CHAPTER 7

“…and with those brave words the mighty Torvald whacked his blade down on Mungo’s neck, closing his eyes against the hot spray of blood as Mungo’s head rolled forlornly away from his twitching body.”

“And then what happened?” David asked, enthralled. “Did Mungo get up and continue to fight without his head?”

“He tried to,” Gwendolyn responded. “But as he fumbled blindly for his fallen sword, the mighty Torvald drove his blade deep into his gut, then wrenched it up in one powerful motion, splitting him open like a rotten, stinking melon.”

“Oh, my, Gwendolyn,” said Clarinda, looking queasy, “that’s a truly horrid tale!”

“That’s nothing,” scoffed David. “You should hear the one she tells about the monster who lives in the loch. He swallows people whole and has them live inside his black, slimy stomach as he slowly digests them. Sometimes they spend years in there, with their flesh rotting off—”

“I don’t think Clarinda is up to hearing that one, David,” interrupted Gwendolyn. “Perhaps another time.”

“It’s just a story,” he assured Clarinda, deciding she was taking it a little too seriously.

“I’m afraid my tolerance for such grisly tales is not what it used to be.” Clarinda sighed, returning her attention to the tiny gown she was stitching. “Perhaps once this bairn is out and I don’t feel like I just swallowed something whole, you can try telling it to me again.”

“Is that what it feels like?” asked David, suddenly fascinated. “Like you’re the monster and the bairn is some helpless creature you ate?”

Clarinda laughed. “I suppose that’s one way of describing it. But more often I feel like the bairn is eating me, and growing so large in the process. I don’t know how I’ll be able to accommodate it another minute!”

“How much longer do you think it will be, Clarinda?” asked Gwendolyn.

“I’m not sure.” She gently stroked the rigid swell of her belly. “Another few weeks, I should think. But you never know—sometimes they are in a great hurry to arrive, and other times they like it so much where they are, you start to think they’ll never come out.”

“Does it hurt?” David asked. “Being all swollen like that?”

“No. It feels wonderful. Here.” She rose from her chair and waddled over to him. “Lay your hand against it and you’ll feel the bairn moving.” She sat beside him, grasped his little hand, and laid it firmly against her abdomen.

David frowned. “I don’t feel anything.”

“You have to be patient. Wait.”

“You’re stomach is awfully hard.” He gave her a tentative poke. “I thought it would be soft and squishy, like Alice’s.”

“Alice doesn’t have a bairn inside her,” Clarinda explained, smiling. “She just likes to eat.”

David suddenly gasped in horror and snatched his hand away. “Something moved in there!”

“That’s the bairn,” Clarinda said, trying not to laugh. “It’s all right. Here, maybe it will move again.” She took his hand and pressed it against her a second time. “There, now—it’s kicking me—can you feel that?”

David felt her pulsing belly in shock. “Doesn’t that hurt?” he asked, alarmed.

“No, it just feels a little strange. Here, Gwendolyn, you come and feel it.”

Gwendolyn looked at Clarinda in surprise. She had never felt a pregnant woman’s belly. In fact, she could not recall ever actually touching another woman. She supposed she must have been hugged and held by her mother, but her mother had been burned at the stake when Gwendolyn was only four, and Gwendolyn could barely remember her. From that day forward her father had cared for her, and as she endured the escalating ostracism of the MacSweens, he grew to be her only friend. None of the MacSween children were permitted to play with her, and so there had never been another girl with whom she could laugh or share secrets. All her life she had told herself she didn’t care. But sometimes, when she lay awake at night, she felt alone and despised, and she wondered why she was doomed to spend her whole life being shunned by others. Surely this was why Clarinda’s invitation confounded her so. After a lifetime of being feared and rejected, it seemed unfathomable that a woman might invite her to lay her hand against her womb and feel the precious life stirring inside her.

Clarinda was laughing now. “Hurry, Gwendolyn. The bairn is kicking up quite a fuss.”

Despite her reticence, Gwendolyn found herself moving over to the bed and seating herself beside Clarinda.

“Here,” said Clarinda, taking Gwendolyn’s hand and holding it against the bulge of her body.

David was right, Gwendolyn realized. Clarinda’s belly was far harder than she had expected. It felt like a great, smooth dome, not muscular, but firm and taut, as if there was an enormous pressure pushing against it.

“Oh,” she gasped, startled by the sudden thump against her palm. “What was that?”

“A foot, I think,” said Clarinda, laughing again. “Or maybe a fist. ’Tis difficult to know.”

“It’s quite strong,” marveled Gwendolyn, tentatively pressing her hand against Clarinda once more.

“Aye. This one is strong, like its father. I only hope I can do a fair job of bringing it into the world.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Clarinda,” Gwendolyn said encouragingly.

“Aye, I’m sure I will.”

“How does the bairn breathe in there?” David wondered, frowning. “Is there a hole to let air in?”

“Until it’s born, it breathes like a fish in water—it doesn’t need air,” Clarinda explained.

David yawned. “Does it have gills?”

“I hope not,” she exclaimed, “or Cameron might have a word or two to say about it!”

The three of them giggled.

“I think you should rest now, David.” Gwendolyn adjusted his blankets over him. “And I am going to make you a special broth for dinner.”

