CHAPTER 9

Someone was banging his skull with a mallet.

Alex groaned and shifted onto his side. The pounding in his brain continued, hard and infuriatingly relentless. He cursed and buried his head under his pillow, struggling to lose himself in sleep once more.

“MacDunn!” shrieked a woman’s voice. “MacDunn!”

The screeching pierced the thick haze of his weariness. Exasperated, he flung his pillow onto the floor and cracked open an eye. The chamber was shrouded in charcoal light, telling him it was not yet dawn. He sat up slowly, his hand pressed hard against his aching forehead.

“MacDunn!” screamed Elspeth from the corridor. “Wake up!” The banging against the door grew louder, until Alex felt certain his skull was about to explode.

“For God’s sake, cease that racket!” he roared. He tossed down the covers and stalked angrily across the chamber, only to have his foot collide with an empty wine ewer. Swearing, he gave the object a churlish kick before heaving his chamber door open. “What the hell is it?”

His expression must have been formidable, for neither Elspeth nor Alice seemed able to speak. Their eyes were as wide as cups, and the iron ladle Alice had been using to whack against the door was frozen in midair.

“Speak!”

“Th-the lad,” stammered Elspeth, finally finding her tongue.

“What about him?”

“The witch is…starving him,” Alice managed.

“How the hell could she be starving him?” snapped Alex. “For God’s sake, it’s still the middle of the night!”

“What’s amiss, lad?” Owen asked, sleepily shuffling out from his chamber. He studied Alex a moment, rubbed his eyes with his fists, then looked at him again. “Haven’t been the same since the witch melted them,” he muttered.

“By God, I’m ready!” Reginald’s door flew open and he emerged, dragging his sword behind him. On seeing Alex, he stopped and stared, aghast. “Good Lord, lad, you can’t go into battle like that!”

“I wasn’t thinking of going anywhere except back to bed.”

“But we’re under attack!” Reginald raised his sword, then gazed around in confusion at the small party gathered in the corridor. “Aren’t we?”

“I told you it was nothing,” chided Marjorie, stepping from their chamber with a plaid draped around her. “Now come back to bed, before you catch your death of—” She stopped suddenly, staring at Alex.

“What is all this blasted noise about?” demanded Lachlan crossly. “A man requires a minimal amount of sleep, and I don’t see how I’m supposed to get it with all of you out here carrying on as if it were a bloody—I say, MacDunn, aren’t you cold, running around naked like that?”

“He isn’t naked,” Owen assured Lachlan. “It’s just your eyes.”

Alex looked down, swore silently, then retreated into his room.

“Tell me what happened,” he ordered, wrapping his plaid around his waist.

“The witch came down to the kitchen and told Alice that David is to have nothing but bread and water,” Elspeth explained. “Nothing.”

“Not so much as an egg, or a bit of meat, or a crumb of cheese,” elaborated Alice. “Or even a wee drop of milk, or a cup of ale, or a piece of fresh fish, or a few sweet berries—”

“I understand,” Alex interrupted her. “Did she say why?”

“Because she is trying to starve him to death!” Elspeth exclaimed. “And it won’t be a difficult task, with the lad so sick and so pitifully thin. He’ll be dead within a day—two at the very most!”

“I begged her to reconsider and to let me take him some of the fine rabbit stew I made yesterday,” said Alice. “And she told me I was to take him nothing at all, unless I was willing to face your wrath!”

“My wrath?”

“She said you had entrusted David’s care to her once again and that you had sworn if anyone disobeyed her orders, you would see to it that they were severely punished.”

Alex vainly tried to recall making such a pledge. Gwendolyn flooded his mind, her slender fingers laced into his hair as she held him to the paleness of her breast, her body pulsing frantically as a breathless cry tore from the back of her throat—

“…Alex?” said Owen, a little louder this time.

Alex inhaled sharply, trying to extinguish the desire raging through his body. “Yes?”

“Did you say that?”

Everyone was staring at him, their expressions grim. The throbbing in his head intensified. Had he told Gwendolyn that? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was he had brought her to his chamber and forced himself on her like an animal. And afterward he had fetched several jugs of wine and proceeded to get thoroughly drunk—which accounted for this godawful pounding in his head. He rubbed his temple, trying to think.

If you try to return me to my clan, I will escape and come back here. David needs me.

She had stood before him as she told him this, her determination almost eclipsing her fear. At that moment, she had wanted to stay—for no reason other than to care for his son. After what Alex had done to her last night, he could not blame her if she decided to flee. Instead she was downstairs before first light, embarking on some new, bizarre course of healing. He could not imagine what she hoped to achieve by feeding his son only bread and water. Perhaps it was some sort of cleansing rite in preparation for a spell. All he knew was that she had told him the truth.

No matter what he did to her, she would not abandon his son. “You will respect Gwendolyn’s instructions,” he ordered, praying he was not making the wrong decision. “If she says the lad is to eat nothing but bread and water, so be it. No one is to interfere, or secretly feed my son when she isn’t there. Is that understood?”

“He will starve to death!” protested Elspeth, horrified.

“Or he may get better,” countered Alex, although in truth he failed to see how. “We shall have to wait and see.”

         

“…and then the terrible giant chewed the warriors until their flesh and bones were nothing but runny, blood-soaked pulp.”

David stared critically at the platter of misshapen bread figures. “These are too fat to be warriors.”

