CHAPTER 6

Someone was squeezing her hand.

Gwendolyn opened her eyes. David was sleeping peacefully, his breathing steady, his cheeks and brow pale but dry. She uttered a quick prayer of thanks, because she knew his recovery had little, if anything, to do with her care.

What troubled her was the possibility that she had somehow caused his seizure, as everyone in the clan seemed to believe.

She straightened her stiff back, then gently stroked the soft skin stretched across his knuckles. It was possible, she supposed, that bathing the lad had exhausted his already weak body, or perhaps been too great a shock for his weak system. But she had been careful to keep him from getting chilled, and he had seemed frail but steady when she tucked him into his bed and left him to speak with MacDunn. What had caused David’s body to go into such a violent spasm? she wondered. She recalled telling him that he must try to eat at least a little of his dinner as she left. Evidently his attack had begun while he was eating, for the tray had been knocked to the floor when she returned. Was there some mysterious growth or poison in his body that caused him to reject his food? If so, what could she possibly do to cure it?

The first smoky ripples of morning light were filtering through the window, and rain was beating heavily outside, washing the world clean and scenting the air with the fragrance of wet earth and grass. Concerned that the chamber might become overly damp, Gwendolyn rose, then stared in confusion at the warm plaid that slid down her body and puddled onto the floor. The plaid had come from David’s bed, she realized, but she could not remember wrapping herself in it before she fell asleep. Deciding she must have been too tired to recall, she scooped it up and draped it over David, taking care not to wake him. Then she went to the fire and added more wood. Once it was burning brightly, she took another quick glance at her charge and, satisfied that he was sleeping comfortably, she stole quietly out of the room.

The castle was eerily still as she hurried along the corridor and up the steps leading to her tower chamber. She was glad she had awakened early, for she did not wish to encounter anyone until she had the opportunity to tidy herself and change her gown. The tangled black waves leaking over her shoulders suggested that her hair must look a sight, and her already soiled, tattered gray gown was now wrinkled and water-stained from the soapy splashing during David’s bath. She only had the crimson gown to change into, which seemed inordinately fine for the task of tending to David, but since she had no other garment, it would have to do.

The acrid scent of smoke greeted her as she approached the door. Gwendolyn pushed the heavy door open to find the sealed chamber choked with a gray haze. Exasperated, she went to the windows and threw them wide, then quickly scanned the room for the culprit pots of burning herbs. But the billow of smoke was coursing from the hearth. Gwendolyn approached it in bewilderment, wondering who would be considerate enough to enter her chamber so early in the morning and lay a fire, albeit a suffocating one? As she drew closer she stared at the smoldering material lying in a forlorn heap upon the logs. The fabric was charred beyond recognition, except for a small swath that had somehow managed to elude the heat and flames—a fragment of crimson wool edged in gold.

Bitter fury whipped through her. How dare the MacDunns enter her chamber and destroy one of her few precious possessions, and worse, one that their own laird had given to her? The petty meanness of such an act was abominable. She whirled toward the door, determined to find MacDunn and inform him of his clan’s contemptible behavior.

But she froze when she saw the note crudely speared to her pillow.

She moved toward it cautiously, her anger tempered by wariness. She withdrew the small wooden stake skewering a wrinkled sheaf of paper on which someone had written a message in a blunt, inelegant hand.

Make haste and leave, witch, before you suffer the unfortunate fate of your gown.

Gwendolyn fought to stifle the panic swelling in her chest. She knew this was no idle threat. She had been here long enough to realize that the MacDunns’ loathing of witches was even greater than that of the MacSweens. With the welfare of both their current and future lairds at risk, these people would have no qualms about lashing her to a post and setting fire to her, just as the MacSweens had done to her mother, and had tried to do to her.

What was amazing was that they were giving her warning.

The note fell to the floor, followed by the carefully whittled stake, which now seemed grotesquely appropriate. She must escape now, this morning, before these awful people had a chance to harm her. MacDunn had promised to keep her safe, but not even he could control the misguided fears of his clan. She was not guarded in the castle. It would be all too easy for someone to enter her chamber unnoticed, or capture her as she moved along a dark hallway, or slip poison into her food as it was carried from the kitchen. The methods by which she might be killed were infinite. She would not stay and give the MacDunns the opportunity to succeed where her own clan had failed.

“Oh, are you casting a spell?” asked a shy voice.