“I’m not tired,” he protested, stifling another yawn.

“Very well.” Gwendolyn moved back to her chair. “You lie there quietly and I will tell you another story.”

“I’m leaving,” announced Clarinda, waddling toward the door, “so make it as gruesome as you wish.”

“Tell me the one about the great two-headed serpent,” suggested David, wearily closing his eyes, “who swallows two maidens at the same time and gets them stuck in his throat.”

“All right,” said Gwendolyn, certain she would not be even half through the tale before David was asleep. “Once, in a land far away, there lived a giant serpent, who had not one, but two terrible heads. A great monstrous beast he was, covered in thick green scales as hard as armor, with four eyes as yellow as fire and two slimy forked tongues that could grab a man by his head and legs and tear him in two….”

Her voice was hushed as she spun her macabre tale, lulling David to sleep with her tone, if not her words. Gwendolyn watched with amusement as the lad struggled to stay awake, occasionally lifting his heavy lids to look at her, as if to demonstrate that he was still listening. But just as the serpent was wrapping its slimy tongue around one of the screaming maidens, exhaustion conquered David. Gwendolyn continued to talk for another minute, until his steady breathing assured her that his sleep was deep. She gently swept a fiery lock of hair off his white cheek, then settled back in her chair to watch him awhile.

Well over a week had passed since the MacDunns had burned her gown. Since that day she had devoted herself entirely to caring for David. When she wasn’t looking after him, she would venture into the woods with Cameron and Ned, scouring the ground for various herbs, roots, and bits of leaf and bark that her mother had described in her writings. Once she had accumulated a selection, she would return to her chamber and spend hours grinding, drying, steeping, and mixing—transforming them into powders and potions that she had memorized from her mother’s notes.

She had administered several of these elixirs to David, but so far the results had been far from encouraging. Although he might fare better for a few hours, or perhaps even a day, inevitably he would grow ill once again, his thin body wracked with painful spasms and vomiting. Twice now he had also suffered a skin ailment of red, itchy bumps, which made him sorely uncomfortable. The first time Gwendolyn saw the welts appearing, she panicked, thinking she had accidentally caused them with her potions. But Marjorie and Clarinda assured Gwendolyn that David had suffered these puzzling skin conditions before, and that although they were unpleasant, they usually went away within a day or so. Gwendolyn had bathed David in cool water and applied a drying paste of finely crushed oatmeal to his skin, which eased his itching and seemed to heal the sores.

She believed he was faring a little better now that he was breathing fresh, clean air and wasn’t being bled and purged night and day. But he was still frighteningly thin and weak, and every day his inability to retain food caused her increasing alarm. Her mother’s notes had stressed that a body could not be strong unless it consumed sufficient quantities of healthy food, so Gwendolyn had tried to build David’s strength by giving him things laden with the richness of milk, eggs, cheese, meat, and fish. Although the lad had no appetite, he bravely tried to please her by eating them. Sometimes the meal stayed down, but more often David became violently ill, leaving Gwendolyn to wonder if she was helping him or hurting him by making him eat.

If the clan still believed she was the cause of his suffering, no one openly accused her of it. In fact, most of the MacDunns simply avoided her. It was clear they still feared her, for they quickly left a room or scurried down the hall if they saw her approaching, especially if it was dark or stormy outside, which made them wonder at her mood. But for the most part the clan seemed to have accepted her presence as a necessary evil. Only Clarinda, Marjorie, and Morag did not seem concerned that she was about to cast some hideous spell over them. Of course Morag fancied herself as a seer and probably thought that since she had not foreseen Gwendolyn harming her, there was no danger in their relationship. Marjorie was devoted to David, and although she was uncertain of Gwendolyn, she had made it clear that she wanted to help tend the lad. Clarinda, however, was a mystery.

Clarinda was the only person who not only showed no fear of her, but actually seemed to enjoy her company. Every afternoon she waddled into David’s chamber and sat with them, chatting away as she carefully stitched some tiny gown or miniature stocking. Although Gwendolyn enjoyed her company, she was not so foolish as to let herself think that Clarinda actually considered her a friend. People didn’t make friends of witches, because witches were inherently wicked and could never be trusted. But Clarinda’s gentle, warm presence was like a ray of light in the otherwise gloomy castle, and Gwendolyn found herself looking forward to sharing her days with both David and Clarinda.

MacDunn, however, was another matter.

She had scarcely seen MacDunn since the day she found him addressing his clan in the great hall. She was relieved that their paths rarely crossed. Her body still stirred from the memory of being held hard against him, his mouth plundering hers as she wrapped her arms around him. She could not account for her shockingly wanton behavior when she was alone with him, both in the forest and in his chamber. No man had ever dared touch her, no doubt fearing she might suddenly transform him into a toad or cause his manhood to shrivel up and fall off, as she had boldly threatened Brodick.

Her childhood isolation had effectively crushed any illusions that she might marry someday and have a family. No man would ever want her as a wife. And she could not bear the thought of sentencing an innocent child to an existence like hers, forever tormented as the progeny of evil. Men’s lack of interest had suited her fine. It was better to live chaste and alone, where she had no one to worry about but herself. Once she had agonized over the fate of her father if something happened to her. Now there was no one who would mourn her passing, no one who would even shed a tear at her demise. It was a lonely realization, but it was also somewhat liberating.

