up to see Elspeth standing in the doorway holding a tray, her face twisted in outrage.

“How dare you open these windows—don’t you realize a draft could kill him? Close them at once!”

Gwendolyn remained seated, regarding Elspeth coolly. “Laird MacDunn has entrusted me with his son’s care, Elspeth,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Thank you for bringing up his tray. You may leave it on the table.”

Elspeth stared at her a moment, speechless with disbelief. She recovered her tongue quickly enough, however. “I will not let you do this,” she snapped, banging the tray down on the table and stalking over to the windows. “You have been told the boy must be kept warm—”

“Your methods have not cured him, Elspeth,” Gwendolyn pointed out, rising to face her. Although she had no direct experience with healing, she had studied her mother’s notes extensively. Her mother had been a skilled healer, and she never advocated entombing someone in a hot, foul-smelling room as a cure for illness. “From now on, David’s room is to have light and fresh air,” Gwendolyn instructed. “And there will be no more jars of burning herbs left in here.”

If she had suggested David be dropped stark naked into an icy well, she did not think Elspeth could have looked more appalled.

“I will speak to MacDunn about this, witch,” Elspeth vowed. “I will not stand by and let you kill the lad for your own evil purposes—”

“Go ahead and speak to MacDunn,” Gwendolyn interrupted. “And he will tell you that I am in charge of David’s care and that you must heed my instructions.”

In truth she was not entirely certain about that. MacDunn might find her methods questionable and decide to side with Elspeth. But this was not a moment to show doubt or weakness.

Elspeth’s small, dark eyes narrowed. “We shall see,” she declared ominously, then hurried from the room.

Gwendolyn forced a smile to her lips and turned to David, who was staring at her in awe.

“I’ve never seen Elspeth so angry,” he murmured.

“She won’t stay angry for long,” Gwendolyn replied dismissively, trying to alleviate his concern. She was accustomed to the contempt of others and did not let Elspeth’s animosity trouble her.

“Now, let’s see if we can’t get some of this food into you while I finish my story,” she said, picking up the tray.

David shook his head. “I’m not hungry.” He closed his eyes.

Gwendolyn set the tray down and went over to him. The boy still looked pale and ill, but he seemed more comfortable now that he was no longer sweating beneath his coverings or choking on foul air. She reached out and gently brushed a damp lock of hair off his brow. He was warm, but he did not seem as feverish as he had been when she touched his face yesterday.

Encouraged by that, she sat in the chair and prepared to watch over him as he slept, feeling strangely protective of her helpless charge.

         

“She is going to kill him!”

“She is the devil’s spawn!”

“You must stop her, MacDunn, before it is too late!”

Alex pressed his fingers hard against his pounding temple and sighed.

He had spent most of the day training his men and inspecting the defenses of the castle. The MacSweens could attack at any time, and it was his duty to ensure that his clan and holding were secure. The MacSweens were a formidable enemy, but like any attacking army, they were finite and tangible. Unlike sickness and disease, they could be anticipated and, with adequate preparation and training, ultimately vanquished. It had felt good to focus his attention on the complex logistics of battle and defense. The fortification of his home had demanded his full concentration, and therefore freed his mind, however fleetingly, from the anguish of contemplating his dying son.

After leading his men in a grueling session of training, Alex had ridden hard across his lands for several hours, trying to escape all thoughts of David, especially the unbearable helplessness he felt each time he laid eyes upon the suffering lad. He had ridden high into the heather-caped mountain that had been Flora’s favorite. When he reached the crest, he flung himself down from his horse and fell onto his knees, his breathing ragged and his despair almost overwhelming. Once he had mastered his emotions, he stretched out on his back and stared at the sky, taking some comfort from the knowledge that Flora was watching him. He talked to her awhile, and although she did not answer him, he found her silent company soothing. When the blue sky above him turned smoky orange, he mounted his horse and thundered toward the black fortress of his home. He sensed his calm was brittle, and so he rode hard, trying to exhaust himself so that when he returned to the castle he could simply retire to his chamber and escape into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Instead he entered his home to find this wildly agitated gathering of clan members, eagerly waiting to tell him that Gwendolyn was in the process of murdering his son.

“She waved her arms and the windows flew open, filling the chamber with freezing air,” continued Elspeth, flailing her fleshless arms around as she re-created the scene for her deliciously horrified audience. “Then she blew softly into the hearth, like so…” she puckered her thin lips into a tiny, dark hole, “and the enormous fire roaring in it was instantly extinguished, just like that.” She snapped her fingers for effect, startling everyone.

“Dear God,” murmured Robena, glancing anxiously at Alex.