Gwendolyn inhaled sharply, trying to steady the pounding of her heart. A young woman with hair the color of darkly polished wood stood in the doorway, balancing a tray precariously before the enormous expanse of her pregnant body. Despite the rather startling roundness of her shape, Gwendolyn could tell by the slim arms holding the tray that the girl was normally quite tiny, leading her to believe that she was either carrying more than one child or the bairn was about to arrive momentarily.

“I thought you might be hungry,” the girl explained.

“I’m not,” Gwendolyn assured her tautly. Was this some ploy to poison her? Or did the MacDunns plan to drug her with some herb and then murder her as she slept?

“Well, I’ll just leave it here, then,” the girl said, waddling into the chamber and setting the tray down on a table. “It’s early yet, but you might find your insides sorely empty later.” She sighed and pressed her hand into the small of her back, massaging her aching muscles. “Why are you burning your lovely gown?” she asked, regarding the fireplace curiously. “Is it part of some ritual?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know about this!”

The girl stared at her blankly. Then she spied the note lying on the stone floor. With considerable effort, she bent down and scooped it up. “Oh,” she murmured, scanning the message.

“You MacDunns have made it clear that you don’t want me here,” Gwendolyn observed coolly. “It’s obvious you’ll do anything to be rid of me.”

“That’s true for most of the clan,” the girl agreed, not looking overly troubled by the note. “The MacDunns are afraid you mean to harm wee David, and as you can see, they’re not the kind of folk who will just stand by and watch you do it. But I don’t believe you mean the lad any suffering.”

“Oh, really?” said Gwendolyn, unconvinced.

“At first I did,” the girl confessed. “But that was before I watched you tending him last night. I knew that a woman couldn’t care for a child with such gentleness and mean him ill at the same time.”

“Everyone in the clan believed his illness last night was my fault.”

“Not everyone,” corrected the girl, easing her bulky form into a chair. Her straining gown rose slightly as she did so, revealing ankles and feet that looked uncomfortably swollen. She laced her bloated fingers together over her stomach and regarded Gwendolyn calmly. “MacDunn obviously didn’t, or he wouldn’t have let you near his son. And I didn’t. David takes ill like that all the time. He has for months now, since he first became really sick.”

Gwendolyn hesitated. The girl seemed earnest, but Gwendolyn did not know if she should believe her. It was possible she had been sent by others in the clan to gain her trust and then use it against her.

“I’ve never seen anyone stand up to Elspeth the way you did,” the girl remarked, her pretty mouth curving into a smile. “I know I’ve never had the courage to do it, though I’ve wanted to often enough.”

“You have?” Despite her determination to remain wary, Gwendolyn was actually starting to like her visitor.

“Aye,” the girl answered. “Elspeth loves nothing better than to be in command, especially when people are sick and helpless. She believes illness is either the devil’s work or a punishment from God. Whatever the reason, she says ’tis only through suffering and atonement that one can be made better. That and lots of bleedings to leech out the evil and purify the body.”

“Judging by the slashes on David’s arms, I would think the lad should be absolutely immaculate by now.”

“There’s many a time that bleeding has worked,” the girl pointed out. “But other times, when the poisons and evil have spread too far, not even a good bleeding can save a lost soul.”

She meditatively stroked her taut belly, as if soothing some ghostly pain. It was apparent to Gwendolyn that the girl spoke from experience. She found herself wondering what ailment had forced this young woman to endure Elspeth’s harsh ministrations.

“My Cameron says you have the power to take away pain,” continued the girl conversationally. “He says that on your journey here, you conjured up some spirits and asked them to soothe that scratch on his great thick head. Is that so?”

Gwendolyn stared at her in astonishment. “You’re Cameron’s wife?”

“Aye,” returned the girl, amused by Gwendolyn’s surprise. “I’m Clarinda. Most people think such a big brute of a man should be married to a giant.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “I may be small, but I’ve both the temper and the will to match wits with any man, big or scrawny. Besides, my Cameron may be a great lion of a warrior, but when it comes to his wife, he’s as gentle as a lamb.”

Gwendolyn thought back to Cameron slashing his way through Robert’s warriors as he fought to rescue her from the MacSweens. At the time she had likened him to a ferocious bear. But Clarinda was right—with that great mane of fiery hair, he was actually closer to a lion.

“So, is it true, then?” Clarinda persisted, clearly intrigued. “Can you take away pain?”

