CHAPTER 10

Rain lashed against the enormous black fortress, making it glisten like a dark jewel against the leaden sky.

It was a bleak, forbidding structure, intended to intimidate rather than to entice. No effort had been wasted to grace the castle with a hint of warmth or whimsy. Instead it was a bastion of defense, with soaring sixty-foot walls crowned with heavy battlements, and four massive rounded towers slashed at regular intervals with deadly archer slits. Cleverly constructed wooden platforms had been built out from the wall head, from which warriors would be better situated to drop heavy boulders and boiling water onto the attackers scrambling to reach the wall below. The base of the wall had also been extended some twenty feet, making it foolhardy to attempt to mine underneath it. Robert sat upon his mount and studied the stronghold, heedless of the icy rain whipping against him. MacDunn’s castle was not going to be easy to penetrate. But even the most formidable of fortresses had a weakness.

He smiled.

How fortuitous that his niece had elected to seek sanctuary with the very man who had abducted her. When Isabella first returned from her abduction, his blithering fool of a brother had refused to permit Robert to lead an army to MacDunn’s holding. Isabella was home safe as MacDunn had promised, and MacDunn had sent a lavish payment along with a bizarre note of apology, stating that he needed the witch to communicate with his pet birds, whose company he found far more stimulating than that of people. For Cedric, this only confirmed the fact that the laird was completely mad and could therefore not be held accountable for his strange actions. As far as Cedric was concerned, the matter was finished. He blamed Robert for the slaying of his warriors—MacDunn would not have been forced to kill them had Robert obeyed his command and not gone after him. As for the witch, Cedric felt her capture was of little consequence, since the MacSweens had been planning to burn her anyway.

Robert went into a rage and tried to make his insipid sibling see that it was his duty as laird to exact vengeance from the MacDunns. It was only when Robert finally convinced Cedric that his precious daughter had been cruelly ravished and was undoubtedly pregnant with Mad MacDunn’s bastard that his brother began to listen. Horrified by the prospect of a bastard grandchild, Cedric proposed an immense dowry in gold for any man who would marry his ruined daughter immediately. Robert quickly arranged for one of his warriors to offer for Isabella, with the agreement that all of the dowry would secretly go to Robert. He easily convinced Derek that marrying his niece would be reward enough. The girl was hopelessly stupid and spoiled, but she was comely, and her willfulness could be beaten out of her—a task the brawny warrior was certain to relish. Isabella was little more than a child who had spent her entire life being coddled and such a tender morsel would be easy to crush. One night of being forced to endure Derek’s unnaturally rough bed play, and she would be weeping and begging for mercy.

Unfortunately, while Cedric accepted Derek’s offer of marriage, he still refused to order an attack. What could be accomplished, his brother wondered, by sending so many men to battle a laird with a broken mind? Was the loss of one condemned witch worth the price of war? Try as he might, Robert failed to convince him otherwise.

And then Isabella ran away.

While Cedric couldn’t fathom why his daughter would return to the very man who had violated her, there was no question that she must be brought home. And so Robert finally got his army, with orders to fetch his niece. Of course, Cedric was hoping that force would not be necessary. But now that he had his warriors, Robert was finally in control. In truth, he didn’t give a damn whether Isabella returned with him or not.

All he wanted was Gwendolyn and the stone.

When MacDunn had first come seeking her, Robert had feared that he had somehow heard about the stone and wanted it for himself. MacDunn’s daring rescue of Gwendolyn as she was about to be burned had only fortified his suspicions. But when Robert faced him late that night in the woods, he was not convinced that MacDunn had any knowledge of the powerful talisman left to Gwendolyn by her mother, despite MacDunn’s insinuations. Gwendolyn and her father had vigilantly guarded their secret for many years, as well they should have.

For the past year Robert had been watching Gwendolyn, aware that the silent, strange child whom everyone believed was a witch had suddenly slipped into womanhood. At first he had eyed her from a distance, unable to comprehend what it was that drew him to her. All his life he had preferred fair-haired, amply fleshed lasses with rounded bosoms and pink, laughing mouths. There was something incredibly pleasurable about watching alarm cloud their doelike eyes and seeing the sweet blush of innocence drain away to pure terror as he held them down with bruising force and took them. No girl was ever the same after he was through with her.

With that ebony cape of hair falling against her bloodless skin, and a body so thin it looked as if it might snap if squeezed too hard, Gwendolyn was hardly the kind of girl he typically found appealing. And yet he had not been able to stop thinking about her. Night after night he imagined her trapped beneath him as he drove himself into her, his hands crushing those tiny white breasts, his legs pinning down her slender, thrashing legs. The image haunted him, until finally his taste for other women waned. There was no way to avoid it, he finally decided. He would have Gwendolyn, if only to slake this urge and prove that she was not nearly as enticing as he imagined.

He began to visit her cottage, feigning friendship with her father so that he might have better access to her. Gwendolyn’s father had lived an isolated existence among the MacSweens because of his daughter and was more than eager to share the honored company of the laird’s brother. But Gwendolyn was always cold, retreating to her room or leaving the cottage altogether when he visited. Strangely, the fact that she was neither attracted to him nor afraid of him stirred his lust even more. Robert brought generous gifts of wine and ale to her father, hoping he would eventually fall into a deep slumber, leaving Robert alone with his quarry. One night, after a half dozen jugs of a particularly strong ale, John MacSween drunkenly buried his head into his arms and began to weep. He lamented the cruel loss of his wife, and the burden of raising a motherless child who was destined to inherit great powers. Thinking he was referring to the rumors of witchcraft, Robert drained his cup and scoffed that his daughter was no more a witch than he.

And Gwendolyn’s father wept even harder and told him of the enchanted stone Gwendolyn was to inherit.

He had claimed it was a gem of rare clarity and beauty that had once belonged to Kenneth MacAlpin, king of the Picts some three and a half centuries earlier. It was said that Kenneth had stolen the stone from a sorcerer and used its great powers to win a vital battle. The next time Kenneth called upon the stone to vanquish his enemy it failed him, however, for it only had the power to grant but one wish every hundred years. Somehow the stone fell into the possession of Gwendolyn’s mother’s family and was passed down over the centuries from mother to daughter, each possessor charged with keeping it safe until it was time to call upon its powers once more. And that, her father claimed, was Gwendolyn’s legacy, for the stone was once again ripe with power.

His curiosity aroused, Robert demanded to see this stone, but Gwendolyn’s father refused, saying it was too dangerous. Robert grew angry and commanded that he turn the stone over to him, saying what belonged to a clansman was by right the property of his laird, and he would present it to his brother. John accused him of wanting it for himself. Infuriated by his belligerence, Robert began to tear the cottage apart, searching for the gem. Gwendolyn’s father tried to stop him, but the aged, drunken fool was no match for him. In the struggle that followed, Robert wrapped his arms around the old man’s neck and jerked up, snapping it. He had not meant to kill him, but ale had clouded his judgment and he had not been aware of the force of his embrace. John MacSween fell back dead, just as Gwendolyn walked in.

Robert had no choice but to accuse her of the murder.