“They grew a bit stout as they baked,” Gwendolyn admitted. “But the giant preferred nice, plump warriors to little scrawny ones.” She handed him one.

“Why are they naked?” he asked, tearing a leg off and popping it into his mouth.

“I tried dressing the first batch in plaids, but when they came out of the oven their plaids had risen so much they looked just like turtles.”

“Can I see them?”

“They were also a little burned,” she confessed, “so I threw them out. But look, I have a nice plate of fish for you.”

His blue eyes widened with anticipation. “Real fish?”

“No. Bread fish.”

He scrunched up his nose. “I’m tired of bread,” he complained, ripping the head off a warrior and squishing it flat with his thumb.

“Maybe if you are still feeling better tomorrow, we will try a little broth.”

David rolled his eyes. “Broth isn’t food,” he informed her. “I want something I can chew.”

“Very well,” relented Gwendolyn, encouraged by the fact that he was actually developing an appetite. “I will put something in the broth that you can chew. Now finish eating.”

She watched him as he savagely mutilated the remaining warriors before slowly eating them. She could not blame him for feeling frustrated. For five days now she had fed him nothing but bread and water. On the first day he was too ill to care much, but by the second day he was beginning to feel a little better and quickly began to complain. Unwilling to abandon her experiment too soon, Gwendolyn tried to make his diet more interesting for him by baking the bread into interesting shapes. Early each morning Alice provided her with dough, which Gwendolyn labored to mold into figures that might amuse David. Unfortunately, these forms baked with widely varying degrees of success.

On the first day the fine herd of horses she had created puffed up far more than she expected, until their bellies were bloated and their legs resembled little stumps. She told David they were wild boars, but he pointed out that their tails were too long. The next day she attempted an intricate castle and shaped a laird and an assortment of little clan members to dwell within it. The finely detailed castle emerged from the oven as a giant blob, its inhabitants a scorched collection of smaller blobs. Deciding she needed to simplify her efforts, she went on to shape stars, moons, and a few flowers. But it was difficult to weave an enticingly gory story with such innocuous figures. That was when David suggested she try her hand at monsters. These turned out as bulbous lumps with long necks, and the sharp fangs and talons she had painstakingly fashioned for them spread and baked together, turning into webbed feet and ridiculously misshapen heads. When Gwendolyn told David what they were supposed to be, he burst into laughter and then, sensing her distress, politely assured her they really did look like terrifying monsters.

While her attempts at baking were an unequivocal failure, thus far David’s frugal diet was showing promising results. The red spots on his face and neck had disappeared, and he had not suffered from any fits of nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea. Of course Elspeth told her this was because he had nothing inside him, and that he would surely be dead within a day if she didn’t give him some decent food. But Gwendolyn made certain David consumed a sufficient quantity of bread and water that his body could reject it if it chose. Miraculously, it did not. Although he remained pale and weak, David had passed five days without sickness. While this did not prove that his illness was caused by the food he ingested, it was possible that whatever was wrong with him made certain foods intolerable to his body. Therefore, Gwendolyn reasoned, if she carefully controlled what he ate, his body might have a chance to rest and grow strong again. If he still fared well tomorrow, she planned to let him have one new food—perhaps an egg or a chunk of cheese—and see how he responded to it.

“When can I go outside again?” he asked, nibbling half-heartedly on a warrior’s bloated arm.

“Not for a while,” replied Gwendolyn. “We must wait until you are feeling better.”

“I’m feeling better now. And I’m tired of staying in bed all the time.”

“I know you are. But your father has said you are not to leave the castle without his permission. If you want to go outside, you must ask him if he will allow it.”

“He hasn’t visited me for days,” complained David. “Has he gone away?”

“No.”

He frowned. “Then why doesn’t he come to see me?”

“I imagine he is very busy. Perhaps he will visit you today and you can ask him about going outside.”

“If he doesn’t, will you find him and ask him for me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because I cannot bear to face him, she thought helplessly.

She had not seen MacDunn since the night she had followed him to his chamber. He had wanted to punish her, and he had, although not in a way that she ever could have imagined. Instead of striking her, he had cast a spell of dark desire over her that made her long for him. With every gentle caress of her skin, with each aching suckle upon her breast, and with the warm, powerful feel of him as he stretched over her, holding her safe within his hard embrace, he had bound her to him more strongly than if he had used chains. A brilliant fire had raged inside her that night, and every time she thought of MacDunn the heat of it blazed through her once again. He had tried to take her by force, but ultimately no force was necessary. She had lain with him and offered herself, had grown hot and slick and ravenous for him, and when it was over and she was curled alone on her own bed, shame had consumed her like a burning fever.

Her clan was right, she realized miserably. She was a whore.

While she had purposely avoided MacDunn, she had felt certain that the moment he heard of the unusual course she was taking with his son, he would confront her about it—especially since everyone in the clan believed she was starving David to death. But MacDunn had not sought her out. It was clear he had told the others not to interfere, for no one had challenged her right to care for David since that first morning when Elspeth and Alice vowed they would have MacDunn stop her. Although he had no desire to see either her or his son, he was willing to grant her one more opportunity to heal David.

“If I can’t go outside, can I at least sit by the window and see what’s happening in the courtyard?” asked David, pulling her from her thoughts. “They’re making a lot of noise out there.”