“I fell on my knees and begged her to stop,” Elspeth went on, her voice rising to a wail. She refrained from actually falling to her knees as she said this, but did clap her bony hands together to demonstrate how she had pleaded. “I told her the poor lad would surely die from the bitter cold, and asked how could she not take pity on such an innocent soul? And the witch just laughed a terrible, wicked laugh, and told me to get out or she would kill me, too!” She made a quick slicing motion across her throat.

Alex leaned back in his chair and continued to massage his temple, idly wondering how much worse his headache could become. Already it felt like someone was hacking at his skull with an ax.

“Don’t forget about how she stripped poor David of all his blankets, leaving him to lie naked and shivering on the bed,” prodded Robena.

“And how she cast a spell causing the containers of burning herbs to fly out the windows, so that nothing could keep her from doing the devil’s work!” added Marjorie.

Alex raised a skeptical brow.

“After hearing about her devilish ways, I went upstairs to confront the witch myself,” began Lachlan, assuming control of the narrative. “But as I stood outside the chamber door, I could hear a dreadful moaning sound, like a thousand tortured souls screaming in agony.”

Owen frowned. “Do forgive, Lachlan, but you never mentioned that to me,” he objected. “You just said you could hear something, but you weren’t sure what it was.”

“That’s because I didn’t want to frighten you,” snapped Lachlan, irritated at having his account contested. “Had I told you everything, you would have run screaming from this castle, never to return.”

“I most certainly would not!” huffed Owen, indignant. “It takes more than a few ghostly cries to frighten an old warrior like me! Why, I’d have fetched my sword and told the witch to cease her nonsense at once or I would be forced to slice her to pieces.”

“You can’t slice a witch to pieces,” Reginald objected. “Their bodies are like iron.”

“If you prick them with a needle, they don’t bleed,” supplied Marjorie. “And they don’t feel any pain.”

“That’s only if you prick them where the devil has left his mark,” qualified Garrick, who was one of Alex’s younger warriors. “But sometimes that mark is invisible,” he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, “so you have to prick them all over.”

“The only way to destroy them is to burn them,” said Ewan, another of Alex’s men.

“It seems a shame to burn the lass,” Owen reflected sadly. “She’s very comely.”

“Perhaps we should just send her back to the MacSweens and let them burn her,” suggested Reginald.

“I haven’t finished telling my story,” complained Lachlan.

Alex sighed.

“Let’s see, now—there was the moaning of a thousand tortured souls…” Lachlan muttered, trying to remember where he was, “oh, yes, and then the witch began to chant, in a low, ghastly voice that sounded nothing like her own. And that’s when I knew Satan himself possessed her and I had best get away before he decided to come after me as well!”

The clan members nodded sympathetically, clearly thinking Lachlan had done all he could.

“Is that everything?” inquired Alex blandly, wondering just how much of this nonsense he was expected to believe.

“Not quite,” said Robena, anxiously twisting the linen square she held. “A short while ago Gwendolyn came down and ordered that a bathing tub be carried into David’s room and filled with water. Garrick and Ewan were afraid to disobey her, so they saw to it.”

Alex straightened, suddenly concerned. “Does she not understand how dangerous a bath could be for him?”

“I told her that plunging the lad into freezing water would kill him,” said Elspeth. “But she just laughed and said you had given her the power to do as she wished with him.”

Alex stormed across the hall, the pounding in his head all but forgotten as he went to see just what the hell this witch was doing to his son.

         

“…Oh, great ruler of the darkness, I offer as a sacrifice this innocent soul, if you will in turn reward me with your unearthly powers—”

Alex roared with rage and charged into the chamber, flashing his sword menacingly before him.

Gwendolyn and David regarded him in startled bewilderment.

“Good evening, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn managed, trying to steady the terrified pounding of her heart. “Is something wrong?”

Alex regarded her blankly.

She was kneeling on the floor beside a metal tub, her hands buried in a whipped froth of lather as she gently washed David’s hair. His son’s thin cheeks were rosy from the heat of the steaming water, and the lad’s gaze was remarkably bright and alert. Warm summer air gusted through the open windows, but the tub had been carefully positioned before a crackling fire in the hearth, ensuring that David was in no danger of getting chilled. Silver puddles of water sparkled against the stone floor, and Gwendolyn’s black hair and ragged gown were damp, suggesting that there had been some playful splashing before Alex entered. No hint of sickness or misery fouled the air, instead the room smelled wonderfully clean and fresh, like soap and flowers. Every surface had been scrubbed, and small vases bearing colorful blossoms had been arranged throughout the room. The bed had been moved from the far corner of the chamber over to the windows, where David could study the stars at night and feel sunlight graze his face in the morning.