“Seems quiet over there today,” observed a dark-haired warrior with an ugly gash below his eye. Derek halted his horse beside him. “Evidently they don’t like getting wet,” he snorted contemptuously.

“They may not be training, but MacDunn has warriors posted every ten feet along the parapet,” replied Robert. “They are difficult to see because of the rain. And I’d warrant every slit in those towers has an archer standing ready.”

“If he knows we are coming, why don’t we just attack now?” asked Hamish, scowling at the rain. “We’ve already been camped here three days. The men are growing restless.”

“Do you really think we would stand a chance attacking in the thick of this storm, while the MacDunns are warm and dry inside those walls?” demanded Robert. “Only a fool would send drenched men into battle, half blinded by darkness and rain.”

“We should have attacked yesterday, when the tower was afire,” Giles mused, shifting uncomfortably on his horse. “It would have been easy to overwhelm them while their castle was burning.”

“And every able-bodied man was fully armed and primed for battle,” drawled Robert sardonically. “I would prefer not to march in while MacDunn’s warriors are gathered outside training. Besides, we had no way of knowing how serious the blaze was. Given how quickly it was subdued, it seemed little more than a blocked chimney.”

“So when are we going to attack?” Derek asked impatiently.

“When I give the order,” snapped Robert. “Now return to your positions.”

The three warriors eyed each other sullenly, then turned their horses back toward the camp. Derek was anxious to claim his betrothed, while the others hated MacDunn for stealing their witch and killing their clansmen. Vengeance and the brutal restoration of MacSween honor were uppermost in their minds. Robert had made it clear that they could do whatever they wished with the MacDunn women, but the witch was not to be touched. Instead, she and Isabella were to be brought to him, so he could take them back to their holding. The moment he had the stone, he would make himself ruler of all Scotland.

As for Gwendolyn, he would relish breaking her before her death.

         

“This is a sad chamber,” said Gwendolyn, vainly trying to warm her hands by the fire.

“Do you think so?” Morag leaned back in her chair and gazed around. “I have always thought it is a very pretty chamber, myself—much nicer than that tower room. On a fine day those arched windows let in a wonderful amount of light. Of course you’d never know it, with this terrible storm still raging outside.” She slanted a meaningful glance at Gwendolyn.

“I didn’t start this storm, Morag.”

“Never said you did, did I?”

“I am not entirely in control of the weather, you know.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

Gwendolyn sighed. A violent storm had been raging for two days now, and the MacDunns were convinced that she was the cause of it. She didn’t like the cold, gloomy weather any more than they, although it was certainly reflective of her mood. Until she was trapped in that fire, she had not understood the extent of the MacDunns’ hatred of her. She had known they feared her, but it had never occurred to her that they might actually try to murder her. The intensity of their loathing cut her deeply, since she had foolishly allowed herself to think that the MacDunns had been gradually starting to accept her. She had been wrong. The MacDunns were no more accepting of her than her own clan had been.

Now that she understood how much they wanted to be rid of her, she had to leave. But who would look after David after she was gone? she wondered desperately. What if he suddenly fell gravely ill again? Elspeth would clamp on to him like a giant leech, tormenting him with her foul methods, blissfully trying to purge Gwendolyn’s evil from his tiny body. Poor David would be helpless to do anything except lie there. He would feel abandoned by Gwendolyn. And if he died, what would happen to MacDunn? She knew Alex well enough to understand that for all his strength, the death of his son would devastate him. He might descend into the refuge of madness, never to emerge again. How could she leave them knowing this? She pulled the plaid draped over her shoulders tighter, feeling alone and confused.

“Perhaps the sadness you feel comes from within,” suggested Morag quietly.

Gwendolyn considered this a moment, then shook her head. “I have felt sadness in this chamber from the moment I stepped into it. The space is heavy with unhappiness—it is in the walls, the ceiling, the floor—in the very air. And the room never feels warm, even when the fire is blazing.” She rubbed her chilled hands together. “To whom does this chamber belong?”

“No one. It once was occupied by MacDunn’s wife, Flora. She died in here.”

So that was the misery Gwendolyn sensed. MacDunn’s wife had lain here in hideous pain, knowing she was going to die and leave her husband and child alone. No wonder her anguish had seeped into these heavy stone walls.

“Did Flora not share MacDunn’s chamber?” she asked.

“She did until her illness confined her to bed. After that the healers said her chamber must be sealed from the ill effects of too much light and outside air, and filled with healing smoke. Flora did not want Alex to endure the constant heat and haze, so she asked to be moved into a separate room next to his. But Alex stayed in here with her every night despite her protests. He told her he could not sleep without her, making it seem like she was helping him by permitting it. I believe it made him feel better, to hold her safe in his arms at night, trying to protect her,” she reflected quietly. “It certainly comforted Flora. Toward the end, when it was obvious that nothing more could be done for her, Alex cared for her during the day as well. He knew Flora might leave him at any moment, and he wanted to be with her when the time came.”

Gwendolyn considered this in silence. Because Alex never spent any time caring for David, Gwendolyn had always assumed that he had no practical experience dealing with the misery of illness, other than as a helpless, tormented witness. But after the fire, when he had tended her and cleaned up after her with calm, gentle skill, she had realized she was wrong. MacDunn was all too familiar with the duties of ministering to the sick.

And he had learned them in this very chamber.

“Is that the bed Flora died in?” she asked, studying the elegantly carved piece in the center of the room.

“No,” replied Morag. “Flora’s bed was draped with a splendid yellow canopy that MacDunn had specially made for her. The underside was embroidered with mountains, and wildflowers, and a little waterfall that seemed to splash right down the end of it. He wanted her to have something pleasing to look at as she lay there. But the healers kept her room so smoky and dark, ’twas difficult for her to see it. Flora never let MacDunn know this, however.” She smiled sadly. “She told him she had memorized every flower and blade of grass, so she could see them even when her eyes were closed. She was a sweet girl, Flora was. The clan adored her.” Her expression grew distant.

And she was obviously very much loved by MacDunn as well, mused Gwendolyn. “Why doesn’t MacDunn keep the bed in here, Morag?”

“After she died, MacDunn ordered it burned.”

Gwendolyn regarded her in surprise. “Why? Did he fear it might harbor her illness?”

“No. He said he couldn’t bear to look upon it. It made him think of Flora’s suffering.”

Gwendolyn reflected on this a long moment before quietly stating, “He loved her very much, didn’t he?”

“Aye. He did. And Flora loved him. That’s why it’s been so difficult for them to say good-bye.”

“Do you mean because MacDunn still talks to her?”

Morag hesitated. “Aye,” she murmured, turning to gaze at the fire. “That’s what I mean.”

“ ’Tis good to see you’re up, Gwendolyn,” said Clarinda, waddling in with an enormous tray. “Look, I’ve brought you a wee bite.”

“Really, Clarinda, you shouldn’t be carrying such heavy things,” scolded Gwendolyn. She rose to take the tray from her, then regarded the food piled high upon it in astonishment. “Are there others coming to dine with me?”