Gwendolyn rose from her chair and went to the window. A crowd of MacDunns were watching in astonishment as Garrick and Quentin rode through the gates, leading a young woman on a magnificent white horse. The woman’s brown hair fell over her shoulders in thick, matted clumps, and her elegant scarlet riding cloak was torn and splattered with mud. Despite her unkempt appearance, the woman’s bearing was frostily regal as she glared at the MacDunns gathering around her.

“Good Lord,” Gwendolyn exclaimed, “it’s Isabella!”

David instantly tossed down his covers and padded over to the window. “Is she a friend of yours?” he asked, peering down into the courtyard.

“She is Laird MacSween’s daughter.” What on earth was Isabella doing here?

“Does she always look so mean?”

“I’m afraid she does.”

“Look, Lachlan is bringing her something to drink,” said David, pointing. “That should make her feel welcome.”

Gwendolyn gasped and raced out of the chamber.

         

“Take your hands off me, you filthy, hairy brute!” commanded Isabella, swatting at Garrick’s hand.

“I was only trying to assist you off your mount,” he grumbled.

“ ’Tis another witch,” Munro said, eyeing her fearfully. “Come to spread more evil among us!”

“I am most certainly not a witch!” declared Isabella, indignant. “I am the daughter of Laird MacSween.”

“Now, that’s a foolish tale, lass,” said Ewan, shaking his head. “No laird would permit his daughter to go riding about the countryside by herself.”

“Where is your fine escort?” Lettie asked.

“And why are you so dirty?” Farquhar added.

“Here, now, lassie,” said Lachlan, emerging through the crowd carrying a goblet. “You must be sorely parched. Have a wee drink, and you’ll feel much better.”

“Finally, someone who knows how to properly greet an honored guest,” sniffed Isabella. She haughtily reached for the cup.

“Isabella—no!”

Everyone looked at Gwendolyn in surprise.

“Gwendolyn!” gasped Isabella. “You’re alive!” Her eyes were round with shock, making it impossible to tell whether this revelation pleased or disturbed her.

“Lachlan,” began Gwendolyn, her tone disapproving, “you should not be offering our guest such strong drink.”

“ ’Tis only wine,” he replied innocently, squinting at her through the bright sunlight.

Gwendolyn regarded him sternly.

“It won’t hurt her,” he assured her. “After all, she is a witch.”

“No, she isn’t. She is the daughter of Laird MacSween.”

Lachlan stared at Isabella in disbelief.

In truth, Gwendolyn could not blame the MacDunns for their incredulity. Isabella’s hair lay in stringy clumps over her heavily stained cloak, and her cheeks and forehead were streaked with dirt. The sun had burned her nose a bright red, which contrasted sharply against the dark purple shadows ringing her eyes. She maintained an admirable air of practiced disdain, but Gwendolyn detected a hint of desperation in her gaze.

“Are you sure she’s not a witch?” demanded Lachlan.

“Quite sure.”

He sighed and lowered the goblet, disappointed.

“Gwendolyn, you must take me to see Mad MacDunn immediately,” commanded Isabella.

Gwendolyn fought to control her anxiety. Why had Isabella come here?

“MacDunn isn’t here,” said Ned, moving beside Gwendolyn. “He has gone hunting with some of the men.”

“When will they return?” asked Gwendolyn.

Ned shrugged. “Probably late tonight.”

“Unless, of course, it’s earlier,” Garrick said.

“It might even be tomorrow,” pointed out Lachlan. “You never quite know with MacDunn.”

“Why don’t you come inside and rest awhile, Isabella?” Gwendolyn suggested. “You must be exhausted after such a long journey.”

“I shall require a hot bath immediately,” Isabella informed Lachlan, dismounting from her horse. “With precisely four spoonfuls of your finest rose oil mixed into the water—no more—and two extra kettles of heated water to keep the bath warm. I shall also need a new gown—preferably red—with pleasing stitching at the neck, cuffs, and hem. Make certain the fabric is soft,” she warned firmly, “or I won’t wear it.”

Lachlan stared at her, dumbfounded. “Are you suggesting I fetch these things for you?”

“Of course not. I can see you are far too decrepit to manage a heavy tub on your own. Have these two young brutes help you.” She gestured at Garrick and Quentin. “Gwendolyn will tell you which chamber I am to have. I will also have a tray of roasted chicken, fresh, lightly warmed bread, a peeled, sliced apple, and a dish of ripe berries in cream. And I want ale to drink.” She cast a critical eye at the liquid frothing in the goblet Lachlan was holding. “That wine is far too young to be served.”

She adjusted her mud-streaked cape around her shoulders and swept regally through the crowd of MacDunns, leaving Lachlan to stare in bewilderment after her.

         

“You ran away?” said Gwendolyn, stunned. “But why?”

“Because my life is over!” Isabella wept dramatically as she lay sprawled on Gwendolyn’s bed. “I can never return to my clan!”

“What happened?”

“Some time after MacDunn so cruelly abandoned me in the woods, Robert finally found me.”

“MacDunn wasn’t abandoning you, Isabella,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “He was setting you free, as he had promised your father he would. And he knew Robert had come to fetch you and would find you shortly.”

“That madman deserted me!” Isabella railed. “Leaving me alone to fend for myself in the woods! I might have starved to death or frozen in the night!”

Gwendolyn refrained from mentioning that MacDunn had left her ample food, water, and a well-fed fire.