Gwendolyn hesitated. It occurred to her that Clarinda was probably worrying about the delivery of her child. Gwendolyn did not want to mislead her into thinking she could shield her from the suffering inherent to childbirth.

“Sometimes,” she replied carefully. “It depends on how severe the pain is—and my spells don’t work all the time.”

Clarinda pondered this, absently stroking her enormous belly. “That’s a wonderful power, the ability to ease suffering,” she remarked. “Especially since some healers seem only capable of inflicting more. I suppose it’s all in God’s hands, really. When He decides your time has come, He takes you, and that’s that.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but Gwendolyn detected a thread of sadness.

“Often that’s true,” she agreed, sympathetic to the girl’s fear. “But sometimes, if you fight really hard, He may change His mind and let you stay awhile longer.”

Clarinda stared silently into space. And then she suddenly blinked and gave herself a small shake, banishing whatever thoughts had induced her melancholy. “Are you hungry yet?”

Gwendolyn glanced suspiciously at the tray. The sight of cold sliced meat, dark bread, cheese, and an artfully arranged flower of apple slices suddenly reminded her of the hollowness of her stomach.

“Lachlan had no chance to slip any of his potion into it,” Clarinda assured her teasingly. “Here,” she said, helping herself to a large chunk of cheese, “I’ll take a bite myself.”

“Wait!”

Clarinda regarded her with surprise.

“Someone may have tainted the food without your knowledge,” Gwendolyn explained anxiously. “You mustn’t eat it.”

Clarinda smiled. “I don’t believe a witch who meant the clan harm would mind having someone drop dead while tasting her food for her,” she observed. “But I prepared this tray myself, Gwendolyn, and I know it’s fine.” With that she popped the chunk of cheese into her mouth.

Gwendolyn watched her worriedly a moment, wondering what she should do if Clarinda suddenly fell ill. But Clarinda just swallowed and helped herself to another piece of cheese and a thick slice of meat, suggesting that her pregnancy gave her a good appetite and the food was uncorrupted.

“I am rather hungry,” Gwendolyn confessed. She perched herself on the edge of the bed and began to nibble on a slice of apple. “I’m sorry if I seemed rude when you came in. It’s just that it was rather a shock to find my gown in the hearth. Do you have any idea who might have left that note for me?”

“It could have been any number of people,” Clarinda replied, shrugging. “The MacDunns have a long tradition of fearing witches, fairies, kelpies, and other evil spirits. And, of course, since MacDunn’s wife died, we have had to be particularly careful about keeping evil away.”

The mention of MacDunn’s wife gave Gwendolyn pause. Perhaps her delicate health could lend some clue as to what was wrong with David. “What did MacDunn’s wife die from?”

“Some say she died because she had a weak constitution,” replied Clarinda. “But she seemed fit enough when MacDunn first brought her here as his bride. ’Twas after David was born that Flora began to fare poorly. Twice more she grew round with child, and both times the poor bairns died, born far too soon to live even an instant.” She laid her hands protectively over her swollen stomach. “After the second one, she complained of a terrible pain and was too sick to rise from her bed. MacDunn was overcome with worry, so he sent for the finest healers in the land, who came from as far away as Scone. Great, conceited brutes they were, assuring MacDunn that there was no illness they had not seen. They bled her and purged her and leeched her, and forced her to drink all kinds of stinking potions. But Flora just grew weaker and weaker.”

Gwendolyn felt a surge of pity for the woman. She had no doubt Flora suffered miserably.

“Of course, Elspeth also tended her during her illness,” Clarinda continued. “She firmly believed ’twas evil spirits robbing her of her health, and said we all had to help her drive them away. Poor Flora continued to ail for nearly a year. And then she finally died. Some say it was her own sadness that destroyed her, because of the two wee bairns she lost.” She circled her palm over her belly. “I suppose that’s possible,” she conceded. “But Flora adored MacDunn and the son she already had. I can’t see how any woman with a wee child would let herself die if she had any choice in the matter. And Flora also worried terribly about what would happen to MacDunn if she died.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are some men who tolerate their wives well enough,” Clarinda explained, “but they would not be overly tormented if they lost one and had to find another. Life for a woman can be short, especially since the duty of childbearing has been left to us. I think many men realize this and guard their feelings accordingly.”