Clarinda seated herself. “Only me. And Morag may also wish to have something.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Morag, reaching for her staff. “I’m busy working on a new cream to smooth out wrinkles, and it’s time to add more fish oil. If it works, I will give you both some. It is never too soon to begin caring for your skin,” she advised, disappearing out the door.

“There is enough food here to feed a small army!” Gwendolyn exclaimed.

“Or one extremely pregnant woman.” Clarinda laughed, reaching for a fat, roasted chicken leg. “I don’t know why, but I find myself absolutely ravenous these days. Cameron says if I continue to eat this much, there won’t be any room left inside me for the bairn!”

“You’re looking very well. Your time must be near.”

Clarinda daintily licked her fingers. “I believe so. Which is why I’m so glad to see you’re feeling better today. I was hoping you would help me when this bairn finally decides ’tis time to come out and see the world.”

“I—I cannot, Clarinda,” she stammered. Gwendolyn had no knowledge of how to birth a bairn and could not pretend that she did. Also, she had resolved to leave the MacDunns as quickly as possible—perhaps tomorrow. “Elspeth wouldn’t permit me to attend. I’m sure she believes having a witch present at a birth will only bring evil.”

“It doesn’t matter what Elspeth believes. She won’t be there.”

“But Elspeth is the clan healer. She delivers almost all the MacDunn bairns, does she not?”

“She does. But not this one. You are going to do it.”

Gwendolyn stared at her, speechless. The magnitude of what Clarinda wanted her to do was overwhelming. Caring for a dying child whom no one else had been able to help was one thing, but birthing a tiny babe was another matter entirely. She could not feign knowledge or experience in such a serious matter—not when Clarinda’s very life, or her child’s, might depend on it.

“I cannot do it, Clarinda,” she said, her voice apologetic. “I have never birthed a bairn before.”

“That’s all right,” said Clarinda, helping herself to an enormous chunk of bread. “I intend to do the actual birthing. I just need you to help me through it. Perhaps you can cast a spell to ease the pain, or make the birth go a little faster.”

Gwendolyn shook her head. “There must be someone else within the clan who can help you.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I want you.”

“But I can’t—”

“I cannot do this alone, Gwendolyn. And no one else would dare accept, for fear of angering Elspeth, and then she might refuse to care for them or their families when they needed her. If I am left without someone to help me, Elspeth will step in when I am overwhelmed with pain and unable to send her away. Do you understand?” She laid her hands protectively over the enormous swell of her stomach. “I could not bear to have her near, telling me how God is punishing me for my sins by giving me pain. And if anything were to happen to the bairn and she wouldn’t let me see it—” She broke off suddenly.

Gwendolyn lowered her gaze. She could not bear to see Clarinda upset.

“I’m asking you to help me, Gwendolyn,” Clarinda said, brushing away the tears welling in her eyes. “I need you to be with me when I am powerless to help myself. If you are truly my friend, you cannot refuse me. I would not refuse you if you needed me.”

If you are truly my friend.

The words seemed strange to Gwendolyn, for she had never had a friend. No one in her clan had ever been willing to associate with her. After all those years of rejection and isolation, she had accepted the fact that there would never be anyone in her life except her father who would care for her. Yet here was Clarinda, who had never shown her anything but kindness and concern, asking for her help. Warmth suddenly flooded through Gwendolyn, dispelling the chill that had seized her these past two days. Seeing that Clarinda had started to tremble, Gwendolyn silently rose from her chair and draped her shawl over her friend.

“We will bring this bairn into the world together, Clarinda,” she told her, kneeling so she could wrap her arms around her. “I swear to you I will not leave your side.”

Clarinda regarded her uncertainly. “You’re sure?”

Gwendolyn pressed her cheek against the soft auburn fall of Clarinda’s hair, like a mother comforting a child. “I’m sure,” she whispered softly.

         

“The storm has finally broken,” Owen announced with relief. “The witch must be feeling better.”

“A foul tempest, that was,” said Lachlan, carefully measuring a draft of his latest potion into a cup. “By all the saints, she must have been furious.” He cautiously sniffed his drink, then wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“I believe I would have been furious as well,” said Marjorie, “had someone tried to burn me to death in my own chamber!”

“It was a black day for our clan,” fretted Reginald, polishing his sword with an enormous rag. “Nothing honorable about sealing a woman in a burning room. A right nasty way to kill someone—even if she is a witch.”

“And I suppose it would be more honorable to tie her to a stake and set her afire?” challenged Clarinda. “With everyone there to watch?”

“Dear me, no,” Owen assured her, looking horrified. “Witch or not, I could never sanction anyone doing such a terrible thing.”

“Nor could MacDunn,” added Morag. “That is why he saved her from the MacSweens.”

“The question is, who banged her on the head and set her chamber afire?” wondered Munro.

“Why don’t you tell us, Munro?” Robena suggested, her voice sharp with accusation. “You’ve hated her from the day she dropped that pot on your head.”

“I would never do such a thing!” Munro’s eyes bulged out of his round face. “I have no reason to want her dead.”

“You said she looks like an old toe to you,” pointed out Lachlan. “Any man might tire of looking at something like that.”

“She isn’t nearly as hideous as I once thought,” Munro quickly assured them. “Actually, there are moments when she is almost comely.”

“I’ve thought that as well,” agreed Owen brightly. “Of course, she’s not nearly as comely as you are, Morag,” he quickly amended. “No one is.”

“Really, Owen,” said Morag, flustered. “What a ridiculous thing to say.”

“MacDunn was in a rage when it happened,” said Farquhar. “He has vowed to find the culprit who did it.” He took a deep swig of ale before finishing, “I’d not want to be anywhere near when he does.”

“He has also said that we are all to keep a careful watch over her and ensure that no more accidents happen,” added Ewan.

“What an excellent idea!” said Owen, rubbing his hands together. “I would be happy to look after the lass. I shall begin straightaway.” He took a few steps, then stopped and turned. “Where, exactly, is she?”

“She has gone outside with David,” said Lettie, adjusting her baby onto her shoulder.

“Outside?” said Owen. “Dear me. I don’t believe I want to go outside. All that bright sunshine—”

“Outside?” thundered Reginald, sounding appalled. “By God, the MacSweens could come at any moment!” He threw down his rag and hurried toward the door, dragging his sword with him.

         

“Are you all right, David?”

“I’m fine, Gwendolyn,” he assured her. “Please take me around once more.”

His cheeks were rosy and his blue eyes clear as he leaned forward and patted the neck of his horse. At first Gwendolyn was worried that the exertion would prove too much for him, but the fresh air and excitement of sitting astride a horse for the first time had infused him with a boyish energy she had not seen in him before.

“Very well,” she relented. “But this is the last time. After this we are going to sit on the grass with Ned and have our lunch.” She began to slowly lead the small horse in a circle at the very back of the courtyard, out of sight from where MacDunn was training with the men. “I can scarcely believe you have never been on a horse before, David. You are a natural rider.”

“Do you really think so?” His face was beaming with pride.

“Absolutely. Don’t you agree, Ned?”

“He looks fine up there,” replied Ned, whittling a long stick.