“Robert was in the foulest of tempers because MacDunn had slain all of his men,” Isabella went on. “He had no interest in hearing about what I had been through! All during the journey back he kept telling me it was all my fault that you had escaped—as if I had any choice about that scoundrel Brodick holding a dirk to my throat! He didn’t seem to be the least bit concerned that I might have been killed—or worse!” She sniffed into a scrap of linen.

No, thought Gwendolyn, Robert would not have been sympathetic to the travails of his niece. He was too concerned with finding Gwendolyn and stealing the stone.

“When we arrived home,” Isabella continued, “my father was relieved that I had been returned safely and was prepared to leave well enough alone. But Robert told him that I was ruined because I had been abducted and forced to spend the night with Mad MacDunn and his men. I assured them that I hadn’t been ravished, but Robert said I was lying. He convinced my father that no man would ever want me for a wife, and that I would have to be sent away immediately, in case I harbored MacDunn’s seed within me. That way, once the child was born it could be secretly killed. My father refused to send me anywhere, saying that he would offer a fortune in gold to the man who would marry me and restore my honor. And so Robert got his foulest, most brutal warrior, Derek, to offer for me, so that Robert could share his reward!”

“Surely your father rejected him?”

Isabella burst into tears. “I begged him to. I told him I would rather die than marry Derek. My father said it pained him greatly to see me so distraught, but that when I was older I would see this was the only way to salvage my life. And Robert vowed that as soon as Derek and I were married, he would lead an army here to destroy the MacDunns and avenge my honor.”

So that was it, Gwendolyn mused. Robert was using Isabella’s supposed defilement as an excuse to attack the MacDunns and capture Gwendolyn once again.

And when he had Gwendolyn as his prisoner, he would use any means necessary to force her to give him the stone.

“Since I would rather die than marry Derek, I decided to run away,” finished Isabella miserably.

“But why did you come here? Surely you must hate MacDunn and his warriors after they dishonored you and your clan.”

“I would like to see them all carved into tiny pieces with their bloody, steaming entrails rotting in the sun!” Isabella raged. She delicately dabbed her nose with her crumpled piece of linen and sighed. “But they are the only ones who know that my honor remains intact. And besides, where else could I go?”

“But how did you know the way here?”

“I remembered the direction we took when MacDunn abducted me. After I got past the woods, I just kept riding in the same direction. Of course I was absolutely terrified of being eaten by wolves, but I kept reminding myself of how I would rather die than be forced to marry Derek. Finally this morning these two horrid brutes found me. I told them I was looking for Mad MacDunn, and they said they were from his clan and agreed to bring me here.”

“And after you have rested, those same horrid brutes will escort you home,” drawled a harsh voice.

Gwendolyn’s breath caught in her chest as MacDunn entered the chamber with Cameron and Brodick.

“Bella,” said Brodick, concern in his voice, “you look absolutely frightful. What has happened to you?”

“Don’t you come near me, you horrible beast! I hate you!” She flung herself against Gwendolyn’s pillow and burst into a fresh torrent of tears.

“Looks like the lass didn’t get over it, Brodick,” Cameron commented wryly.

“What the hell is she doing here?” Alex asked, his gaze fixed hard on Gwendolyn.

“Isabella has run away from home,” she explained. “And she now seeks sanctuary with you.”

Alex looked incredulous. “Has she lost her mind?”

“Don’t cry, sweet Bella,” crooned Brodick, seating himself on the bed beside Isabella. “Whatever is wrong, we shall fix it.”

“It cannot be fixed,” wailed Isabella pitifully. “My life has been destroyed because of you, you cowardly defiler of beautiful, innocent women!” She sat up and whacked him with the pillow, then fell back and dissolved into tears once more.

“I think she still likes you, Brodick,” observed Ned.

“Would someone kindly explain to me what is going on?” Alex asked, wincing at the racket Isabella was making.

“It seems Robert has convinced Laird MacSween that his daughter has been ruined by all of you,” Gwendolyn explained.

“That’s ridiculous!” scoffed Cameron. “No one ever laid a hand on the lass.”

“And in a bid to salvage her sullied reputation, Robert has gallantly persuaded one of his most brutal warriors to take Isabella as his bride in return for a fortune in gold,” she finished.

Alex regarded Gwendolyn in disbelief. “Surely MacSween turned this warrior down—”

“No,” said Gwendolyn. “MacSween agreed to the match. And so Isabella ran away.”

Isabella’s wailing grew louder.

“Hush, now, sweet Bella,” crooned Brodick, stroking her back. “Everything is going to be fine. You’re safe now.”

“She cannot stay here,” Alex said. “Robert has been lusting for war since we took Gwendolyn, but MacSween has been holding off. We have just sent his messenger home with another apologetic letter and a bag of gold, but if we keep his daughter here against his wishes, MacSween will have no choice but to send an army for her. We must take her back.”

“No!” cried Isabella.

“Really, Alex, you can’t mean that,” protested Brodick.

“I have no choice, Brodick. I cannot risk the safety of the clan because Isabella doesn’t like her father’s choice of a husband.”

“But you are responsible for her situation,” Gwendolyn pointed out.

“It is hardly my fault that she has a milksop for a father and a bastard for an uncle,” countered Alex.

“Isabella did not ask to be abducted by you, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn argued, rising to face him. “You used her as a hostage so that you and your men could escape with me. Whether you like it or not, by taking her you destroyed her honor, and now she is suffering because of it. She has come here asking for your protection, and it is your duty to take responsibility for what you have done and help her however you can.”