She was responsible for no one.

By contrast, MacDunn’s responsibilities to his clan were immense. He was always working with his people—settling disputes, inspecting the cattle and the crops, overseeing new fortifications to the castle, orchestrating the production of weaponry and the preservation of food for storage, and of course leading his men in training. His warriors staged regular mock attacks on the castle, analyzing every possible weakness of the forbidding fortress and developing a strategy to strengthen it. At first Gwendolyn had assumed these exercises were part of the clan’s regular training. But one day she had overheard two men complaining about MacDunn’s arduous new regimen and the fact that it was her presence that had instigated it.

It was a cold reminder that Robert would eventually come for her.

In the beginning she believed the overwhelming burden of seeing to the demands of his clan kept MacDunn from spending time with his son. He saw David but once a day, and the visit was brief and oddly formal. MacDunn would calmly ask Gwendolyn how his son was faring, and then he would study him a moment, as if he did not quite trust her report. Once he was satisfied that the lad was in no imminent danger, he would turn abruptly and leave, as if there were matters of greater importance that commanded his attention. Not once had Gwendolyn seen MacDunn share a gentle word with David, or tenderly lay his hand upon his cheek, or bend and kiss his smooth brow. MacDunn’s brusque demeanor with the lad bewildered Gwendolyn. She remembered the intense pain that had shadowed his eyes when he first introduced his suffering child to her. At the time she had believed his devotion to David was overwhelming. But as the days progressed and MacDunn’s visits grew increasingly curt and strained, it became apparent that he barely knew the lad at all. She began to wonder if MacDunn’s determination to save his son was not motivated by love, but by the more pragmatic necessity of preserving the life of the next laird.

“Good day, Gwendolyn,” said Robena, entering the chamber bearing a tray. “I came to see how David fares.”

Like MacDunn, Robena had also made a habit of visiting David once a day. She seemed to be fond of the lad and was always concerned about his progress. Although she had initially made it clear she did not support Gwendolyn’s methods, she appeared to have accepted MacDunn’s decree that Gwendolyn was now in charge of David’s care, and was invariably polite to her.

“He is sleeping,” Gwendolyn murmured softly as Robena set her tray on the table.

“How is he?”

“He is well for the moment,” Gwendolyn answered carefully. “I am going to let him rest awhile, and then I will try to get him to eat something.”

Robena went over to the bed and studied him. “He looks terribly pale.”

“He has been ill for many months, and he has not been outside since early spring,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “It is not surprising that he has no color.”

“Perhaps not,” Robena allowed. She adjusted David’s blankets, pulling them up to his nose, then moved over to the tray. “Clarinda mentioned to me that you had not had anything to eat since early this morning. I have brought you some bread and fruit.”

Gwendolyn regarded her in surprise. Robena was not in the habit of worrying about her welfare.

“The bread was freshly baked this morning, so it is still soft,” she continued, filling a goblet with wine.

“That was very thoughtful of you.”

Robena smiled and offered her the goblet. “Here.”

Before Gwendolyn could wrap her fingers around the cup, it slipped and fell into her lap, drenching her in wine.

“Oh!” exclaimed Robena. “I’m truly sorry, Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn stood and stared ruefully at the huge crimson stain spreading across the gold fabric of her gown.

“If you take your gown off right away and rinse it in cool water, the wine may not set,” Robena advised helpfully. “It would be a shame for the garment to be ruined, especially since Morag has kept it all these years. It must have been one of her favorites.”

She was probably right, Gwendolyn realized guiltily. Morag had carefully preserved this gown since her youth, so it was obviously precious to her. Gwendolyn dreaded the thought of having to tell her that it had been ruined.

“Why don’t you go up to your chamber and change, and I will watch David for you while you tend to your gown?”

Gwendolyn hesitated, uneasy at the thought of leaving David with Robena. “But if he wakens—”

“If he wakens and needs something, I will fetch you. In the meantime, you must change out of that wet gown and see if it can be saved.”

“Very well,” said Gwendolyn reluctantly. She moved to the bed and drew back the blankets Robena had swaddled over David’s face, so he could breathe fresh air once again. Then she went to the door. “Thank you, Robena. I won’t be long.”

“Take as much time as you need,” Robena said amiably, settling into her chair. “I’ll be here when you return.”

Gwendolyn hurried along the corridor and up the narrow staircase to her chamber, anxious to be out of her wine-soaked gown. As she pushed the heavy door open, she noticed a note lying on the floor. Remembering the ominous contents of the last missive left for her, she picked it up with a degree of trepidation.

Dear Gwendolyn,

You must come to my chamber immediately. I have had a vision that I must warn you about.

Morag

Gwendolyn smiled. When she first met Morag she had thought the elderly woman was simply pretending to have these mystical visions. It seemed a harmless enough deception, and since Morag had conveniently assured the MacDunns that Gwendolyn was a witch with great powers, Gwendolyn saw no reason to challenge her feigned abilities. But it was becoming clear that Morag actually believed she could see things that others could not.