“We shall have to ask your father to give you riding lessons,” said Gwendolyn. “Perhaps, if you are still feeling well enough, you could start tomorrow.”

David’s face fell. “My father won’t allow it.”

“Why not?”

“My father doesn’t want me to ride.”

“That is because you have been very ill. As long as you are feeling better, I’m certain he will be pleased to help you learn. Every father wants his children to learn to ride.”

David shook his head. “My father has never allowed me to ride a horse, even before I got sick. He said I might fall and hurt myself.”

“Well, of course you would fall. Falling is part of learning how to ride. You get all of your falling done in the beginning, when you are just learning, and then you don’t fall anymore.”

“But my father doesn’t want me to fall. He says I have a weak constitution and I might break my brittle bones.”

“I don’t believe you have anything wrong with your bones,” said Gwendolyn, slightly exasperated with MacDunn for leading the boy to think there was. “And as for your constitution—”

“Hold there, lass!” shouted Reginald, suddenly appearing around the side of the castle. “I’m coming!” He shielded his eyes with his arm and trekked purposefully toward her, followed by an agitated group of MacDunns.

“What is it, Reginald?” she asked tautly. “Is something wrong?”

“Aye, there’s something wrong, all right,” Reginald told her, his white-browed eyes puckered into slits. “That sun is so bright I can barely see you! How am I supposed to protect you with my eyes burning out of my head?”

“Now, lass, ’tis good to see that you are feeling better,” added Owen, squinting at her through his steepled hands, “but could you not fade the light just a wee bit? It’s harsh for an old man who doesn’t go out much.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Lachlan, joining them. “You never go outside at all.” He suddenly noticed David and the horse. “Good Lord, get that lad off that colossal beast! He will fall and smash his brains in!”

“David is fine, Lachlan,” Gwendolyn assured him. “He is not about to fall, and even if he did, this horse is so small, he would only bruise himself a little.”

“Bruise himself a little?” sputtered Reginald, incredulous. “The lad is so weak, his neck will snap like a dry twig!”

“The very height of that creature is enough to make him faint!” added Owen.

“Actually, David feels quite well today,” Gwendolyn informed them. “And he enjoys being on the horse—don’t you, David?”

“Aye,” said David, nodding. “I feel just fine.” He smiled at the anxious group assembled before him. “Would you like to see me ride around the courtyard?”

“No!” everyone burst out.

David’s smile instantly melted.

Gwendolyn sighed. “Very well, then.” She moved to help David dismount.

“Of course we want to see you ride, David,” said Clarinda suddenly. “Show us what you have learned today.”

David regarded Gwendolyn uncertainly. She nodded.

Turning his attention back to the group, David straightened his back. “You must sit tall when you are on a horse,” he informed them, his blue gaze serious. “And you must hold on with your legs and pay attention to the rhythm of the horse, so that you learn to move with her. And you must pat her and praise her often, so that she knows you are her friend. You are not forcing her to go where you want,” he told them earnestly, “you are both riding there together.”

The cluster of MacDunns stared at him, speechless.

“Very good, David,” praised Gwendolyn. “Now let’s show them how well you ride.” She began to lead his horse across the grass.

“Good Lord, have you ever heard the lad say so much?” asked Owen, astonished.

“Never,” remarked Lachlan, equally bemused. “I always thought he was too timid to utter more than a word or two.”

“So how is it that he is suddenly chattering away like an old woman?” said Reginald, leaning on his sword.

“And why is he out here riding, when just a few days ago he was nearly dead?” wondered Ewan.

“I thought he was supposed to be starving to death,” added Munro, scratching his head. “He doesn’t look starved to me.”

“It is witchcraft,” said Robena angrily. “She has cast a spell on him to make him seem well, when in fact he is dying.”

“I don’t believe that, Robena,” interjected Marjorie. “If Gwendolyn could make him appear well through witchcraft, then why didn’t she do so the day she arrived and be done with it?”

“Marjorie has a point,” Reginald allowed.

“Then how do you explain the fact that she has been starving David for days, yet he has the strength to go riding?” Robena challenged.

“She hasn’t starved him,” Marjorie countered. “She has limited what he can eat.”

“And she has spent many long hours talking with him and telling him marvelous stories,” added Clarinda, watching as Gwendolyn and David made a slow, steady circle on the grass. “That’s why David has become better at expressing himself.”

The little group watched in silence as David happily followed Gwendolyn on his horse.

“Well, I call that splendid!” declared Owen suddenly. “Absolutely splendid! Lass!” he shouted, shuffling toward her. “Do you think you could cure my hands?”

Gwendolyn stopped and regarded the elder in confusion. “Pardon?”

“My hands,” Owen repeated loudly, holding the gnarled appendages up to her. “They ache something fierce these days—particularly when the weather is foul. Not that I blame you for that,” he quickly assured her. “You had every right to be upset. Horrid thing, to be nearly burned. Simply ghastly. Glad to see you’re feeling better, even if this sun is blinding. Can you cure them?” He turned his hands over to display his pasty, wrinkled palms.

“I—I don’t know.” Was Owen actually asking her for help?

“It’s just that you’ve done such a grand job with the lad, I thought a pair of old hands might be easy to fix.” He stared at them a moment, then sighed. “No matter, my dear. I’ve almost grown accustomed to the pain. Just a part of being old and useless, I suppose. Do forgive.” He began to turn away.

“Owen.”

He turned and regarded her hopefully.

“I will make a warm liniment for them,” she offered. “It must be massaged into the joints three times a day.” She glanced at his stiff, blue-veined fingers. “If you like,” she added hesitantly, “I can rub it in for you, so you don’t make them ache even more from the effort.”

“A liniment, you say?” He sounded disappointed. “Don’t you want to purge my bowels? Or cast a spell?”

“I will cast a spell, if you like,” Gwendolyn said, sensing that he wanted something more dramatic than a simple liniment. “But you must use the liniment as well or the spell won’t work.”

“What about my bowels?”

“Let’s wait and see how we do with the liniment,” Gwendolyn suggested.

“And the spell,” Owen reminded her.

“And the spell.”

“Excellent!” He turned to the others and shouted excitedly, “The witch is going to cast a spell on me to cure my hands!”

The group gasped with awe.

And then they hustled forward, surrounding her.

“My belly twists into a bluster after I eat,” Reginald complained. “Can you make a spell that will cure that?”

Gwendolyn regarded him blankly. The MacDunns had never concealed the fact that they feared her and wanted to be rid of her. Why were these council members suddenly trusting her to cast spells on them?

“If you can cast a spell on Owen, I don’t see why you can’t cast one on me,” added Reginald, feeling slightly injured by her hesitation.

“I can try,” said Gwendolyn. She suddenly recalled a special drink her mother’s notes had recommended for simple stomach distress. “But there is a potion I will make that you must drink with it.”

“As long as it isn’t like the foul concoctions Lachlan makes,” Reginald replied. “I’d hate to burn a hole in my gut.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my potions,” barked Lachlan, offended.

“Nothing wrong with them if you’re already dead,” muttered Reginald.