“The lass is right, Alex,” agreed Cameron. “We’ve done wrong by this girl.”

“We’re talking about war, for God’s sake!” Alex thundered.

“That was a risk we were willing to take when we decided to steal Gwendolyn,” observed Brodick. “What does it matter if we fight a war over one woman or two?”

“Taking Gwendolyn was different,” Alex said.

“How?” asked Ned.

Because I needed a witch to heal my son, and for that I would have risked anything, Alex reflected grimly. But suddenly he realized how terribly selfish that was. He had not chanced war because it was his duty as laird to save the next MacDunn. He had done it because he could not bear to watch his son suffer and die.

And because the moment he saw Gwendolyn he knew he could not stand by and watch her be engulfed by flames.

Everyone was staring at him in disapproving silence.

“Fine,” he muttered. “She can stay here.”

Isabella blinked, as if she hadn’t understood.

And then she erupted into ear-splitting, hysterical sobbing.

“I’m glad to see my decision makes you happy,” commented Alex dryly.

“She’s a loud one, isn’t she?” remarked Cameron, wincing. “I feel a sudden need to make an inspection of the outer wall,” announced Alex. “Coming, Cameron? Ned?”

“Aye,” said Cameron, eager to escape the racket Isabella was making.

“I’ll come as well,” offered Brodick.

“No need,” Alex said. “I can see Isabella enjoys your company, Brodick. I insist that you stay with her.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary—” protested Brodick.

“ ’Tis clear she finds your presence comforting,” teased Cameron, following Alex out the door.

A slicing pain carved through Alex’s head as Isabella’s wailing reached new heights. When Robert came with Isabella’s betrothed, Alex would tie him up and force him to listen to her screeching.

A few hours of that and the poor bastard would be well cured of any desire to marry her.

         

“Aim for his throat! That’s it—now thrust your sword into his gut, where he has left himself open!”

Cameron obligingly shoved his sword forward.

“Brodick, watch out!” shrieked Isabella.

His attention diverted, Brodick leaped back a second too late and ended up sprawled on the ground.

“You’re a trifle slow today, my friend,” teased Cameron, the tip of his sword pressing into Brodick’s stomach. “Is something distracting you?”

“Your lovely wife,” said Brodick. “There’s something wonderful about a beautiful woman carrying life within her.”

Grinning proudly, Cameron turned to look. Brodick instantly raised his sword in a wide arc, sending Cameron’s weapon flying into the air.

“Cameron!” barked Alex. “Stay focused on your opponent!”

“I thought the fight was over,” muttered Cameron, casting Brodick an irritated glance.

“Have some pity, Alex,” Brodick said, rising. “The poor fellow is hopelessly in love with his wife.”

“He won’t be much good to her if he gets his belly carved open.”

“No one will get close enough to me to carve anything open,” Cameron scoffed, winking at Clarinda. “They’ll be dead long before they can so much as scratch me.”

Gwendolyn watched as Clarinda gave Cameron an exasperated smile, then lowered her head once again to the arrow she was fitting with a feather. The moment between husband and wife was fleeting, but Gwendolyn was moved by its tender intimacy.

“If you’re quite finished swaggering before your wife, Cameron, perhaps we could continue training,” suggested Alex.

“Certainly,” said Cameron, still smiling.

“Fine. Brodick, take a group of about seventy-five men over to the west wall and have them practice fighting with just their spears. Cameron, you continue to lead this group in swordplay. Ned, you will take another one hundred to the targets outside the wall and sharpen their archery skills. I am going to have the remainder work on fighting without weapons.”

Isabella added the poorly fletched arrow she had been working on to her meager pile and sighed. “My hands are cramped from all this work,” she complained. “I think I will stop for a while and take a stroll.”

“You should stay here and watch my father show the men how to fight without weapons,” David said. “My father is wonderful at that.”

“I’m sure he is,” Isabella agreed politely. “But I find wielding a spear so much more fascinating.” With that she quickly began to follow Brodick and his men to the west wall.

“She seems quite taken with our Brodick, poor thing,” observed Clarinda, shaking her head. “No doubt he charmed her from the moment they met.”

“Actually, he held a dirk to her throat and threatened to kill her,” said Gwendolyn, removing the mangled feather from one of Isabella’s arrows and replacing it.

“He did?” gasped David, clearly intrigued. He watched as Isabella daintily made her way through the churning maze of grunting warriors to be closer to Brodick. “How can Isabella like him if he did that to her?”

“ ’Tis a strange thing, losing your heart to a man,” mused Clarinda, smiling. “Sometimes it happens when you’re most certain you cannot abide him.”

“Isabella, for God’s sake be careful!” Brodick dashed into the fray to grab her. “You shouldn’t be so close to the men when they are training.”

“After ruining my life, I can’t see why you should care whether I get savagely mutilated by one of these spears,” sniffed Isabella. “I should think you would be pleased if I were sliced wide open and lay here bleeding to death on the ground as these great brutes crushed my bones into mush.”

“Bella, how can you say such terrible things?” asked Brodick, taking her arm and leading her out of the training area. “You know I would do anything for you….”

Gwendolyn shook her head, unable to comprehend why Brodick remained so gallant toward Isabella. “Are you cold, David?” she asked, adjusting the plaids she had arranged over him. “The wind is getting stronger.”