“I—I came to see if all was well,” Alex stammered, feeling like an idiot.

“Gwendolyn is telling me a story about an evil sorcerer who turns himself into a dragon and tries to burn up a kingdom,” David reported, peering at his father over the rim of the tub.

“Really?” Alex sheathed his sword, then stole a sheepish glance at Gwendolyn. Her expression had cooled, telling him she had guessed why he had charged in here waving his weapon like a madman.

“Perhaps you would like to stay and listen to the end of the story,” she invited politely.

Alex hesitated. A palpable change had fallen over the room. It was as if Gwendolyn and David had been safely ensconced in their own private little world and he had cracked it open and blasted them with freezing air. For a moment the need to stay and be a part of it was almost overwhelming. But he was acutely aware of the fact that he was an outsider. Alex had never been actively involved in his son’s physical care. He had certainly never participated in something as intimate as his bathing. And storytelling was a recreation for women and children, he reminded himself impatiently, not for a laird who had the welfare of his entire clan weighing heavily on his shoulders.

“I have a number of urgent matters I must attend to,” he assured them, although at that precise moment he could not think of one. “I merely wanted to see how my son was faring.”

Gwendolyn nodded. She was certain the clan had been downstairs filling MacDunn’s head with all kinds of dreadful tales about what she was doing to the lad. The surprise on MacDunn’s face when he stood staring at them indicated he had expected to find the child half dead.

“Gwendolyn says I can watch the stars from my bed,” David chirped, breaking the awkward silence. “She says the stars have special healing powers that will help me get better. And she says my mother is up there, watching over me as I sleep.”

Alex looked at Gwendolyn with uneasy surprise. Did she know he studied the sky each night, searching for Flora’s star? That he desperately clung to the belief that his wife’s spirit was all around him, watching over him? Had she guessed the root of his madness?

She returned his gaze steadily, her gray eyes veiled, betraying no hint of her thoughts.

“He must not stay in the bath too long,” Alex said gruffly, feeling ill-at-ease. “He might get cold.”

“Are you ready to come out, David?” Gwendolyn asked.

“I guess so.”

“Lean into my arms, then,” she instructed, easing him back, “so I can rinse your hair.”

Alex watched as his son lay in the cradle of Gwendolyn’s arms and allowed her to pour a jug of fresh water over his head. She handled the lad tenderly, taking care that no soap slipped into his eyes and making sure that the dark slick of his hair was well rinsed before she helped him out of the tub. David looked as thin and fragile as a twig when he stood on the floor and let Gwendolyn wrap a warm towel around him. He was too weak to stand without her support.

Alex’s heart clenched.

“I wish to speak with you in my chamber,” Alex informed her. “Once you have the lad dried and settled in his bed.”

“Very well.” Gwendolyn playfully draped a second towel over David’s head so that he was completely cloaked in fabric. “Why—where did he go?” she sputtered, sounding completely bewildered. “That’s very strange. I know he was here just an instant ago—do you see him, MacDunn?”

Alex frowned. He was totally unfamiliar with the games of children and had no idea how to respond.

“David, you’re being very naughty,” Gwendolyn scolded with mock severity. “Stop being invisible at once.”

A muffled giggle emanated from the ghostly little figure standing before her.

The unexpected, sparkling sound filled Alex with such emotion that he turned and fled the chamber—for it was a sound that he had long forgotten, and never imagined to hear again.

         

Gwendolyn knocked hesitantly on the scarred wood.

“Enter.”

Inhaling deeply, she lifted the latch and stepped inside.

MacDunn’s chamber was large, as befitted a laird, but it was dimly lit and sparsely furnished, suggesting its occupant either enjoyed austerity or took little notice of his physical surroundings. A massive bed of dark wood occupied one end, which had no doubt been specially constructed to accommodate MacDunn’s unusual height. There was a small table beside the bed, bearing a candelabra, and a simply carved chest for MacDunn’s belongings positioned at its foot. A more substantial table and a heavy chair occupied the center of the room, on which a few more candles wavered. MacDunn himself stood before an enormous hearth of roughly hewn stone, his hands clasped behind his back as he contemplated the low fire spilling golden light into the chamber. There were no tapestries gracing the walls to add color to the room or warm the stone, but there were several large windows framing the silver-flecked night. Perhaps, Gwendolyn reflected, the view of the mountains and the sky during the day was sufficient to mitigate the oppressively dreary environment.

“You wished to speak with me?”