A terrible coughing cut short their banter. “This bloody cough has been plaguing me for weeks,” Ewan reported, thumping himself on the chest. “Do you have a spell for that?”

“I may,” allowed Gwendolyn, thinking of her mother’s honey drink for coughs. “And there is a hot brew that works with it.”

“By the end of the day I’m so groggy, I barely make it to my cottage,” complained Farquhar. He paused to take a hefty draft of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Can you cast a spell for that?”

“Now, let’s not keep the lass standing here holding this horse,” said Owen. “Why don’t we sit down over there on the grass?”

“What’s in the basket?” asked Munro. “I’m hungry.”

“I’m afraid it’s nothing much,” Gwendolyn replied. “David is eating only the simplest of foods. Today we are having bread with honey and apples.”

“That sounds wonderful!” said Clarinda. “I’m starving.” She began to waddle toward the basket, with the rest of the group following.

         

“Aim higher!” shouted Alex. “Release together—now!”

A flurry of padded arrows sailed high into the air, making a slow, graceful arc before pummeling the warriors below.

“Bloody hell!” said Cameron, lowering his sword to rub his head. “Those things smart!”

“That is one of the hazards of having a big head, my friend,” teased Brodick. “Perhaps we should find a bucket for you to wear.”

“You’ll be needing a helmet more than me,” scoffed Cameron. “I’d hate to see that pretty face of yours marred.”

“I think Brodick might welcome a scratch or two on his cheek,” joked Garrick. “Maybe if he weren’t so comely, Isabella might leave him alone for more than a minute.”

“More like she would be weeping all over him,” snorted Quentin. “The lass does enjoy a good cry.”

“I say she’d fly into one of her rages and swear to disembowel the poor chap who dared touch Brodick,” predicted Cameron. “She has a colorful way with words, that one does.”

“Really?” said Brodick, his brows raised in surprise. “I hadn’t noticed.”

The warriors laughed.

“I’m delighted you find preparing for battle so amusing,” snapped Alex. “Do you think you could spare me your attention a little longer, or shall we just sit and entertain each other while the MacSweens attack?”

His men regarded him in astonishment.

“Your pardon, MacDunn,” said Brodick stiffly. “We will not speak again.”

His friend’s uncharacteristic formality told Alex that his attitude was unreasonable. He instantly regretted his mocking words, but could not possibly take them back. To do so would suggest weakness, and he could not afford to be weak. An army of MacSweens was about to attack, to try to take Gwendolyn and Isabella away. Despite his clan’s loyalty to their laird, he had no idea how hard they would fight to protect these two unwelcome guests. Given how they longed to be rid of Gwendolyn, he could not believe they would put up much resistance. He had vowed to keep her safe, but Alex could not defend her against an entire army by himself.

The thought unnerved him.

Pushing the thought aside, he ordered, “We will resume the attack on the south wall. Assuming Robert comes with a minimum of two hundred men, we will need archers stationed on the battlements at approximately every eight feet. They will be able to hold off the MacSweens for a few minutes, but once the attackers have positioned their ladders—”

A shout of laughter exploded into the air.

“I require your complete attention!” he snapped.

“It isn’t the men,” Cameron said. “The laughter is coming from the bailey.”

Alex listened. The laughter had now become animated shouting. How the hell was he supposed to train with all this noise?

“Practice your swordplay,” he ordered, striding angrily toward the gate.

He entered the courtyard and was surprised to find it completely empty. Following the noise around to the side of the castle, he discovered an enormous crowd of MacDunns sitting on the grass at the back corner of the courtyard, eagerly listening to Gwendolyn tell them a story.

“ ‘Surrender your weapon,’ commanded the mighty Torvald, his own sword flashing like a streak of silver before him, ‘or you will die.’ ‘I will never surrender to you,’ hissed the terrible MacRory, ‘for it is you who is about to die. Even now, you can barely stand for all the blood that flows from you.’ ‘I may die,’ Torvald agreed, ‘but you will die first.’ And the terrible MacRory lowered his sword and laughed. ‘Ha! I shall slice you into pieces and feed you to the wolves,’ he promised, ‘and then I will brutally murder your wife and children.’ ‘Never!’ roared Torvald. And with that he rushed toward MacRory, blood gushing like a river from his neck, his left arm severed but for the slenderest thread of flesh. ‘Die, foul knave!’ he cried. Summoning the last of his strength, the mighty Torvald drove his sword deep into MacRory’s stomach, skewering him like a rabbit for the spit of a fire.”

The MacDunns stared at her, spellbound.

“What happened then?” asked Lachlan, breaking the silence. “Did the mighty Torvald live?”

“Of course he lived,” interjected Reginald. “What kind of a bloody story would it be if he died?”

“I can’t see how he would survive all those terrible wounds,” mused Owen. “Surely he must have bled to death.”

“He didn’t bleed to death,” Marjorie countered. “After that he probably crawled down the mountain and came to an old woman’s cottage, and she took him in and healed him.”

“How could he crawl with his throat slit and one arm about to fall off?” demanded Ewan.

“Maybe the old woman was out walking on the mountain and she found him and took him to her cottage,” suggested Lettie.

“He would have been dead long before he could get there,” scoffed Lachlan.

“No, he wouldn’t,” argued Munro. “After all, he is the mighty Torvald. He is strong enough to endure anything.”

“He can’t survive having his neck slashed and his arm sliced off,” objected Farquhar.

“He could if he got help quickly,” countered Clarinda.

“No old woman in a cottage could save a man with those kinds of injuries!” said Lachlan, almost shouting now.

“She could if she were a witch,” Ned suggested quietly.

The group instantly fell silent, considering this.

“Aye,” said Owen finally, pleased that Ned had solved the problem. “She could if she were a witch.”

Alex stared at his clan incredulously. But for a few, his people openly despised Gwendolyn. The incident on the stairs and in the tower made it eminently clear that they wanted nothing more than to be rid of her. So why the hell were they clustered around her like enraptured children, listening to her tell these ridiculous tales?

“Father!” David called, suddenly noticing him, “Gwendolyn let me ride a horse!”

Alex blinked. “She what?”

“I rode a horse,” David repeated, his little voice bright with pride. “All by myself.”

“And a fine job he did of it, too,” Owen said. “Reminded me of you as a lad, Alex.” He frowned. “At least I think it was you.”

“The lad looked right splendid up there, MacDunn,” added Reginald. “Straight as an arrow.”

“You put him on a horse?” Alex demanded. The look he gave Gwendolyn could have frozen fire.

“David was feeling quite well,” she said, “so I thought it would be good for him to—”

“To what?” interrupted Alex, his voice harsh. “Fall and break his neck?”

“He wasn’t going to fall, MacDunn.” Gwendolyn rose to face him. “I had the horse on a lead, and David was only—”

“He is too weak to be on a horse!” Alex thundered furiously. “He could have collapsed suddenly and broken his skull, or been trampled beneath the animal’s hooves! Or the exertion could have reduced him to another hideous bout of sickness, as it did the day you so carelessly took him beyond the walls! For God’s sake, are you trying to kill my son?”