Gwendolyn laid the note on the table and quickly stripped out of her gown. She placed it in the stone sink and carefully poured water from a jug over the wine stain, watching as the clear water turned crimson and drained away. Once the worst of the blot was gone, she plugged the sink and drenched the skirt with fresh water. Robena was probably right, she decided, briskly rubbing the fabric between her fists. If the gown soaked awhile, the stain might not set. After she visited Morag, she would fetch some fresh water and wash it again, she decided, putting on her green gown.

The spicy sweet scent of roasting meat and simmering vegetables wafted through the air, reminding Gwendolyn of how hungry she was. Anxious to return to David and the tray of food Robena had thoughtfully brought to her, she moved swiftly along the dim corridors. The torch at the top of the stairs leading to the lowest level of the castle had died, leaving the narrow steps to disappear into a vast, black cavern. Gathering her skirts into her hands, she hurried down the steps, vaguely wondering what nonsense Morag was going to tell her.

Suddenly she was hurtling into the blackness, her startled cry silenced as her head slammed against the frigid stone floor.

         

There was darkness, and there was light.

Throbbing strands of wakefulness slowly roused her from a slumber that had been absolute, yet not restful. Pain began to seep across her, slowly at first, then faster, wrapping its tentacles around her head, her neck, her shoulders, moving down, until finally she was cocooned in it. She shifted onto her side. A fresh stab of pain streaked through her, clean and sharp. There was no question of sleep now. Using what seemed an extraordinary amount of effort, she opened her eyes, then blinked vacantly at the surrounding gloom.

MacDunn was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his long, muscular legs stretched out before him, sound asleep. The lines of his face were deeply etched in the soft candlelight, making him look far older than his years. His hair fell in tangled gold locks over his wrinkled shirt, which was smudged with scarlet. Gwendolyn stared at the stains in confusion, wondering if his wound had torn open and bled onto his shirt. Perhaps she should have stitched his injury again with proper thread once they reached the castle. Her gaze moved to the windows. How had night fallen so quickly? she wondered. David had no doubt wakened long ago and was wondering where she was.

She sat upright and then closed her eyes, disoriented by the extreme effort the action cost her. When she opened them again, MacDunn was staring at her, his harsh expression tempered only marginally with what might have been relief.

“David,” she said, her voice a dry rasp. “Is he all right?”

“David is fine, Gwendolyn.”

She stared at him dubiously, wondering if he was lying to her. The fierce set of his face did little to alleviate her concern.

“I must see him.” She pushed away the covers. “Now.” A sickening dizziness hobbled her movements, forcing her to stop and raise her fingers to her temples.

MacDunn’s strong hands fastened on her shoulders and gently eased her back. “He is sleeping. You may see him in the morning.”

“I want to make him a special broth.”

“You can make it later. When you are feeling better.” He held a cup of cool water to her lips. When she had taken her fill, he reached into a basin of water, wrung out a cloth, and laid it over her forehead.

“I’m not ill,” Gwendolyn told him, wondering why he was treating her with such uncharacteristic gentleness. “I never get ill.”

“No, you’re not ill,” he agreed.

She nodded. A terrible splitting sensation streaked across her skull. She raised her hand to her head, trying to press the pain away. Her hair was matted and sticky, and a crust of blood had formed on her scalp.

“I found you lying at the bottom of the stairs in the lower level,” Alex explained, seeing her confusion. “You had struck your head on the way down. Made quite a mess of the floor.”

That explained the pain. She ran her fingers tentatively over her hair, feeling the extent of the stickiness. “Head wounds do tend to bleed,” she murmured, remembering the night she had stitched Cameron’s scalp.

“Aye. It makes it difficult to tell how serious the injury is. Especially when the victim refuses to wake up.”

“You can hardly blame me for resting a bit, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn grumbled defensively.

“Perhaps not,” Alex acknowledged. “But when a person who has struck her head cannot be stirred, one does start to become somewhat…”

He paused, searching for the right word. Frantic? Distraught? Terrified? All these things he had been, and more, though he had tried his damnedest not to let his clan see—for they would only think it was the madness rising up to claim him once again. And yet he had refused to let anyone else sit with her, not even Brodick, or Cameron, or Ned, each of whom he trusted with his life. The witch held the secret to his son’s recovery, he had told them. This was why he wanted to watch over her himself.

But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.

“Concerned,” he finished. It seemed an innocuous enough word.

When he first learned she was gone, he had been overwhelmed with fury. He believed she had escaped, and her betrayal had been unforgivable, not just because she had broken her pledge to him, but because she had callously abandoned his son. Alex had ordered the castle and grounds searched and participated in the hunt himself, determined to find her and drag her back.

When he had discovered her lying unconscious in that dark passage, her pale cheek resting in a pool of blood, he had been so frozen with fear he could barely force himself to touch her neck for a pulse.

“You have been in a deep sleep since late yesterday afternoon. It will soon be dawn,” he told her, tilting his head toward the window.

A soft veil of amber light spilled across his gold-stubbled cheek. Gwendolyn gazed at him, perplexed. MacDunn was a busy laird, who barely made time to spend a moment with his own ill son. Why was he sitting here watching over her like some nursemaid?

“What were you doing down there, Gwendolyn?”

Her mind was cloudy with pain, making it difficult to concentrate. “I believe I was going to see Morag.” She closed her eyes, struggling to remember. “She had left a note in my chamber saying she wanted to warn me of something.”

Alex arched a brow.