“I’m fine.”

“We shouldn’t stay out here much longer. Your father gave you permission to watch him train the men, but only for a short while.”

“But look,” David cried, pointing, “the men are starting to charge. Can’t we stay and watch?”

His blue eyes were bright and pleading, his thin cheeks faintly flushed by the cool wind blowing against his pale skin. It had been six long days since that terrible afternoon when Gwendolyn had last taken him outside. Since then she had kept the lad in his chamber, watching over him as he slowly recovered from his violent bout of illness. But with Isabella’s arrival yesterday, the castle had been swept into a whirlwind of activity as the clan prepared for the imminent arrival of the MacSweens, and David seemed to have been energized by it. No longer willing to remain in his bed, he had pleaded with his father for permission to watch the men as they practiced their fighting skills in the courtyard. MacDunn told the boy he could view the activity from his chamber window, but David had remained surprisingly steadfast in his request. He had assured his father the small excursion would do him good, and promised to tell Gwendolyn the moment he felt the least bit ill or tired.

Finally, MacDunn had relented.

“Well, I’m cold.” Gwendolyn rubbed her arms. “If we are to stay out here awhile longer, I must fetch a wrap. Clarinda, will you watch David for me while I run up to my chamber?”

“Of course. Look, David, see how well your father fights with just his hands!”

“He is just like the mighty Torvald,” said David proudly, “in the story Gwendolyn tells about the time he must battle a ferocious sea monster….”

         

The great hall was empty as Gwendolyn hurried through it and mounted the stairs leading to the tower. The looming arrival of Robert and his army had forced the MacDunns to set to work preparing for the attack. Alex had assigned tasks to all in the clan according to their abilities. While the fittest men trained to fight, the older men worked on fortifying the castle and preparing weapons. Youths who were too young to participate in the battle had been enlisted to gather heavy stones from the surrounding area and haul them up to the parapet, from where they would be dropped onto the MacSweens as they tried to climb the wall. The MacDunn women were busy making great stores of food in the event of a lengthy siege and were also helping to produce thousands of arrows. Even the young girls were hard at work filling the enormous cauldrons positioned over the gate with endless buckets of water, which would be kept boiling until the moment they were dumped on the MacSweens as they attempted to breach the gate. When Robert came, he would find the MacDunns prepared to meet his attack.

How much they would be willing to sacrifice for an unwelcome witch and a runaway laird’s daughter was another matter.

Gwendolyn frowned and blinked against the gloom as she pushed the door to her chamber open. Someone had closed the shutters of her windows, blocking the afternoon light. At first she suspected this was to conserve the essence of some smoldering herb meant to ward off her evil, but the air was relatively clear. Unable to fathom why someone would want to deprive her room of light, she went to the window and attempted to open the shutters. They wouldn’t give. She went to the next window, only to find its shutters also locked tight. She bent down and studied the latch, trying to discern what was keeping the shutters closed. Suddenly aware of a whisper of sound, she started to turn.

Pain exploded in her head, brilliant and paralyzing.

And then there was nothing.

         

“Did Brodick really hold a dirk to your throat?” David asked.

“The beast most certainly did,” Isabella replied, still annoyed at having been ordered to return to her seat on the opposite side of the courtyard. “And he said if I so much as breathed he would carve my head off and trample it beneath the dung-filled hooves of his horse.”

David considered this a moment. “It would be a lot of work to cut off someone’s head with a dirk. In Gwendolyn’s stories the warrior uses either a sword or an ax.”

“I suppose he might have resorted to his sword once I had collapsed onto the ground,” Isabella speculated. “But not until after I had suffered the most terrible pain, my last vision being of him seated on his mount high above me, his mouth twisted in an evil smile as he watched my blood flow like a river of scarlet around me!”

“That’s good!” exclaimed David. “Do you tell stories?”

“Certainly not,” she replied, insulted.

“But you would be wonderful at it! Just like Gwendolyn.”

Isabella regarded him uncertainly a moment, then realized he was actually complimenting her. “Do you really think so?”

“You certainly have a colorful way with words,” Clarinda observed, adding another neatly fletched arrow to the enormous stack beside her chair.

Isabella looked pleased. “Why, thank you, Clarinda. You’re very kind.”

“Maybe you could come to my chamber tonight and tell me a story,” David suggested. “I’m sure Gwendolyn won’t mind, since you are a friend from her clan.”

“Did Gwendolyn tell you that?” asked Isabella, surprised.

“Of course,” said David, although in fact he could not recall her exact words. “We watched you arriving from my chamber window, and she told me who you were. I was not allowed to come outside to greet you, of course, because I’m sick.”

“You seem quite well today,” Isabella noted.

“I have been feeling better since Gwendolyn stopped feeding me.”

“She stopped feeding you?”

“It’s part of a spell,” he explained. “To help me heal.”

“She does feed him,” interjected Clarinda, “but only certain foods in limited amounts.”

“Don’t you get hungry?” Isabella asked.

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But today she let me have a little bowl of porridge with my bread, and if I am still feeling well tomorrow, I may have one slice of apple.”

“That spell would never work for me, I’m afraid,” said Clarinda, giggling. “With this bairn growing so large, I now eat more than Cameron!”

“I’m a little hungry myself.” Isabella sniffed the air, frowning. “MacDunn should really speak to the men in the bake house. They are burning the bread to cinders.”