Gwendolyn regarded him woodenly, determined not to let him see how his condemnation of her in front of the clan wounded her. For a brief, impossible moment, as the MacDunns sat crowded around her on the sun-warmed grass listening to her tales, it had almost seemed as if they were coming to accept her. It had been strange to have so many people eager to share her company—strange and new and utterly wonderful. And in less than an instant MacDunn had shattered all that. The MacDunns would never accept her now, she realized dully. Their laird had just made it painfully clear that he did not really trust her himself.

“Come, David,” she said quietly, extending her hand to him. “Your father would prefer that you rest now.”

David slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it hard. It was a small, silent gesture, but Gwendolyn took some comfort from it. Avoiding the gazes of the MacDunns, she turned and quickly led David back to the castle.

         

The great hall was unusually quiet that evening.

Alex focused his gaze on the battle plans laid before him, trying to ignore the silent, furtive glances his clan kept shooting his way. He knew they were thinking he had acted unreasonably this afternoon. He also knew they feared this meant his madness was raising its talons once more. No doubt they were wondering how deeply the monster would take him this time, and for how long.

He wished to God he knew himself.

He had felt it clawing at him from the moment he pulled Gwendolyn from the fire. Not that his madness had ever really left him—he was honest enough with himself to admit that. But for some time now he had been able to keep it more or less at bay, like a snarling wolf that has been forced into a corner. Since the fire he had felt that wolf inching forward. The pain in his head had become more and more frequent, his fleeting bouts of sleep more shallow and disturbed.

Worst of all, he could no longer speak to Flora.

His conversations with his wife had grown increasingly intermittent since he had brought Gwendolyn here. He had assured himself that was because he was so weary at night, but it was a lie, for sleep was elusive. And after he had forced himself upon Gwendolyn, savagely taking her in the same bed where he had spent so many tender nights with his beloved wife, he had been filled with a shame so overwhelming he could no longer bring himself to speak with Flora at all. What could he say to her? he wondered bitterly. What feeble apology could he possibly offer? He had betrayed his wife, whom he had sworn to honor forever.

“I hear David was up on a horse today,” Morag remarked, breaking the heavy silence that entombed the room. “How did he fare?”

No one answered.

“He fared extremely well,” Owen said after a moment. “Sat up there like a brave young warrior.”

Morag smiled. “Evidently he takes after his father. Did he fall?”

“The horse wasn’t moving fast enough for him to fall,” snorted Reginald, glancing pointedly at Alex. “Gwendolyn had wisely put him on old Duff. That beast hasn’t trotted since before David was born. But just to be safe, Gwendolyn led the horse by a rope.”

“He still could have fallen off,” objected Robena. “He might have been killed.”

“Even if he had fallen, he wouldn’t have hurt himself,” scoffed Lachlan. “He would have just been a little bruised.”

“Falling is part of learning to ride,” added Ned, repeating Gwendolyn’s words. “Everyone knows that.”

“It was a dangerous thing to do,” said Robena. “The witch has no right to take such risks with David.”

“She is trying to kill him,” added Elspeth. “I’ve told you that.”

“Putting a lad on a horse seems a strange way to try to kill him,” observed Owen.

“That means every one of us here was nearly murdered by our parents,” joked Cameron.

Alex kept his gaze lowered to his papers and said nothing. What the hell was the matter with his clan tonight? he wondered. His son was too weak to ride, and that was the end of it. He refused to be part of this discussion.

The hall fell silent once again.

“It’s awfully quiet in here,” chirped Isabella, apparently oblivious to the tension stifling the vast room. She turned to Brodick, who was seated next to her. “Why doesn’t your clan have musicians play during dinner?”

“MacDunn doesn’t like it,” he replied shortly.

“We used to have music,” reflected Owen. “A few years ago, there was music and dancing almost every night in this very hall.” He smiled, remembering. “In those days, I was something of a dancer.”

“You were dreadful,” interjected Lachlan. “You looked like a badger hopping on hot coals.”

“That was the dance,” replied Owen, insulted. “It required one to move one’s feet up and down rather quickly. Of course, not being a dancer yourself, Lachlan, you wouldn’t know that.”

“I’d love to see it,” said Isabella.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Lachlan assured her.

“If there were music, I’d be happy to show you, lass,” said Owen, ignoring him.

“Thank God there isn’t any,” muttered Lachlan.

“In my clan, we always had musicians playing when we dined,” Isabella reflected. “It made the evening more pleasant. Don’t you think some music might make this evening more pleasant, Brodick?”

“It couldn’t make it worse,” he grumbled.

“Exactly,” agreed Isabella, failing to recognize his sarcasm. She stood and tapped her goblet to gain the clan’s attention. “Does anyone here have an instrument they could play?”

“Alas, my pipes have been stowed away for over nine years.” Ewan sighed. “I doubt I could get anything but screeching from them now.”

“And how would that be different from what you used to play on them?” teased Lettie.

“Anyone else?” Isabella asked.

No one answered.

“Well, then, I guess I shall have to sing,” she decided. “It won’t be quite the same without accompaniment, but I shall do my best.” She thought for a moment. “This song is about a warrior who is tormented by the loss of his one great love—”

“That sounds a wee bit grim,” interrupted Reginald. “Do you know anything livelier?”

“Do forgive, lass, but I can’t dance to a song about some forlorn warrior,” Owen said. “I need something I can stomp my feet to.”

“Very well,” said Isabella, trying to think. “I have it!” she declared suddenly. “This one is about a maiden who kills herself when she learns her lover has betrayed her.”

“Are you sure it’s lively?” asked Owen, looking doubtful.

“It’s slow at the beginning,” Isabella admitted, “but it picks up a fair bit toward the end when they’re burying her.”

“All right, then, lass,” said Reginald. “Sing away.”

Isabella inhaled deeply, then proceeded to fill the hall with her dreadful voice. Alex winced, clenched his jaw, and finally gathered his plans and rose from his chair, unable to endure the dreadful shrieking any longer.

At that moment Gwendolyn appeared at the base of the stairs, her head held high as she studied the room, his son standing nervously beside her.

She was draped in a gown of deepest black, which was intricately embroidered with luminous silver thread. The dark fabric scooped low over the creamy swell of her breasts, making her skin appear even paler than usual, and the long sleeves clung tightly to her slender arms, emphasizing her fine structure. The ebony fall of her hair poured across the white satin of her shoulders like a silken cape, shimmering in the torchlight. She seemed almost ethereal as she stood there, a mysterious, fragile specter from another world, and as Alex drank in her beauty he was almost afraid she might suddenly vanish. He watched as Gwendolyn gave David a reassuring smile and took his hand, offering his son strength and comfort as they faced the enormous gathering.

It was a small, silent gesture, almost unnoticeable were Alex not watching them so carefully, and yet he found himself profoundly moved by it. Flora had loved to hold David’s hands when he was a babe, marveling at each little finger with its wee, wrinkled knuckles, laughing over the impossibly tiny pink shells of his nails. And then she would ask Alex to hold out his hand, and she would press his son’s diminutive palm against his enormous one. It had felt like a velvety soft blossom floating upon his callused palm, and Alex would stare at it in fascination, wondering how anything so tiny and fine and perfect could possibly grow to resemble the hard, rough-skinned hand that held it.