Gwendolyn considered this. There had been a number of MacSween women who had died either during or shortly following childbirth. It was not uncommon to find their grieving husbands married again a few months later—especially if the infant had survived. It was not love that inspired these swift unions, but the simple practicalities of life. The child needed a mother, the man needed a wife.

“MacDunn’s feelings for Flora ran far deeper than that,” Clarinda continued. “The longer her illness continued, the more absorbed he became with her, until he could barely attend to his responsibilities as laird. When Flora finally died, MacDunn was devastated. And that,” she finished quietly, “is when the madness claimed him.”

“What happened?” asked Gwendolyn.

“He raged a long while. Screamed at both God and the devil at the top of his lungs, calling them the most hideous names and uttering all kinds of terrible threats. He was taunting them, you see, because he wanted them to take him as well.”

So this was the pain MacDunn carried deep within him. On several occasions Gwendolyn had glimpsed a raw anguish in his eyes, but she had not understood its source. And now his precious son, who was his only surviving bond to the memory of his wife, was dying as well. The cruelty of it was almost unfathomable.

No wonder he had risked himself, his closest warriors, and the security of his clan to steal Gwendolyn and bring her here.

“How long did his rage last?”

“It never went away,” Clarinda replied. “He just learned to control it better, so that we couldn’t see it so well. But then he began to act in a strange manner and we knew our laird was not the same.”

Gwendolyn frowned. “What did he do?”

“For nearly a year he drank himself into a stupor every night. That in itself might not seem extraordinary, but none of us had ever seen MacDunn drunk before. He was a proud man, and intensely aware of his duties. A drunken man is not fit to be a warrior, or a father, or a laird, and MacDunn knew this. He would lock himself up in his chamber, or mount his horse and disappear for days at a time, drinking and completely neglecting his duties to his clan, to say nothing of his son. And then,” she added quietly, “people heard him talking to Flora.”

“His dead wife?”

She nodded. “He would have long conversations with her, at all hours of the day and night. We hoped it was just his grief trying to find a way out and that eventually it would pass. But it didn’t. Every time someone went to his chamber to consult him on some matter, he would order them away, saying that he was not to be disturbed when he was talking to his wife.” Her expression grew sober. “We knew then that madness was claiming him. And soon word of it reached other clans, and they began to call him Mad MacDunn.”

“Does the clan still think he is mad?”

Clarinda hesitated. “About a year after Flora’s death, something happened that caused MacDunn to stop drinking to excess. He continued to talk to Flora, but he was so much better in almost every other way, no one minded. After all, maybe she really is hovering over him, answering him back. For a time it seemed MacDunn was practically sound again, although of course he had changed. But then David fell ill. Once again MacDunn sent for the best healers he could find, and once again they were unable to cure the lad. Finally he sent them away. We all fear that if the lad dies, it will be more than MacDunn can bear.”

“And now MacDunn has brought a witch here to heal his son,” Gwendolyn supplied. “And that makes the clan question the stability of his mind even more.”

“Because people fear that which they do not understand,” pronounced an amused voice. “It is up to those who do understand to try to ease their anxiety. But that is a lesson you have not yet learned, have you, my dear?”

Gwendolyn turned to see Morag standing in the doorway. The ancient seer was dressed in a voluminous robe of sapphire velvet, over which her long hair poured in a silver river. One arm leaned against her elegantly carved staff, while the other was festooned with rumpled mounds of emerald, gold, and rich purple fabric.

“It seems you are in need of a gown,” Morag observed, her sea-green eyes sparkling as she entered the chamber. “These were among my favorites when I was about your age. It would please me to see them being worn once again.”

Gwendolyn arched her brows with suspicion. “How did you know I needed another gown?”

“ ’Twas just a feeling,” replied Morag airily, depositing her gifts on the bed. “Do you like them?”

Gwendolyn reached out and laid a tentative hand on the soft crush of fabric. “They are beautiful,” she admitted, tracing the elaborate embroidery on one with her fingertip. If these gowns had indeed been Morag’s when she was young, they must be over fifty years old. But the fabric and stitching were scarcely worn, and the colors were brilliant, suggesting they could not possibly date from that time.

“I have always taken good care of my clothes,” Morag explained, as if reading her thoughts. “And as you will see, classic styling endures from one generation to the next.”

“I’ve always said the same thing,” remarked Clarinda, rising heavily from her chair to join Gwendolyn by the bed. “Which is a good notion when you come from a family of nine brothers and sisters,” she added wryly.