“Fire!” shouted Cameron, pointing suddenly with his sword. “In the west tower!”

Alex stared in horror at the black cloud spewing from the shuttered windows of Gwendolyn’s chamber. He lowered his gaze to where she had been sitting with David, expecting to find her there.

And then he began to run.

         

Smoke was pouring from the bottom of the door. Alex’s heart clenched as he jerked up the latch. The heavy door didn’t budge. He slammed his shoulder against it, grunting with effort. As the door gave, a searing cloud blasted from the chamber, choking him. Coughing violently, he stumbled inside. The room was dark except for the brilliant flames dancing on the bed, feasting ravenously upon an unmoving mound. Paralyzing fear overwhelmed him. His voice raw with despair, he called her name. He clenched his fists as he stared helplessly at the blazing pyre, blinking against the acrid sting of the smoke. He had failed her. He had saved her from fire once before, but it didn’t matter. Ultimately the flames had found her. He sank to his knees and moaned, fighting to grasp the taut threads of his sanity, which were threatening to snap as he watched the flames consume her.

Suddenly there was a muffled cough.

Startled, Alex rose to his feet. “Gwendolyn!” he shouted, searching the foggy darkness.

There was another cough, a tiny, birdlike sound, which was enough to guide him to her.

His eyes streaming from the terrible smoke, he staggered past the burning bed and found her in a crumpled heap upon the floor. He pulled her into his arms and cradled her tightly against his chest, then ran with her from the blazing tomb.

“Jesus, Alex!” said Brodick. He raced forward to take Gwendolyn from him as a dozen men carrying buckets of water surged into the chamber to battle the flames.

“I will carry her,” Alex rasped, gripping her even tighter.

“Clear the staircase!” commanded Cameron, waving the men who were crowding it back down. “Make way!”

Alex hurried down the staircase with his precious burden, acutely aware of how small and fragile she was as he held her within his arms. She will not die, he told himself fiercely, racing along the corridor. She cannot.

“Dear God, Alex, is she dead?” cried Robena, appearing suddenly in the hallway. Her face was pale with shock.

“No,” he replied harshly. “She is alive.”

Robena regarded him in silent sympathy, as if she thought his madness made him unable to accept the truth.

And then Gwendolyn coughed again.

“Take her into my chamber,” Robena offered, swiftly regaining her composure. “I will tend to her.”

Alex did not stop, but continued along the corridor toward his chamber.

“Alex, you cannot take her into your chamber,” Robena protested. “It isn’t seemly!”

He kicked open his chamber door. “I don’t give a goddamn whether it is seemly or not,” he growled. “She is mine, and I will bloody well look after her!”

He went inside and laid Gwendolyn gently on the bed. She was making horrible choking sounds, fighting to rid her lungs of smoke.

“Easy, now,” Alex soothed, helping her as she struggled to sit up. “Breathe slowly, Gwendolyn. Easy.”

Gwendolyn couldn’t respond, for her chest and throat were drawn tight, making it difficult to inhale even the tiniest breath. She hacked and gagged, certain she was going to drown any moment in the vile, burning phlegm that was rising in her throat.

Suddenly she threw herself over the side of the bed and vomited.

“Elspeth must bleed her,” said Robena as Elspeth marched through the doorway.

“Her body must be purged,” agreed Elspeth.

“You won’t touch her, Elspeth!” said Clarinda fiercely, waddling in behind them. “You only mean to harm her!”

“How dare you!” Elspeth’s eyes seethed with outrage. “That you could say such a thing, after the care I gave you when you brought that dead child into the world!”

“Oh, aye,” Clarinda responded caustically, “and all the while I screamed in torment as I labored to birth her, you told me ’twas God punishing me and I should bear it quietly, and when my poor bairn was strangled, you told me that I had angered God with my sins and my lust, and so he took my babe as punishment! ’Twas fine care, indeed!”

“Clarinda and I will tend to her,” announced Marjorie, who had also entered the room. “We don’t need your help, Elspeth.”

“MacDunn,” Elspeth said firmly, “you cannot allow—”

“Get out!” shouted Alex. “All of you!”

The women stared at him, startled.

“Out!” he roared, moving menacingly toward them.

They turned and scurried from the room.

Alex slammed the chamber door, blocking out the curious clan members who had gathered in the corridor. They were shocked by his behavior. No doubt they would spend the rest of the day debating whether or not he was going mad again.

Perhaps he was.

Gwendolyn had stopped retching and was lying limp on the bed, coughing. Alex wet a cloth, seated himself beside her, and began to gently wash her face.

“Take a deep breath, Gwendolyn,” he ordered quietly, sponging her smudged cheeks and lips with the cool water. “That’s it…slowly…now let it out. Very good. Now breathe in again.”

He continued to murmur soothing words to her as her breathing gradually steadied. When her chest was rising and falling with relative ease, he fetched her a cup of water.

“Rinse your mouth and spit into this basin.” He pulled her up once again and held her hair back, making sure none of the black silk fell near the bowl. Gwendolyn leaned weakly against his arm, took the cup from him, and obediently rinsed her mouth.

“Now take a few small sips of water. It will help ease the burning in your throat. Very good,” Alex soothed. “Your gown is blackened by the smoke. Let me help you take it off.”