He had not held his son’s hand for years.

Isabella’s wailing finally ended as Gwendolyn and David approached the laird’s table. Gwendolyn was aware that every clan member was staring at her, wondering how she dared show her face after MacDunn’s enraged outburst in the courtyard. She endured their scrutiny with practiced indifference. Not one of them had risen to her defense when MacDunn had raged at her earlier that day. The MacDunns had pretended to trust her by asking her for help, but when their laird unjustly accused her, they had remained silent. She should have expected nothing less, she realized bitterly. To them she was a witch, and a witch was not worthy of defense. She had learned that lesson well when her own clan had sentenced her to burn for murdering her own father.

If not for David, she would leave this place tonight.

The lad had not wanted to dine with his father in the great hall, for MacDunn had intimidated his son sufficiently this afternoon to make him tremble at the mere suggestion of it. But Gwendolyn had been gently persistent, and David finally relented. It was time MacDunn realized that the boy he had sired was not made of glass.

Or stone.

MacDunn’s expression was hard as they approached, and for a moment Gwendolyn feared he might order them from the hall forthwith. She laid her hands upon David’s small shoulders, holding him steady as they faced his father.

“Good evening, MacDunn,” she said, her voice cool. “David is feeling well tonight, and I thought you might enjoy the pleasure of his company. With your permission, I have told him he may stay as long as he doesn’t tire himself and he limits his supper to what I have told him he may eat.”

Alex stared in amazement at his son. The lad was freshly bathed, and his flame-colored hair was still damp and curling about his neck and forehead, as Flora’s hair once had. David’s cheeks and nose were kissed by sunlight, and a handful of freckles that Alex had never seen before were scattered across his customarily chalky skin. Gwendolyn had dressed the lad in a handsome saffron shirt and a green and yellow plaid that was a miniature version of his own, and had even supplied him with a little dirk to strap to his waist. His son bore little resemblance to the sickly child he had watched deteriorate these past few months.

A fragile spark of joy ignited within him.

“Join me,” Alex commanded gruffly. When he saw David hesitate, he realized his error. He drew out the empty chair beside him and patted it. “Here.”

David looked inquiringly up at Gwendolyn. She nodded. Releasing her hands from his shoulders, she watched as the boy hesitantly mounted the scarlet-draped dais and seated himself beside his father.

“Well, that’s what I call splendid!” Owen burst out. “So nice to see the lad seated beside his father—don’t you agree, Lachlan?”

“Aye,” said Lachlan with uncharacteristic agreement. “Very nice.”

“The lad looks to be half starved,” remarked Reginald. “Your pardon, Gwendolyn,” he quickly added. “Didn’t mean to suggest you’ve been starving the lad. No, indeed. ’Tis clear to everyone in this hall that you’ve done wonders for the boy. Simply wonders. A bit more meat on his bones, and he’ll be ready to train with the warriors. You’d like that, laddie, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said David, his blue eyes flickering with pleasure.

“Well, then, eat.” Reginald shoved a platter of greasy roasted meat toward him.

“No, David,” said Gwendolyn. “You don’t want to be sick tonight, do you?”

David shook his head.

“Then we will stay with our meal of apples, bread, and a little broth. Tomorrow we will try something new.”

Alex waited for his son to protest.

Instead the lad obediently reached for a chunk of bread.

Gwendolyn nearly smiled. Although she had known the sight and aroma of so many different platters of food would be tempting, David was far more excited by the fact that he was dining in the great hall with his father.

“I shall leave you, then, David,” Gwendolyn said. “I will return later to fetch you for bed.”

“Where are you going?” demanded Alex.

“To my chamber.”

“Have you dined this evening?”

“I am not hungry.”

“You will eat something,” he ordered, disliking the fact that she was leaving. “You will become ill if you do not.”

“I am not hungry, MacDunn,” she repeated firmly.

“Nevertheless, you will eat.”

“No, MacDunn,” she returned, her voice taut. “I am not your prisoner, nor am I one of your clan. You cannot order me to eat, nor can you order me to stay in this hall against my wishes. Do you understand? You may direct me when it comes to the care of your son, but only I decide how I care for myself. And if I become ill, that is entirely my affair, not yours.” She turned and began to walk away.

“Gwendolyn.”

There was a faint pleading in his tone that made her pause. She turned and regarded him questioningly. “Yes, MacDunn?”

Alex hesitated. He knew she was angry with him. Until this afternoon, he had always defended her, at least in front of his people. But today he had forsaken her. He had accused her of being reckless with his son, when all she had ever tried to do was help the lad. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t possibly do it in front of his entire clan. That would only reinforce their belief that his outburst had been unwarranted and that he was not in control of his emotions.

Which he wasn’t.

“Do stay, lass, and at least have a cup of wine,” Owen suggested. “I was just about to do a wee bit of dancing.”

“Yes, stay, Gwendolyn,” said Isabella. “You can sing with me.”

“I don’t sing,” murmured Gwendolyn, her eyes never leaving Alex’s.

Alex regarded her intently. Forgive me.

She stood there a moment, her gaze locked with his, oblivious to the others in the hall.

And then she climbed the dais and seated herself in the chair he offered.

         

Alex stood in the shadows, listening.

A strange emptiness had overwhelmed him as he watched Gwendolyn and David leave the great hall, their hands clasped tightly together. Duty demanded that he remain and discuss the pending MacSween attack with his clan, and he had felt oddly resentful that he could not follow them. The moment it was possible for him to leave, he had made his way to the corridor outside David’s chamber. There he had found Ned standing by the doorway, sharpening a stick as he listened through the heavy wood to Gwendolyn spinning yet another gruesome tale for David. Alex had offered to relieve Ned and watch over Gwendolyn himself for a while. Ned assured him it wasn’t necessary. Alex had to practically order his warrior to leave.

Finally Ned had relented, but only after making Alex promise to listen well so he could tell him how the story ended.

“…and then the mighty Torvald raised his sword into the glare of the sun, cleverly blinding the giant snake as he hurled his dirk at him with his other hand. The dirk flew deep into the monster’s hideous yellow eye, and the creature screeched in agony as boiling hot blood gushed from the wound, scorching the very grass upon which he writhed….”

Gwendolyn certainly had a remarkable ability to tell stories, Alex reflected. He wondered what kind of tales Flora had told the lad before she became ill. Somehow he couldn’t imagine his gentle wife spinning the ghastly narratives Gwendolyn fabricated. Of course David had been much younger then and would probably not have enjoyed such chilling tales. When had he developed this fascination with blood and gore? he wondered. After Flora’s death and his own descent into madness, Alex had not had time to pay attention to the lad’s changing fancies.

“…and with those words the mighty Torvald cast the beast’s dark, shriveled heart into the sea, where it fell to the bottom like a stone and lay forever in the slimiest of muck, too hard and bitter for even the hungriest of fish to nibble upon.”