“I cannot accept these,” said Gwendolyn, running her hand reverently over the dry silk of the gold gown.

“Of course you can.” Morag waved a blue-veined hand in the air. “My days of wearing such slim garments are long gone, I can assure you. These gowns have been waiting for you.”

Gwendolyn paused, tempted. Then she shook her head. “It is too generous a gift. And I should hate for anything to happen to them,” she added, glancing at the shriveled black fabric lying in the hearth.

“A shame about that,” Morag remarked, not sparing a glance at the fireplace. “I thought you looked perfectly lovely in crimson. Perhaps I will find something similar for you in one of my chests. Until then, I think those will suit you very well.”

Gwendolyn hesitated. It would be wrong for her to accept these gowns, she realized. She had not minded accepting MacDunn’s gown, because he had kidnapped her and was partly responsible for the fact that her own gown was in such a miserable state. But Morag was offering this gift as a gesture of friendship. Gwendolyn was not accustomed to such generosity and had no wish to feel indebted to her.

“A true gift is one which is bestowed with no expectation for something in return,” Morag pointed out.

Gwendolyn looked at her in surprise, disconcerted by the way Morag seemed to read her mind.

“You will wear the emerald dress today,” Morag decided. “It is wool and will protect you well when you go outside.”

“Gwendolyn can’t go outside today, Morag,” protested Clarinda. “It’s pouring rain. It has been ever since last night.”

Morag eyed Gwendolyn with amusement. “That’s because the rain complements her mood. If a witch doesn’t like the weather, then she should change it.”

Gwendolyn stifled her urge to smile. Evidently Brodick’s and Cameron’s story about the storm she supposedly conjured up on their journey here had made the clan think the weather was subject to her powers.

“I like the rain,” she declared, as if she were responsible for it.

“So do I,” chirped Morag brightly. “Washes the world clean and lets you start again.” She turned to make her way toward the door. “I think you’ll find, however, that the rest of the MacDunns are not quite so enamored with it.”

She laughed, a high, melodious sound that filled the chamber as she left.

“A terrible evil has invaded our clan.”

The MacDunns nodded solemnly as Lachlan made this dire pronouncement.

“I warned MacDunn not to fetch her,” said Reginald. “I told him a witch in our midst would only bring mischief.”

“The mischief I could live with,” Garrick assured them. “I don’t mind the odd flying pot, if that’s as far as it went.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” growled Munro. “Ye’re not the one who was chased clear across the courtyard before the thing swooped down and banged you on the bloody head! I’m lucky to have lived to tell the tale!”

“Do forgive, Munro, but being crowned by a pot seems an odd way for a witch to try to kill a man,” observed Owen. “Perhaps she was just making sport with you.”

Munro’s face reddened with outrage. “She turned my legs to stone so I couldn’t run away!” he bellowed. “ ’Twas an attempt to murder me, make no mistake!”

“Why should she want to murder you?” asked Reginald.

“Because she knows I can see beneath her comely appearance,” explained Munro.

Owen’s eyes grew wide. “Are you saying the lass doesn’t really look like that?”

“She’s as old and ugly as a withered toe,” he replied. “With horrible, knobby growths all over her face!”

“I knew it!” burst out Lachlan, gleefully rubbing his bony hands together. “Tonight I shall begin working on a new potion, which will reveal her true, wizened self!” He scrunched his white brows together in confusion. “Did you say she looks like an old toe?”

“If she really wanted to murder you, then why are you still alive?” persisted Reginald, unconvinced.

“It takes more than one scrawny witch to do away with this MacDunn,” Munro boasted. “Besides, this head is as hard as rock.” He cracked his beefy fist against his skull, then winced.

“I can’t believe MacDunn risked war with the MacSweens to bring her here,” fretted Lachlan. “An army is probably on its way to butcher us as we sleep! How am I supposed to get my rest at night?”

“Those cowardly MacSweens are no match for us,” Reginald scoffed. “Laird MacSween is a spineless fool. Let them come,” he declared, reaching for his sword, “and this is what they’ll meet!” He groped at his empty belt a moment, then frowned and lowered his gaze to search for his weapon, as if he thought it might be hiding somewhere in his plaid. “That’s odd—I’m sure I had it with me.”

“It’s David we have to worry about at the moment,” Elspeth interjected. “His illness last night leaves no doubt that the witch has come to destroy him.”