“I want to discuss your assessment of my son’s condition,” Alex murmured, his gaze still locked on the fire. “As you may be aware, some members of the clan have…” he paused, searching for the appropriate word, “misgivings about your methods of treatment.”

“And what about you, MacDunn?” Gwendolyn challenged sharply. “Do you believe I am intentionally causing your son harm by giving him fresh air and light?”

“Not intentionally, no,” Alex replied. “Your freedom depends upon my son’s recovery, therefore you have nothing to gain by his suffering. But David’s health is extremely delicate. The healers who have attended him in the past have been vigilant about protecting him from all sources of cold and draft, assuring me his lungs and chest could not endure the strain of a chill.”

“And these healers have not cured David, have they?”

“No,” he admitted. “But they have kept him alive through horrendous bouts of illness, when there was every indication that he would die.”

“Perhaps,” Gwendolyn allowed. “Or perhaps David survived in spite of their treatments.”

Alex turned and regarded her curiously. “Is that what you believe?” The thought had occurred to him many times, but he had never voiced it.

“I don’t know,” Gwendolyn answered. “The air in David’s chamber was hot and foul and thick with smoke. I cannot see how anyone could lie imprisoned in such a haze for weeks on end and not be sickened by it. I also fail to see how it can possibly be healthy for a child to be deprived of fresh air and sunlight for extended periods of time.”

“His previous healers said he was too weak to endure the impurities that exist in outside air,” Alex explained. “By keeping his room sealed and burning various herbs, the air was kept warm and purified, and the constant darkness enabled him to rest.”

Gwendolyn snorted with contempt. “The air was stale and corrupt. Even I could barely tolerate it, and I am far stronger than David. Having spent time in a dungeon, I can attest to the fact that perpetual darkness rapidly weakens both the body and the spirit.”

Alex studied her in silence. He could find no indication that the woman standing before him suffered from anything akin to a frail spirit. Her tattered gray gown clung loosely to her slender frame, its dampness accentuating both her feminine curves and the exquisite delicacy of her. Her hair was spilling in ebony ripples over her thin shoulders and down her pale arms. He found himself remembering how selflessly she tore off her sleeves to bind his chest, after stitching him closed with her own hair. He knew for a fact that her appetite was poor and her body excessively thin. He did not know whether she had always been like this or whether the trauma of her father’s death and her subsequent arrest had reduced her to this state. Whatever the cause, she looked as if she would snap beneath the force of a stiff gust of wind. And yet, incredibly, a powerful strength emanated from her as she stood there facing him. It was a strength of conviction and courage, and he found himself both fascinated and aroused by it.

Desire pounded through him, clouding his mind and interrupting his thoughts. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to draw her into the fold of his arms and press himself against her, to hold her fragile form tight as he hungrily kissed the sweetness of her mouth, the silk of her cheek, the enticing hollow at the base of her throat. They were alone in his chamber. He could easily take her. She was his prisoner, alive only because he had torn her from the jaws of death. No one would question his right to bed her if he chose. And he knew he could make her want him, for he had felt the same hunger burning in her when he had kissed her before. He thought of her cradling his son, holding him with tender strength as she poured warm water over his hair, remembering how the soapy stream washed across her slick flesh. And suddenly Alex wanted to caress her there, on the velvet cream of her arms, to run his rough palms down the length of them and drag his tongue languidly over the soft, clean skin.

Gwendolyn regarded MacDunn uneasily, flustered by the intensity of his gaze. She had seen this look before, and the memory quickened her breathing and heated her blood. She was vaguely aware of the fact that she should speak, or move, or do something to shatter the charged stillness, but her throat was dry and her body leaden, rendering action impossible. MacDunn moved toward her with slow, sure purpose. Gwendolyn shivered, not because she was afraid, but because she remembered what it was like to be crushed against the muscular wall of his body. MacDunn reached out and laid his hands on the bare skin of her shoulders, his touch searing her cool flesh. Gwendolyn stared at him helplessly, mesmerized by the painful need burning in his gaze. He languidly drew his palms down the slender length of her arms, then wrapped his powerful fingers around the narrow bones of her wrist, chaining her to him. The amber pulse of the fire flickered around him, sculpting the hard lines of his face in shadows and light, and turning his hair to gold. He seemed achingly beautiful to Gwendolyn in that moment, like a magnificent pagan god who had somehow fallen to earth. His grip was just on the threshold of bruising, as if he feared she might suddenly try to flee, but she kept her arms still and regarded him steadily, betraying not the slightest hint of fear.

And so he bent his golden head over the softness of her inner arm, inhaled deeply, and tasted her with his tongue.