“Perhaps she wanted to alert me about those stairs,” Gwendolyn reflected dryly.

“Where did you put the note?”

She thought for a moment, then raised her shoulders in a weak shrug. “I suppose I left it on the table.”

Alex rose to look for it. He inspected the table, the chest, and thoroughly searched the floor. “It isn’t here.”

“Maybe I took it with me and dropped it in the passage,” Gwendolyn suggested, not terribly interested.

“Were you alone when you went downstairs?”

Gwendolyn closed her eyes. “I suppose I must have been. I remember it was very dark—I think the torch above the stairs had gone out.” She yawned. “That must be why I tripped.”

Alex considered this a moment in silence. “You will rest now,” he said, rising from his chair.

“I have to see David,” Gwendolyn protested, her voice thickened with sleep.

“You will see him later. When you have rested.”

Too exhausted to argue, Gwendolyn sighed and pressed her face farther into the pillow. Alex watched as sleep quickly claimed her once again. She was tired and bloody and aching, but he assured himself he could wake her if he chose. He lifted a matted clump of black hair off her bruised cheek, then lightly traced his finger along the delicate contour of her jaw. He had seen more than his share of head wounds in battle and knew that hers was not serious. But the sight of her lying there, so small and weak and helpless, brought back memories of Flora. This was not illness, he reminded himself sharply.

This was an injury, and he meant to find out who or what was bloody well responsible for it.

         

The torch above the staircase leading to the bowels of the castle was lit, flickering oily patterns of light over the damp stone steps. Alex stood at the top of the stairs, trying to decide if the illumination was adequate. He was accustomed to the dark, having spent much of the past four years lying awake in the night, or sometimes wandering through the empty corridors, talking to Flora. Many of the steps had a dark scum growing on them, rendering them somewhat treacherous. If the torch had been out and someone who did not know the stairs well was hurrying down them, it was easy to understand how she might have slipped. If not for the fact that Gwendolyn was feared by the clan, coupled with her memory of a note from Morag, he might have simply ordered the stairs scrubbed and another torch bracketed to the opposite wall. Instead he slowly descended them, then ascended once more, carefully examining each step for something beyond the greenish black residue coating the surface.

On the fifth step from the top he found it.

A length of slender black twine lay hidden in slime. Alex fished it from the filthy muck and discovered it was attached to a small nail embedded in the mortar between the stones in the wall. The twine was made of perhaps a dozen or more threads braided together, rendering it fine but surprisingly strong. The length was not sufficient to span the width of the stairs, but the frayed ends suggested it had broken from a longer piece. He bent down and examined the opposite wall. There was the second nail, with its fragment of twine still dangling from it. The nails had been positioned at approximately ankle level, right at the edge of the step. The unsuspecting victim would not tread directly on the dark twine strung between the nails, but could not avoid catching her foot on it. Whoever had done this had not bothered to retrieve the nails after Gwendolyn was found. Either they were extremely careless or they wanted someone to find out that Gwendolyn’s fall had not been an accident.

Alex angrily yanked the nails out of the wall and hurried down the steps, heedless of their slippery state. He strode swiftly along the passage leading to Morag’s chamber and threw the door open.

“Good evening, Alex,” said Morag cheerily, unperturbed by his unexpected entrance. “Or should I say, good morning?”

She was standing at a long, scarred table cluttered with cracked jugs and jars of every size imaginable, pouring a thick brown liquid through a piece of green cloth, which was stretched over a jug. Her silver brows were furrowed and her gaze intent as she watched the filtering potion change from a murky brown to a creamy shade. Alex waited.

“Yes,” she finally said, her green eyes still fixed on her work, “I knew about the twine.”

“Who did it?” he demanded.

Morag set down the flask of brown liquid and sighed. “That I don’t know. The vision was unclear, as so many of them are now. I could not see who had placed it there.”

“Is that why you left Gwendolyn a note in her chamber? To warn her of the danger?”

“You know I left no note, Alex. I do not know how to scribe.”

He nodded. “I thought perhaps you had someone write it for you.”

“No.”

He raked his hand through his hair, agitated. “There is someone in the clan who wants her gone.”

“There are many within the clan who want her gone,” Morag corrected him. She picked up the jug, grasped her staff, and moved toward the fire. “Surely this cannot surprise you.”

“I was hoping that even if they feared her, they would learn to tolerate her. For my son’s sake.”

“Only for David’s sake?”

“I brought her here to heal my son. That is all.”

Morag bent and began to pour the creamy liquid from the pitcher into a steaming cauldron. A thick, mossy foam rose from the pot, and the air grew spicy and sharp. She took a wooden spoon and slowly stirred the mixture. “Perhaps David is the reason you brought her here, Alex,” she conceded, “but he is not the reason you want to keep her here.”

“I have told her that once she cures my son she may go.”

“Because you had no choice. But even as you said it, you were not sure you meant it.”

“I want to know who is trying to drive Gwendolyn away, Morag,” Alex growled.

“Then you must watch her carefully. The witch’s powers are great. There are many who would destroy them, and then there are those who would have them for their own.”

He needed no further warning. He strode purposefully toward the door, cursing himself for leaving Gwendolyn alone in her chamber. As he jerked the door open, he hesitated. “If her powers are so great, then why has she not healed David yet?”