Far too miserable to be concerned with modesty, Gwendolyn raised her arms and permitted Alex to unlace the back of her gown and pull it up over her head, leaving her clad only in her chemise. He tossed her gown onto the floor, quickly removed her shoes and stockings, then drew back the coverings on his bed and laid her against the clean sheets.

“Feel better?” he asked, carefully laying a plaid over her.

She nodded, then winced with pain.

Alex gingerly ran his fingers over her head. Gwendolyn flinched as he grazed an enormous swelling on the crown. His expression contained, he studied the blood staining his fingers. If Gwendolyn had fainted as a result of the smoke, she would not have fallen on the crown of her head.

Someone had struck her and left her to die in that fire, he realized harshly.

He bent down and began to clean up the vomit on the floor, trying to gain control of his rage. Mopping up sickness was a task he had grown well accustomed to in the long months he cared for Flora. In the beginning he had every healer he could find at her bed, but toward the end, when it was obvious she was going to die, he refused to let any of them near her, preferring to care for her himself. Scrubbing the worn stones helped him to clarify his thoughts. God had denied both Flora and his son the blessing of adequate health, and for all Alex’s rage and determination, ultimately there was little he could do to protect them. But it wasn’t God who had trapped Gwendolyn in her chamber and set the bed afire.

It was one of his clan.

“Can you tell me what happened, Gwendolyn?” he asked, setting the cloth and basin aside.

“I—I’m not sure,” she rasped.

He moved a chair closer to the bed and seated himself. “Was your chamber on fire when you went in?”

“No. I remember it was very dark, because the shutters were closed. But that was strange, because I never close them.”

Which meant whoever started the fire had closed them first, Alex realized. Either they had wanted to contain the smoke to make it more deadly, or they were trying to ensure that no one noticed the haze escaping from the tower until it was too late. The rage within him intensified. “What happened then?”

“I went over to the window and tried to open the shutters. But it was difficult. I moved to another one and couldn’t get it to open, either. And then—” She stopped suddenly, remembering.

“And then what?”

Gwendolyn hesitated. She knew the MacDunns feared and despised her. They had never made a secret of it. But although she was not welcomed by them, this past week she had allowed herself to believe that they had at least accepted her presence. She had been wrong, she realized, swallowing thickly. The MacDunns wanted to destroy her, just as her own clan had.

“Who struck you, Gwendolyn?”

She looked at him in surprise.

“You have a bleeding lump on the top of your head,” he explained, “which you couldn’t have received by falling to the floor. And when you previously fell down the staircase,” he added reluctantly, “you were assisted by a strategically placed length of twine.”

Shock stripped the last trace of color from her face.

“Morag never sent you that note,” he continued grimly. “She does not know how to scribe.”

She considered all this a moment before quietly asking, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid that you might leave,” he explained, apologetic. “And I needed you to stay—for David’s sake. So I ordered Cameron, Ned, and Brodick to guard you.”

So that was why one of them was always near. Gwendolyn had thought the warriors were watching her to make certain that she didn’t run away. Instead they were trying to protect her.

“Unfortunately, this afternoon you slipped out of the courtyard while all three were engaged in training,” Alex reflected in frustration. “We didn’t realize you were gone until we saw the smoke.”

“You should have told me, MacDunn.”

She was right, he realized. Perhaps if she had known, she would have taken greater care. “Did you see who struck you, Gwendolyn?”

She shook her head. “It was dark and whoever did it was behind me. When I woke up, the chamber was on fire and you were carrying me.”

She closed her eyes, fighting the misery surging through her. Whether by fire at the stake or in her chamber, or breaking her neck falling down some stairs, there would always be those who wanted to kill her. It was inevitable as long as people believed she was a witch. And she would never be able to convince the MacDunns that she wasn’t. Ironically, she had accepted the role to save her life. She clutched the blanket, feeling lost and afraid.

Alex watched her knuckles whiten against the dark green of his plaid. “I will find the person who did this, Gwendolyn. And when I do, I will kill him.”

“And what will you do if you discover it is your whole clan who wants me dead, MacDunn?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Will you kill all of them?”

“It isn’t the whole clan.”

“You don’t know that for certain. Every time David gets ill, your people believe I am killing him. They seem to forget that he was gravely sick long before I arrived.”

“They are afraid of you and your methods. But that does not mean they are conspiring to kill you. If that were true, you would have been dead long ago.”

“I might have been, had I drunk one of Lachlan’s potions.”

“True. But haven’t you noticed he has stopped offering them to you?”

“That is because he is afraid of your anger.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe it is because he is starting to like you.”

Gwendolyn eyed him doubtfully. “Lachlan doesn’t like anyone.”

“Of course he does.” Alex rose from his chair. “He just isn’t very good at showing it.” He tucked the blanket more securely around her. “Rest awhile, Gwendolyn,” he murmured, brushing an inky strand of hair from her cheek. “I will stay and watch over you, so you know you are safe. Try to put this from your mind and just sleep.”

She was not safe, Gwendolyn reflected miserably, and she never would be as long as she remained here. But Alex’s gentle words poured over her like warm water, reminding her of the low timbre of her father’s voice when he used to put her to bed when she was little. Gwendolyn surrendered to her exhaustion and closed her eyes. She heard Alex settle back into his chair, preparing to watch over her.

And just as she began to drift into the shadowy haze of sleep, he laid his strong hand protectively over hers, and for one fleeting instant, she felt safe.