A low, feline sound curled up the back of her throat as MacDunn caressed her with his hot, wet touch. He dragged his tongue up the length of her arm, then lifted her hair so he could rain hungry kisses along the smooth curve of her neck and jaw. Now that her wrists were free, Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around his massive shoulders, clinging to him for support as he roughly captured her lips with his. He tasted her with urgent possessiveness, stealing her breath away as he plundered the deepest recesses of her mouth. His hands began to roam her back, her shoulders, her hips, touching her and tasting her and drawing her further into his embrace, until she was pressed intimately against the hard length of him, separated only by the thin barrier of their clothes.

Somewhere in a corner of her mind Gwendolyn was vaguely aware that this was wrong, that she was a prisoner and he a mad laird, but an incredible need had veiled her perception, so that nothing made sense except the wine-sweet taste of MacDunn’s mouth, the rough feel of his jaw scraping her cheek, and the shifting ripple of his muscular back beneath her fingers. She was MacDunn’s prisoner, yes, but in this moment no more so than he was hers, for she could feel the desperate yearning in his touch, and knew that somehow he did not want to want her. And that made their forbidden kiss hotter and darker, because the deeper he tasted her, the more she desired him, until finally her fingers were threaded in the thickness of his hair and she was pulling him down onto the softness of his bed. MacDunn growled with pleasure as she hungrily returned his kiss; then he wrenched his mouth away so he could nibble on her chin, her neck, the delicate bones at the base of her throat. He lowered his head to the lush swell at the neckline of her gown and caressed it with his tongue, sending a shiver of fire through her.

A sudden pounding at the door made her gasp.

“MacDunn, you must come quickly!” called Elspeth, her voice shrill.

Alex inhaled deeply, but remained stretched over Gwendolyn, fighting to regain his senses. “What is it, Elspeth?”

“ ’Tis David, m’lord,” she reported anxiously. “The lad has taken horribly ill. That witch has cast some evil spell on the wee thing, and I don’t know how to save him!”

The smoky languor in Alex’s blue eyes froze. Without a word, he rolled off Gwendolyn and raced to the door.

         

Gwendolyn hurried into David’s chamber just behind MacDunn and Elspeth, and found the poor child retching violently into the chamber pot Marjorie was holding for him. He had vomited all over his fresh bedclothes, and his dinner tray had been knocked to the floor, suggesting this attack had come on without warning. Robena was busy closing the shutters, and the sour smell of sickness was rapidly permeating the air.

“You evil witch—see what you have done to him?” hissed Elspeth. “I told you your ways would make him ill!”

Gwendolyn stared at David in shaken bewilderment. When she had left him alone just moments ago, he had been weak and tired, but relatively well. Now he was hunched over the bed, whimpering pitifully as he struggled to catch his breath. What could have brought on such an attack? Was it possible that the cool air and warm bath had been a shock to his delicate constitution and had therefore induced this reaction? The thought filled her with guilt. If her inexpert ministrations had reduced David to this awful state, then she should confess to her ignorance now and relinquish all responsibility for his care. Not because she feared MacDunn would punish her if the boy died—which the laird surely would—but because she could not bear the thought of being responsible for David’s suffering.

“God alone knows what foul brew she has tainted his body with,” railed Elspeth as she reached under David’s bed and withdrew a small wooden box. Its surface was battered and heavily scratched, suggesting long years of regular use. “The devil’s work is as vile as it is powerful.” She set the box upon the table by David’s bed and opened it. “But I am not afraid to fight you,” she assured Gwendolyn, withdrawing a small, black-stained blade. “I will not let you steal this lad’s innocent soul.”

Gwendolyn watched helplessly as Elspeth bent over David’s arm and began to slice through the fresh bandage Gwendolyn had carefully wrapped around it after his bath. She did not want Elspeth to bleed the child, but she was unsure how she could stop her. It was clear everyone in the chamber believed Gwendolyn had deliberately caused David this torment. But the lad had been suffering these violent bouts of illness long before she came here, she reminded herself desperately. David’s chronic inability to retain food was the reason he was wasting away. It was entirely possible this episode was directly related to his illness and had nothing whatsoever to do with her care. Whatever the cause of his sudden vomiting, it was certainly not due to her tainting his body with evil spells and potions, as Elspeth seemed to believe. Therefore Gwendolyn could not see how bleeding the already weak child could possibly help him. David had told her he hated being bled and that he always felt sicker afterward. Determined to protect him from unnecessary suffering, she took a step forward and declared in a low, firm voice, “You will not bleed him, Elspeth.”

Elspeth hesitated over the half-peeled bandage and regarded her in astonishment. “How dare you try to give me an order! Do you think I will stand by and just watch him die?”