Morag smiled. “Some things cannot be accomplished swiftly. Healing takes time.”

“So does dying,” replied Alex, not certain whether he was speaking of his son or himself.

         

He eased the door open quietly, as he used to when he would enter Flora’s chamber, not wishing to disturb her if she slept.

She was gone.

Panic gripped him. He spun about and descended the tower steps two at a time, trying to think. She must have staggered away on her own, confused and disoriented, and fallen again. Either that or whoever wanted her gone had grown even bolder and decided to abduct her from her chamber. Alex cursed his carelessness in leaving her alone. He had vowed to keep her safe, yet it seemed he could not protect her even within the walls of his own castle.

“Cameron! Brodick! Ned!” he shouted, storming down the hallway.

Ned silently slipped from the shadows and appeared in a thin shaft of early morning light.

“Gwendolyn is missing again,” Alex said, the ferocity of his tone masking his fear.

“She is with David. I followed her there.”

Alex nodded brusquely, as if he might have expected that.

“There you are, Alex,” Brodick called out, hurrying down the corridor with Cameron at his side. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“What is it?”

“A missive from Laird MacSween,” said Cameron, handing him a stiff scroll of paper. “A messenger arrived a few moments ago. He is awaiting your response.”

Alex impatiently broke the crimson seal and unraveled the document.

MacDunn,

Your gift was most generous, but I cannot permit you to keep her. Her freedom was won at too great a cost, to say nothing of how you have dishonored my clan. I implore you: Send her back, or I shall be forced to declare war on you.

MacSween

The civilized plea made it clear that Laird MacSween had drafted this document himself. Had Robert composed it, the tone would have been far more menacing. Although Alex had hoped the chest of gold and the apologetic letter he had sent would soothe the MacSweens’ ire, Laird MacSween was absolutely right to give him this ultimatum. Alex had stolen one of his clan members, obstructed MacSween justice, and killed a number of warriors, all while he was a guest of the clan. Laird MacSween might believe Alex was mad and therefore not entirely responsible for his actions, but that did not mean they could go unpunished.

“Is he thanking you for your gift?” Brodick asked dryly, sensing there was trouble ahead.

“He thought it was considerate of me to send it,” Alex replied, “but he wants her back anyway.”

Cameron’s expression brightened. “So it’s war, then, is it?” “Not for as long as we can delay it,” Alex mused. “The clan is unhappy enough about Gwendolyn’s presence without thinking she is causing war. Her fall yesterday proves there are those here who would be only too happy to deliver her back to the MacSweens themselves.”

Brodick eyed him in disbelief. “Surely you don’t think someone in the clan would purposely harm her?”

“Someone gave her reason to be on those stairs and then made certain she fell.”

“By God,” growled Cameron, “when I catch the cowardly dog who did it, I’ll tear him to pieces!”

“What do you want us to do?” Brodick demanded.

“She is never to be left alone,” Alex instructed. “Ned, you will take the first shift of watching her, then Cameron, then Brodick. Whoever is trying to harm her may attempt to do so again. I want to make damn sure they don’t get the opportunity.”

“She won’t like that,” Ned said. “Being watched all the time.”

“She won’t know,” Alex countered. “You will be as discreet as possible. That way whoever wants to drive her away may reveal themselves to us unintentionally.”

“What about the MacSweens?” asked Cameron. “Are you going to send a message back?”

“Not right away. Brodick, tell the courier I am indisposed and cannot respond at this time. Allude to the idea that I have gone temporarily mad and there is no telling when I will be lucid again. Invite him to wait and join you in a meal. Then get him drunk and put him in the stables to sleep it off. We will delay his departure for as long as possible, and then we will give him a message that will make MacSween think we want to avoid war at all costs and have every intention of sending Gwendolyn back.”

“Are you worried we may not be able to best the MacSweens in battle?” Brodick asked.

“I have no doubt the clan will fight to protect our holding, but I’m not certain how much they will be willing to sacrifice for the sake of a witch. Best to avoid the attack for as long as possible.”

“Then this messenger isn’t going anywhere today,” Brodick announced, smiling. “And not tomorrow or the next day, either.”

“Good,” said Alex. “Cameron, you will take stock of our weapons. Order a sufficient supply of new arrows made, have all the swords, dirks, and spears sharpened, and tell the men to assemble at once for early morning training. I will be with you shortly.”

Brodick and Cameron set off to carry out his orders, while Ned slipped back into a dark niche in the corridor.

Alex inhaled deeply, once again preparing himself for whatever his son’s condition might be, then quietly opened the door to his room.

“…so I bounced down the stairs like Mungo’s head,” Gwendolyn said as she gently bathed David’s face with a wet cloth. “It must have been quite a thing to watch!”

“Was there blood?”

“Gallons of it. I thought for certain I was going to drown.”

His blue eyes widened in pure horror.

“Actually, not that much at all,” she quickly amended, realizing that David did not enjoy gore so much when it concerned real life. “I barely scratched my head.”

David regarded her dubiously. “Then what’s that awful stuff in your hair?”

Gwendolyn self-consciously raised her hand to her sticky hair. “Why—there was a puddle of slimy muck on the floor, and I’m afraid I rolled right into it. When your father found me, he didn’t know whether to take me to my chamber or toss me in the well!”