“Strange weather we’ve been having since she arrived,” noted Owen, staring in sudden fascination at the rain-slick windows. “Before she came here, the days were fine.” He scratched his white head, trying to remember. “Or was that last summer?”

“There’s many a peculiar thing happening since the witch arrived,” added Letitia, a pretty girl with dark, curly hair. “Last night my wee Gareth cried all night, and normally he’s as quiet as a mouse.”

“For God’s sake, Lettie, ’twas just last week he screamed every night until dawn,” countered Ewan, her husband. “Nearly drove me daft.”

“He was cutting a tooth,” Lettie returned defensively. “But it’s all through now. There was no cause for him to shriek so last night.”

“Except to keep his neighbors awake,” grumbled Quentin, who lived in the cottage next to them.

“I heard an eerie howling last night,” said Garrick, changing the subject.

“That was Lettie’s bairn,” joked Quentin, causing the clan to laugh.

“ ’Twas a screech not of this world,” Garrick countered. “I was searching for my dog Laddie in the storm, but the screaming froze my blood, so I ran home, bolted the door, and prayed to God for mercy.”

“And then what?” prodded Reginald, who had finally given up trying to find his sword.

Garrick shrugged. “I drank a pitcher of ale and fell asleep.”

“Exactly how many pitchers had you drunk before you heard this screeching?” demanded Lachlan suspiciously.

“Two or three,” he confessed.

“Did you ever find your dog?” Owen asked.

He shook his head. “Witch took him for one of her spells.”

Everyone gasped in sympathy.

A long, loud belch resounded through the hall, followed by the bang of an empty cup against wood.

“The ale is off,” Farquhar reported, wiping his dripping mouth on his sleeve. “I can barely drink it.” He blearily grabbed a pitcher and filled his cup to overflowing again.

“I’ve noticed that,” agreed Quentin. “Ever since the witch came. And the meat has been burned every night, as well.”

“It most certainly has not!” huffed Alice, the cook.

“Now, I’m not saying it’s your fault, Alice,” Quentin swiftly assured her. “It’s just that since the witch arrived, things have been a little charred—which is entirely her doing,” he added meekly, “not yours.”

“If it was so awful, then why were you cramming your mouth last night like it was an empty sack?” she demanded testily.

“I think we can agree that there have been many peculiar occurrences here since the witch arrived,” interrupted Lachlan.

“Even MacDunn has been acting strangely,” commented Robena.

“The witch has cast some spell over him,” Elspeth concluded. “That’s why he allowed her to stay with David last night, when he should have locked the evil shrew in a dungeon!”

“MacDunn always acts strangely,” Reginald pointed out. “You can’t put much weight in that.”

“Aye, that’s true,” agreed Lachlan. “He’s been a little odd since Flora died.”

Owen sighed. “Broke his heart, it did. And cracked his mind in the process.”

“He hasn’t been talking to her again, has he?” asked Marjorie worriedly.

“No,” drawled an ominously low voice. “I haven’t.”

Awkward silence gripped the clan as Alex entered the hall. Cameron, Brodick, and Ned followed him, their expressions hard with disapproval.

“If any of you have concerns about the welfare of the clan,” Alex began, raking his gaze over the uneasy assemblage, “I would prefer that you discuss them with me openly.”

“Quite so, lad, quite so,” agreed Owen, bobbing his white head. “Absolutely correct. We were about to do just that.”

“That’s why we’ve gathered in the hall,” added Lachlan, feigning innocence. “So we could talk to you.”

“And now you’re here,” Reginald finished. “Bloody convenient, I call it.”

Alex folded his arms across his chest. “Well?”

“Well, laddie,” Owen began hesitantly, “we were just having a wee chat about that comely witch you brought here.”

“Munro says she actually looks like a shriveled old toe,” supplied Lachlan.

“For God’s sake, Lachlan,” grumbled Reginald, “MacDunn doesn’t care about that!”

“Why not?” demanded Lachlan. “If I were him I’d want to know that, before her false comeliness had made a bloody fool of me!”

“If her appearance is that grotesque,” Alex said, struggling for patience, “then I am grateful to her for shielding me from it. Is there anything else?”

“She is going to kill your son, MacDunn,” Elspeth warned. “That is why she is here.”

Alex shook his head. “You’re wrong, Elspeth. Gwendolyn MacSween is here because after I saved her from being burned I asked her to come and she generously agreed.”