Gathering the frayed remnants of her confidence, Gwendolyn went over to the tub, wrung out a cloth in the tepid water, then moved purposefully toward the bed. “Thank you for tending David in my absence, Marjorie,” she said stiffly. “I will look after him now.”

Marjorie gripped the pot she was holding for David and glanced uncertainly at Elspeth.

“You won’t go near him again, witch!” screeched Elspeth. “You’ve done enough devil’s work already!”

“Perhaps it would be best if you left, Gwendolyn,” suggested Robena, eyeing her coldly from her position near the windows.

Refusing to be intimidated, Gwendolyn ignored Robena and met Elspeth’s hostile gaze. “MacDunn,” she said, her voice remarkably even, “did you not bring me here to see if I could heal your son?”

A taut silence fell over the chamber, punctuated only by the thin sound of David’s whimpering.

“I did,” Alex admitted.

“Then tell these women to stand aside, so I can continue with my work.”

There was a long, frozen moment in which Elspeth, Robena, and Marjorie regarded him expectantly. It was clear from their expressions that they believed he would settle the matter by ordering Gwendolyn to leave. Which, Alex had to admit, was his initial inclination.

He had been horrified to come in here and find his son so hideously ill. In that first moment, the possibility that Gwendolyn was responsible for David’s condition had filled him with blinding rage. But when Alex looked at her, he had seen that her gray eyes were wide with dismay as she watched David suffer. It was hardly the look he would have expected from a witch who was purposely trying to harm his son. If Gwendolyn had somehow instigated this attack, she had done so unwittingly, he realized. Further reflection reminded him that episodes like this one, as appalling as they were, had not been uncommon for the lad these past few months. The ugly, raw slash marks scarring his thin little arms were testament to that. Therefore it was possible Gwendolyn’s unconventional methods of healing were not the cause of his son’s current condition.

But what if they were?

“Laird MacDunn is not fooled by your lies, witch,” Elspeth announced, interpreting Alex’s silence as a victory for her. She removed a small, filthy basin from her box and positioned it beneath David’s arm.

A faint mewl of protest came from his son, piercing Alex’s indecision.

“Your concern for my son’s welfare pleases me, Elspeth,” he began. “I know you want nothing more than for David to be strong and well…”

Elspeth cast a triumphant look at Gwendolyn, her tarnished blade poised over David’s arm.

“…which is why I must ask you to stand aside.”

Elspeth’s expression dissolved into stunned disbelief.

“Really, Alex, you can’t mean that,” protested Robena. “Just look at the lad!”

David’s retching had ceased for the moment, and he had collapsed weakly against his pillow. The warm blush Alex had witnessed earlier when Gwendolyn was bathing his son had vanished, leaving the lad’s sunken cheeks even paler than the linen upon which his damp hair rested. His breath was coming in tiny, shallow puffs, as if it hurt to draw in more air than was absolutely necessary. At that moment, it was difficult to believe the boy could possibly survive the night.

If he dies, Alex thought, so will I.

Alex lifted his gaze to Gwendolyn. Her expression was contained, but he sensed that was because she chose to guard her emotions in front of the others in the chamber. A small crowd of clan members had gathered just outside the door. They were watching him in silent dismay, no doubt thinking his order was yet another indication that their laird was truly mad.

She is a condemned witch and a murderess, Alex reminded himself harshly. My son’s life means nothing to her. If she could somehow benefit from his death, she would not hesitate to kill him.

But he found himself recalling the tenderness of Gwendolyn’s touch as she held his son in her arms, the softness of her voice as she spoke lightly to him, the gentle concern that seemed to infiltrate her very being when she was with the lad. Alex stared at the dark blade poised over David’s bloodless arm, and struggled with his decision. He was a warrior and a laird, not a healer. He could not pretend to know about the wisdom of cool air and baths, or foul potions and stinking hot air and endless bleedings.

All he knew for certain was that his son was dying and no one had been able to save him.

“You women stand aside,” he commanded, praying to God he was not making the wrong choice, “and offer Gwendolyn whatever assistance she may require.”

Everyone stared at him, dumbfounded. Even Gwendolyn appeared startled.

“I implore you, Laird MacDunn,” pleaded Elspeth, “you must not let this devil’s whore near him!”

“I have given you an order, Elspeth.”

She clutched her small blade in her fist and regarded him helplessly.

“Really, Alex, you must listen to reason,” protested Robena.

“I am not accustomed to having my orders challenged, Robena. If you do not wish to assist Gwendolyn, then you may leave.” His voice was dangerously low.