“In retrospect, I think the well would have been a better choice.”

Gwendolyn then hastily drew up the plaid that had fallen around her waist and draped it around her shoulders. She regarded Alex guiltily, like a child who had been caught disobeying an order.

“I was feeling much better,” she told him defensively, “so I decided to visit David.”

Her discomfiture added to Alex’s pleasure as he stood there watching her. She was perched on David’s bed, her bare feet peeking out from the bottom of her thin chemise, untidily wrapped in a red and black plaid that kept slipping off the silky skin of her shoulders. The purple stain on her cheek seemed worse in the morning light, but perhaps it was because her impossibly pale skin made the bruise darker by contrast. She set down the cloth she had been using to bathe David’s face and gently brushed back a wayward lock of his hair, as if wanting to make him more presentable for his father. Alex found himself moved by the gesture, and by the fact that the moment she had the strength to rise from her bed, her first thought was to care for his son. It had been the same with Flora, he reflected, in the early days of her illness, before her ever-weakening body finally entombed her in her bed.

He shoved the painful memory into the dark recesses of his mind.

“You are going to get a chill running around dressed like that,” he said brusquely. “You will return to your chamber and get back into bed at once.”

“But I’m not ill,” Gwendolyn protested, crossing the plaid modestly over her chest. “And I’m feeling much better.”

“You have had a bad fall. You need to rest.”

“Is that blood?” David asked, staring curiously at Alex’s stained shirt.

“No—it’s wine,” Gwendolyn quickly assured him. “I rested all night,” she told Alex, disliking the idea of being treated as if she were infirm. “I don’t want to rest anymore. Besides, David needs me.”

“You will be of little use to him if you become ill with fever or suddenly faint dead away. You will rest today, and if you seem well enough tomorrow, then you may return to tending David.”

“Really, MacDunn, I am not nearly as fragile as you think. All I require is a hot bath,” she said, rising from the bed, “and I shall feel perfectly—”

Pain shot through her skull. She stifled a moan and sat back on the bed, cradling her head in her hands.

Within two strides Alex was kneeling before her. “What is it?” He cupped her chin with his hand. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Gwendolyn managed, although she was not entirely sure of that. “My head just hurts a little.” She closed her eyes, struggling to conquer her pain.

“Ned!” Alex called sharply.

Within an instant Ned appeared in the doorway.

“You will help Gwendolyn to her chamber at once and see that she returns to her bed and stays there.”

“I don’t need any help,” Gwendolyn said stubbornly.

“You can either permit Ned to assist you or I will pick you up and carry you myself. The choice is yours.”

Gwendolyn shot him a disgruntled look. Realizing she had no choice, she turned to David and gave him a weak smile. “I will be back to see you this afternoon, David. Until then, I shall ask Clarinda to come and sit with you.”

David regarded her fearfully. “Will you be all right?”

“Of course I shall be all right,” Gwendolyn assured him, stroking his cheek. “I’m just a little tired.”

“When you come back, I will tell you the story about the giant who mashed up the eyes of warriors to make a spread for his oatcakes,” David offered. “That always makes me feel better.”

“What kind of ghastly stories have you been telling the lad?” Alex asked.

Gwendolyn cautiously rose from the bed and accepted Ned’s arm. “Just a few silly tales,” she replied innocently. “As I’m sure you know, David likes his stories with a bit of blood and gore.”

Alex frowned. He had no idea what kind of stories his son preferred.

“Maybe you could sit with him until Clarinda comes, and David could tell you one,” she suggested.

“I will tell you one about the mighty Torvald,” David offered eagerly. “He is a powerful warrior like you, who lived far away in a land called—”

“I don’t have time for storytelling,” Alex interrupted impatiently. “Already the morning is half wasted. I must lead my men in training.”

“Of course,” said Gwendolyn. “Perhaps another time. When you can spare a moment for less important matters.” Her voice was cool with disapproval.

Satisfied that both Gwendolyn and his son were safe for the moment, Alex quit the room, turning his thoughts to the upcoming challenge of a MacSween attack.

But all that morning he was plagued by the strange feeling that he had disappointed her, although he could not imagine how, or why it should matter to him.

“Who would do such a foul thing?”

The small gathering assembled in Ewan and Lettie’s cottage regarded each other uneasily, troubled by Owen’s question.

“ ’Tis one thing to burn a gown,” Reginald observed, “for no one is actually hurt. But if someone purposely tries to harm the lass, that is another matter entirely.”

“We don’t know that it wasn’t an accident,” argued Lachlan. “The witch might have been entranced in some evil spell, and as she was concentrating all her unearthly powers on slaughtering us as we sleep, she tripped.”

“Why would such a sweet lass want to kill us?” Owen asked.

“She isn’t sweet,” Lachlan countered. “And she isn’t fair, and she isn’t young. Munro has already told us that she looks like a shriveled old toe.”

Owen scratched his white head, considering this. “How is it that Munro can see this but the rest of us cannot?”

“I have a gift,” Munro boasted.

“More like a curse,” observed Garrick, “if she looks that bloody awful!”

The clan members laughed.

“Maybe she fell because she was drunk,” suggested Farquhar. He took a deep swig of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “She drinks, you know.”