That was stretching the truth considerably, but Alex didn’t think the knowledge that Gwendolyn had been dragged here against her will would allay any of the clan’s anxiety. “She is here to help David,” he assured her, “not to harm him.”

“You can’t believe that, Alex,” Robena objected. “A witch cannot be trusted. She was sentenced to burn by her very own clan. She must have done something horrible to have merited such a punishment—no doubt she has killed others!”

“She was tried for witchcraft, Robena,” Alex returned, making it sound as if this had been her only crime, and not a terribly serious one. He disliked deceiving his people, and felt especially guilty at lying to Robena, whose friendship had been relentlessly steadfast. But his son was dying, and Gwendolyn’s powers, whatever they were or wherever they came from, were his only hope. He had to get his clan to accept her presence until David was well again.

“I can’t imagine that lovely lassie killing anyone,” Owen remarked. “Not on purpose, anyway.”

“That’s because you can’t see her as she really is,” objected Lachlan. “One swallow of my potion and you won’t be able to look at that warty old crone without hurling up your breakfast!”

Owen frowned in bewilderment. “Why would I want to drink a potion like that?”

“Not you!” sputtered Lachlan impatiently. “Her!”

“If she means David no harm, then why is she subjecting the lad to cold air and frigid baths?” Elspeth challenged. “Why has she stripped his chamber of healing herbs and forced him to lie shivering on his bed with scarcely a plaid to cover him? And why did she stop me from bleeding him last night, when his body was seething with poison that needed to be drained?”

“Because her ways of healing are different than those we are accustomed to,” Alex replied. “I realize you are all afraid of her, and I cannot change that. But Gwendolyn MacSween is a skilled and caring healer who has used her powers to cure dozens of others who were thought to be nearly dead. And,” he finished solemnly, “she has sworn upon her very soul that she will cure my son.”

It was a complete lie, of course. He had no idea how many people Gwendolyn had actually cured, and as his prisoner she had reluctantly agreed to try to heal his son, nothing more. But the clan did not argue. Instead they regarded him in silence, suddenly intrigued. Seizing upon this unexpected shift in mood, Alex boldly continued, “It will not happen in one day, and it will not be the result of just one spell. But I ask that you be patient and assist her in any way you can. Gwendolyn MacSween may be a witch, but her unnatural powers also make her an exceptionally skilled healer. More than that,” he finished, “she is my last hope of seeing my son strong and whole again.”

“That is quite a burden, MacDunn,” observed a quiet voice. “Being someone’s last hope.”

Alex turned to see Gwendolyn standing behind him. Her expression was contained, making it difficult to assess her mood. Her gray eyes were staring at him intently, however, suggesting that she had heard enough of his fabrications to know he was blatantly lying to his own people. In that moment he feared she would strip away his false assurances and expose him before his clan. She desperately wanted to leave, and his people wanted her gone. All she had to do was tell them she could not cure David and his clan would cheerfully send her on her way. They would question their laird’s grip on his mind and relieve him of his duties, convinced that they were acting in the best interests of both his son and the clan. Gwendolyn would leave. David would die.

And Alex’s mind would shatter completely.

He regarded her in stony silence, waiting for her to vilify him before his people. He had been a fool, he realized bleakly. Only a fool would keep hoping that God would be merciful and spare his son.

God loathed him and was determined to destroy the last fragment of his life.

“Your son fares better this morning, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn reported. “He is sleeping right now, but when he wakens he may be ready to take a little broth. We shall have to wait and see.”

Alex stared at her, uncertain he had understood her correctly. Was she saying she would stay?

Gwendolyn sensed MacDunn’s confusion, but did not think it could begin to match her own. Other than her father, no one had ever risen to her defense before or even said anything remotely kind or generous about her. Certainly no one had believed her capable of doing something pure and good, like saving the life of a helpless child. From the time she was a little girl she had been blamed for every incident of evil and misery that befell her clan, until finally she wondered if perhaps there wasn’t some truth to the ugly accusations. Other than loving and caring for her father, she had not had any opportunity to explore or demonstrate her capacity for compassion. In truth, the MacSweens had not elicited many tender feelings from her, and other than David, neither had any of the MacDunns.

Until this moment.