Robena opened her mouth as if to argue further, then apparently thought better of it and clamped it shut.

“I will not stay and be part of this,” Elspeth said, her voice shaking. She tossed her bloodstained knife and basin back into the box and hurried toward the door. “May God have mercy on the poor lad’s soul.”

“What about you, Robena?” demanded Alex. “Do you choose to stay and assist Gwendolyn, or leave?”

Robena did not hesitate. Humiliated by Alex’s brusqueness in front of other members of the clan, she picked up her skirts and quit the chamber.

“You may also leave, Marjorie,” Alex offered.

“If I may, MacDunn,” Marjorie began, still holding David’s chamber pot, “I would like to stay and help.”

A gasp of surprise erupted from the clan members crowded in the corridor.

Alex nodded. “Gwendolyn, tell Marjorie what you require and she will see to it.”

Gwendolyn thought quickly. “A fresh set of bedclothes and a nightshirt,” she began, anxious to have David clean and comfortable once more. “That chamber pot should be emptied and rinsed out very well, and I would like a pitcher of clean drinking water and a cup. I will also need a new length of linen to bind his arm again.”

Marjorie immediately left to see to these things.

Alex watched as Gwendolyn went to his son and gently began to wipe his face with her warm cloth. “There, now, David,” she murmured, her voice soothing. “I need you to sit up a little so I can take off your nightshirt,” she instructed as she peeled back the soiled bedding.

David moaned weakly. Gwendolyn eased him up into her arms, then held him steady as she gently began to remove the garment. Suddenly she hesitated. “I believe your son is entitled to some privacy, MacDunn,” she said, glancing at the crowded doorway.

Her concern for the boy’s modesty surprised him. None of David’s previous healers had thought anything of exposing him naked before an audience, perhaps believing him too ill to either know or care. But David was ten, and although he might be too sick to protest, he was certainly old enough to feel embarrassed before a gaping crowd of onlookers.

“Return to your business,” Alex ordered, moving toward the door. “You will be informed if there is any change in my son’s condition.”

With obvious reluctance, the clan dispersed. MacDunn cast a final glance as Gwendolyn pulled off David’s shirt. The lad’s shoulders and ribs were tautly covered with milky white skin. If this sickness didn’t kill him soon, then his son would simply die of starvation. Unable to bear the thought, he retreated into the corridor and closed the door.

Marjorie returned a few minutes later to help Gwendolyn finish stripping the bed, then took away the soiled linens. Once David was lying comfortably beneath clean sheets, Gwendolyn gave him some water to rinse his mouth and bound his injured arm once more. She then added more wood to the fire and opened one of the shuttered windows, inviting sweeter air into the chamber.

“How do you feel, David?” she asked softly, moving toward the bed.

He did not answer. His wan face lay pressed against the pillow, and his breath was coming in deep, slow pulses, telling her he had fallen asleep. Whatever had caused his terrible bout of vomiting seemed to have passed, for the moment at least. Gwendolyn brushed a silky curl of red hair off his forehead. His brow was cool and dry. It was not fever, then, that had reduced him to this pitiful state. She thought she should try to get him to drink some water to replace the fluid his body had lost, but decided it could wait until he awakened. Given how unexpectedly this attack had come on, she did not want to leave his side, in case he suddenly became ill again. She also feared Elspeth might decide that she knew better than her laird when it came to healing, and return to secretly bleed David when he was unattended. Unwilling to permit such an assault, she dragged her chair closer to the bed, sat down, and lay her warm hand protectively over his slender fingers, preparing to watch over her charge through the night.

         

Darkness had thickened to a charcoal cape as Alex slowly made his way along the corridor to his son’s room. There was only one surviving torch to illuminate the grim passage, and its oily flicker was leaking a shallow pool of red-orange light onto the stone floor. He was not surprised to find the corridor empty. He had given an order to his clan, and although they might question his grip on his senses, they still respected him enough to obey.

If David died, his senses would abandon him completely and he would no longer warrant that respect.

He paused before entering the chamber, trying to summon the courage he needed to face the sight of his dying son. It had been the same with Flora, he reflected painfully. Each time he had gone to visit her, he hesitated outside her door, begging God to have miraculously given her the strength to overcome her illness during his absence. He had not thought that his request was selfish. After all, Flora had been everything that was good, and pure, and fine. If for some reason a life had to be sacrificed from this castle, then it should have been his own. Alex’s life had been far from virtuous, for he was a man and a warrior, and had given little thought to his soul’s salvation when in the throes of passion and battle. Of course his clan needed him, but he had felt that if he died another would be found to act as laird while his precious wife raised his son to manhood. Flora had to live, because she was the only woman he had ever known who could love absolutely, without question or reservation, and he wanted his son to know that love. But God had ignored his pleas. Each time Alex had entered Flora’s chamber, he found her a little weaker, a little farther beyond his hold, like a shadow slipping from the last filmy threads of daylight.