“I’ve spent more time in her company than you, and I’ve never known her to take more than a cup of wine,” Clarinda countered impatiently.

“Those lower stairs are very slippery,” Robena pointed out. “It’s easy to see how someone could have fallen down them—especially if the torch had gone out.”

“It couldn’t have just gone out,” objected Quentin. “I checked the torches just yesterday and made sure they were all well oiled, with plenty of rag for burning. That torch had hours of light in it.”

“Perhaps there was a sudden gust of wind,” Robena suggested.

“From where?” asked Ewan. “There are no windows in that passage.”

“The witch must have stirred the air into a wind as she walked,” Lettie decided. “Haven’t you noticed how strange the weather has become since she arrived?”

“It always rains when her mood is foul,” Lachlan grumbled.

“How do you know what her mood is?” wondered Owen.

“A wee drop of rain may be one thing, but I’ve never seen her extinguish a torch just by walking by it,” said Reginald.

“Did you see how upset MacDunn was when he found her?” asked Marjorie. “Sat with her like a man possessed, not letting anyone else near her.”

“Perhaps he is possessed,” said Lachlan. “No doubt that’s part of her wicked plan!”

“It’s the madness.” Clarinda sighed, shaking her head. “Poor man. Her lying helpless and still like that must have reminded him of Flora.”

“The witch looks nothing like Flora,” contradicted Robena sharply.

“But does MacDunn know that?” wondered Garrick. “Or is his mind playing tricks on him once again?”

“MacDunn knows the difference between a witch and his dead wife,” Marjorie argued. “He was only disturbed because the witch is his last hope to cure poor David.”

“But if his mind were sound he would realize she is killing David,” said Elspeth. “Plunging the poor lad into freezing baths, exposing him to drafts, and letting the poisons fill his body. Did you see the dreadful red bumps that rose on him the other day?”

“He has had those before, Elspeth,” Marjorie reminded her. “When he was in your care.”

“He should have been bled immediately for it,” Elspeth snapped. “He hasn’t had a good bleeding since she arrived—I hate to think how tainted his poor flesh must be.”

“He actually seems a little stronger at times than he used to,” observed Clarinda. “I think Gwendolyn may be doing him some good.”

“If she strengthens him, it is only so she can sacrifice him to the devil,” Elspeth returned. “That is her plan.”

“What about this chap who arrived today from the MacSweens?” said Owen. “Does anybody know what message he brought?”

“Last I saw of him, he was sitting in the hall drinking with Brodick,” Quentin reported. “Don’t know what became of him after that.”

“MacSween has no doubt sent him to declare war on us,” fretted Lachlan. “And tomorrow morning we shall waken to find we have been slashed to pieces as we sleep!”

“Do forgive, Lachlan, but if we are slashed to pieces, how will we waken?” asked Owen.

“I shall find the scurvy knave and serve him his bowels for breakfast!” declared Reginald fiercely. “Let’s see what the MacSweens think of that!” He reached for his sword, frowned, then checked between his spindly calves to see if it had somehow slipped behind him. “That’s odd, I was sure I had it with me.”

“I doubt Brodick would share a jug with someone who was about to attack us,” said Ewan reasonably. “MacSween likely sent the messenger to thank MacDunn for his gift. Why else would Brodick be treating him like a guest?”

“If he’s a guest, then why hasn’t he been introduced to the rest of us?” wondered Garrick.

“Perhaps MacDunn has forgotten about him,” suggested Lettie. “He was very preoccupied today.”

“He was absorbed with readying the clan for battle,” said Lachlan, “because he knows we are about to be slain!”

“MacDunn always seems a little preoccupied,” Clarinda pointed out. “It is because he is listening to Flora.”

“If the MacSweens attack, then we shall have to fight them. It is as simple as that,” declared Reginald.

“I say we just give them the witch and be done with it,” said Lachlan. “No point in sacrificing our lives for a sorceress who is just going to kill us anyway.”

“MacDunn would never permit us to do such a thing,” protested Marjorie. “He still believes she can heal his son.”

“And maybe she can,” added Clarinda. “Sometimes David actually seems to be getting better.”

“That’s splendid!” declared Owen enthusiastically.

“And other times it is clear he is dying,” said Elspeth.

Owen’s expression fell. “That’s terrible.”

“I believe we need to be patient,” proposed Reginald. “If the lass somehow manages to cure David, then perhaps MacDunn will recover from the melancholy that has claimed him since the lad first fell ill.”

“He has been melancholy for four years now,” Clarinda argued. “Ever since his Flora died.”

“There have been times when he has been happy,” countered Robena.

“Happy?” repeated Owen. He frowned, considering. “He has pieced his mind back together relatively well, and he certainly has been a dedicated and hardworking laird. But I’ve known the lad all his life, and I would not say he was happy.”

“His mind is cracked,” added Reginald. “If David dies, it will be broken completely. We will lose him forever.”

“Then we must let Gwendolyn do what she can to save David,” said Clarinda firmly. “And let us make sure no more accidents happen, either to her or to her gowns.”

“The lass is right,” decided Owen. “We shall bide our time awhile longer, for the sake of MacDunn and the lad.”

“And if David dies as a result of the witch’s care?” demanded Elspeth.

“Then we must send her back to the MacSweens,” said Lachlan firmly, “and tell them to burn her.”