“That is…good news.” Alex felt oddly vulnerable as he stared at her, as if he had exposed some intimate secret he had not meant for her to know. Disconcerted, he pulled away from her intense gaze and tried to focus on something else, like the smooth contour of her cheek, the inky fall of her hair, the slender cut of her emerald gown.

He frowned. “That’s not the gown I gave you.”

A nervous tremor rippled through the clan, silent, but perceptible to Gwendolyn nonetheless. She had come down here with every intention of telling MacDunn about the disgraceful behavior of his people. She would not tolerate harassment and sincerely hoped that MacDunn would discipline them. But as she stared at the gathering of anxious faces before her, she found herself suddenly reluctant to expose their cowardly action. MacDunn would be furious when he learned what they had done. He would no doubt want to punish the perpetrators, and if they did not come forward willingly, he might even decide to punish the entire clan.

“Gwendolyn,” persisted Alex, growing suspicious, “what happened to your gown?”

A few members of the clan coughed. A number of others became inexplicably fascinated with their feet. Perceiving their discomfort, Alex swept his gaze questioningly over his people. “Well?”

“MacDunn,” began Garrick uneasily, “I fear there is something we must confess to you—”

“I burned it,” burst out Gwendolyn.

Alex regarded her in astonishment. “You what?”

“Accidentally, of course,” she swiftly clarified. “I was standing too close to the hearth and didn’t notice when a hot cinder flew out and set it afire. By the time I realized what had happened, the gown was completely ruined. Morag was kind enough to give me a few gowns that she no longer wears, and that’s where I got this one.” She ran her hands briskly over the fabric, brushing away some imaginary specks of lint. “Do you like it?”

Alex regarded her skeptically, then studied his clan. Their apprehensive expressions told him he was not hearing an accurate account of the fate of Gwendolyn’s dress. “Would any of you like to tell me what really happened?”

“I burned it,” Gwendolyn insisted, wishing he would let the matter drop. “There is nothing more to tell.”

“I see,” said Alex. “Let us hope that no more ‘accidents’ happen to either you or your gowns, or I shall be most displeased.” He regarded his people sternly.

“You look lovely in that new frock,” Owen commented, breaking the tension. “I’ve always been particularly fond of green.”

“Or at least you appear to look lovely in it,” qualified Lachlan. He narrowed his eyes, as if trying to see her better.

Gwendolyn didn’t know what to make of that bizarre comment. “I was planning to go into the woods this morning and collect some herbs and roots to make medicine for David,” she said, turning to Alex. “As you have asked me not to leave the castle unattended, I assume you will want someone to escort me.”

Alex glanced uncertainly at his clan. Given their profound animosity toward Gwendolyn, he was not sure he wanted any of them going off alone with her.

“Cameron will accompany you,” Clarinda announced. “Won’t you, my sweet?”

“Aye,” said Cameron, lumbering over to Gwendolyn.

Without a word, Ned flanked her other side.

“You can’t be thinking of going out now, lassie,” Owen protested.

“Why not?” wondered Gwendolyn.

“Why, it’s pouring rain,” Reginald told her. “Practically a flood.”

“But of course, you know that,” added Lachlan accusingly.

“The rain is about to stop,” Gwendolyn said, gesturing to the windows. “Look—the sun is coming out.”

The clan watched in astonishment as the rivulets coursing down the windows suddenly stopped, and a brilliant wash of sunlight appeared.

“Good God,” murmured Owen, awestruck. “Did you see what the lassie did?”

“I call that splendid!” remarked Reginald enthusiastically. “Could you make the winter a little warmer this year? I find the cold makes my joints stiff.”

“How do we know the weather has really changed?” Lachlan pointed out cryptically. “Maybe she has cast a spell on all of us, to make us think that it’s no longer raining.”

“That sun is warm, Lachlan,” Owen said, turning his wrinkled cheek toward the light. “If I’m just imagining this, then it’s a damn fine trick!”

“It is not a trick,” Gwendolyn assured them, heading toward the corridor with Cameron and Ned.

Cameron pushed open the heavy front door and cautiously stepped outside, looking as if he did not quite trust the sudden fairness of the day. Gwendolyn blinked as she stepped into the golden glare of sunlight. She wondered why no one else had been able to see that the weather was about to change. Obviously the MacDunns’ attention had been focused elsewhere. She recalled the sudden storm that had erupted in the woods when she had pretended to conjure a spell, and nearly found herself smiling.

The weather was being remarkably cooperative.