How ironic that he needed this moment to muster his strength, while his son so bravely endured the constant torment of illness. Sometimes he felt he should tell the boy how unbearably proud he was of him. But he knew if he spoke to the lad with such unguarded tenderness, his heart would break completely and he would be reduced to an unstoppable flood of tears.

Better to remain silent and at least give the appearance of being strong.

He lifted the latch and cautiously eased the door open. The stench of sickness was gone, replaced by the cool breath of rain-washed air floating through the open window. Only a single candle remained burning, and the fire had waned to a glowing pile of pink and gray embers, which emitted some heat but contributed little to the dusky veil of light. Alex moved reluctantly through the gloom, dreading the sight of his child. The lad’s small form lay still beneath the neatly arranged blankets, pale and frozen, a tiny, perfect corpse laid out for burial. David did not moan or shiver, did not even cause the blankets to stir with the weak rhythm of his breathing.

He could not, because he was dead.

Grief spewed up from the pit of Alex’s belly, the same raw anguish he had battled so hard the night Flora had died, when he had felt his mind snap like a dry piece of kindling. It was more than he could bear, he realized, dragging his leaden feet across the stone floor, to lose the only other person he really loved, this sickly child who was his last link to Flora. He knew his weakness was pathetic and unmanly. Life was a battlefield—there were scores of men who suffered losses far more hideous than his, yet somehow managed to get on with the grim business of their lives. But those men had not known what it was to share their life with a woman such as Flora, and therefore could have no comprehension of the gaping wound her death had left. And that wound was now torn wider, until there was nothing left that merited his struggle to hold his fractured mind together.

Gwendolyn had fallen asleep in a chair beside David, her slender hand holding his, unaware that her patient had escaped her earthly grasp. Alex stared blankly at her, feeling none of the rage or blame he had thought he would experience if his son died while under her care. She had done what she could. Perhaps, given more time, her unorthodox methods might have helped the lad. If anyone was to be blamed, Alex realized harshly, it was himself, for waiting so long before fetching the witch and bringing her here.

A faint sigh erupted from the chalky face resting on the pillow. Startled, Alex shifted his gaze. His son regarded him with dull, glazed eyes, still overwhelmed by illness, but unmistakably alive.

“David?” Alex whispered.

David stared at him in confusion, as if struggling to recall where he was, or perhaps trying to make some sense of why his father was at his bedside in the middle of the night. Ultimately exhaustion defeated his concern. His eyelids fluttered down and he turned his head, leaving his hand securely guarded in Gwendolyn’s grasp.

Hope shot through Alex like an arrow, draining away the worst of his grief. His son was alive. He took a deep breath, cleansing himself of the fear that had nearly paralyzed him. As long as David lived, Alex could go on. He gazed restlessly about the room, feeling the need to help expedite his son’s recovery, but uncertain what he should do. The fire was too low, he decided. He carefully arranged several logs on it, then prodded them until they were wrapped in brilliant flames. Satisfied that this would keep the room adequately warm for the rest of the night, he returned to steal a final glance at his sleeping child. But it was Gwendolyn who commanded his attention as he approached.

She had huddled into the chair, with one bare arm still extended so she could hold on to David, and the other crossed tightly over her chest, as if trying to find some heat. The inky silk of her hair flowed over her shoulders and rippled down her back, but it was an insufficient cloak against the damp night breeze flowing through the open window. She looked small and vulnerable as she sat curled there, her skin nearly as ashen as his son’s, her pale brow etched into a deep line of worry. Even in sleep she found no respite, Alex realized, feeling an unbidden affinity toward her.

He removed the folded plaid at the foot of David’s bed, opened it, and gently arranged it around her, enveloping her in its soft warmth. And as he bent close and inhaled the clean, summer-sweet fragrance of her, he found himself once again overwhelmed with desire. He longed to reach out and wrap his arms around her, to lay her down on the floor and ease himself beside her and draw her close, as he had that first night she lay shivering on the ground. His body hardened as he remembered the velvety crush of her slight form pressing against him, the sweet warmth of her mouth as he plundered it with his tongue, the glorious shivering sound she made as he pressed his lips to her breast.

Appalled that he could have such lascivious thoughts in the presence of his dying son, he turned abruptly and left the room, wondering if his grip on his mind was more tenuous than he realized.