There were a few hushed words that Alex couldn’t make out, and then a small giggle. He pressed his ear against the door, straining to hear. He wanted to go inside, but he could not bring himself to do so, knowing that whatever warm moment the two were sharing would be shattered the instant he appeared. An easy familiarity reigned between Gwendolyn and his son, which was something Alex had never enjoyed with the lad.

The memory of David’s tiny palm pressed against his returned, achingly sweet and sad. How had that helpless bairn suddenly become the handsome, confident lad who sat so proudly beside him tonight in the hall?

The door opened and Gwendolyn appeared, carrying a candle.

“Oh,” she said, looking startled, “did you come to say good night to David?”

Her pale skin was warmed by the glow of the flame she carried, making her look unusually radiant.

“Is my son asleep?” Alex managed to ask.

“Almost.” She opened the door a little wider so he could see.

A trio of candles was flickering beside the bed, veiling the chamber in hazy gold. No hint of sickness fouled the air, but instead the fragrance of heather and pine was drifting through the windows and mingling with the faint tangy scent of soap. David lay curled upon the bed, breathing deeply, his red hair flickering against the white of his pillow. Alex took a tentative step closer, not wanting to waken the lad. The boy sleepily rubbed his eye, then left his hand loosely fisted beside his face. It bore scant resemblance to the tiny palm Flora had once pressed into his, but it remained the diminutive, soft hand of a child. If Alex reached out and held it, he would still wonder how it could ever grow to be as large and rough as his own.

Somehow he found comfort in that.

He turned and indicated to Gwendolyn that he was ready to leave.

“Where is Ned?” she asked, searching for him in the corridor.

“I dismissed him for the evening.”

She looked at him curiously.

“He was tired.”

She made no comment. Together they proceeded in silence down the hallway.

When he stood before the corridor to her chamber, Alex hesitated. He had not entered this room since the night Flora died. Behind this door were a thousand agonizing memories from which he longed to escape. His heart began to pound and tighten in his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Open it, he commanded silently. Now.

His arms stayed leaden at his sides.

He was a coward, he realized bleakly. Only a coward could be so terrified of an empty chamber. Scores of other men had lost their wives, or even several wives, and they didn’t end up babbling endlessly to themselves or becoming afraid to enter a chamber in their own bloody castle. He wanted to leave, to retreat to a dark corner and drown himself in drink until his mind was cloudy and his fear trifling. Then, perhaps, he might try to breech this portal again. But he could not permit Gwendolyn to enter the room alone, lest some menace awaited her inside.

He contemplated telling her to wait while he fetched someone else to escort her across the threshold.

Open it, goddammit. It is just a chamber.

Summoning his nerve, he roughly jerked up the latch and entered the oppressive blackness. He inhaled a cautious breath, searching the air for some trace of the misery he knew lingered here. The sun-washed scent of heather and grass filled his nostrils, the same as they had in David’s chamber. But he was not fooled by the superficial fragrance. Flora’s misery had seeped into these walls, and the chamber would reek of suffering and death until the very stones of the castle disintegrated.

He would be dead long before that hour came.

Gwendolyn entered and began to light the candles in the chamber. Little by little the darkness faded, until finally the chamber was suffused with honeyed light. The furniture was different, Alex realized numbly. Of course it would be. He had ordered everything removed after Flora’s death, and stored deep within the bowels of the castle. Except for her bed. That cursed prison he had ordered burned, in a feeble attempt to exorcise the memory of her lying trapped within it.

Unfortunately, the memory remained.

He turned his gaze to the simple construction of polished oak that now graced the center of the room. A neatly arranged plaid of red and blue was spread over it, and something pale lay upon the pillow. Curious, he moved closer. A heavy, smooth bone, more than two hand spans in length, lay nestled upon the soft wool.

“What is this?” he asked, picking it up. “A charm for one of your spells?”

Gwendolyn approached him slowly, staring at the bone. She reached out and took it from him, then ran her fingers lightly over the dry surface. “It is a bone from the leg of a horse,” she said quietly. “It is used as a talisman against evil.”

Alex frowned. “Are you using this to cure my son?”

She shook her head. “Someone has left it here hoping it will drive me away.” She turned the bone over, studying it. “It is said that horses are related to the Celtic goddess Epona, and therefore have special powers—”

“How can you be so placid about this?” he demanded, his voice rigid with fury. “Someone came into your chamber and left this here to frighten you!”

“What would you have me do, MacDunn?” Gwendolyn challenged, her feigned composure cracking. “All my life people have been leaving objects like this for me. From the time I was a little girl, my own clan would place them on the doorstep of my father’s cottage, or toss them through a window, or tie them to a stick and hurl them at me as I walked. Once when I was eleven a boy threw a rough piece of iron at me, which struck me in the head.” She lifted back the thick curtain of her hair, showing him the jagged white scar that marred the edge of her hairline.

“I ran home screaming to my father,” Gwendolyn continued, “with blood pouring down my face and into my gown. I told him I hated everyone in the world except for him, and wished they all would die. And do you know what he did?”

Alex shook his head. He sure as hell knew what he would have done. He would have found the little bastard who struck her and thrashed him until he couldn’t sit for a month.

“My father bathed and bandaged my wound, and then he sat and put his arms around me. And as I wept and raged, he told me it was far better to love my enemies than to hate them, and that eventually they would grow ashamed of their cruelties and stop.”

“But they never did,” Alex surmised quietly.

A bitter laugh escaped her throat. “One might think eventually they would at least realize their talismans had no power over me, because I never left. But that didn’t stop them from constantly trying to expel me, with their holy relics and their pious prayers and their bags of stinking herbs, rowan branches, bones, scraps of iron, and red wool.” She turned abruptly and hurled the bone with all her might into the hearth. It clattered loudly against the grate before sinking into the cold ashes. Fighting the tears welling in her eyes, Gwendolyn laid her hands against the cool stone of the mantel and bit down hard against her trembling lip.

“I hate this, MacDunn,” she confessed brokenly. “I hate all of it, and I hate being alone to face it. But I have grown so accustomed to the fear and ostracism of others, I don’t know what it is to be without it.” Her voice disintegrated into a ragged whisper as she finished, “I never will.”

Her despondency surged over him. Overwhelmed by a need to comfort her, he laid his hands on her small shoulders and turned her around to face him. She did not push him away, but instead stared up at him with wide, pain-filled eyes, like a wounded deer who cannot understand why it has been made to suffer. He wanted to ease her torment, to banish all trace of the loneliness and cruelties she had been forced to endure, and make her see that there was at least one person on this earth who neither feared nor despised her. She was a witch, yes, but he had only seen her use her magic to try to help his son. How could that make her evil? The MacSweens had convicted her of murdering her father, but Alex had long ago known that was a lie. Gwendolyn had loved her father, and his death had left her completely abandoned in a world that was determined to destroy her. If Alex hadn’t stolen her for the sake of his dying son, the MacSweens would have succeeded.

And David would be dead tonight instead of sleeping peacefully with his little hand curled beside his freckled cheek.

“Gwendolyn,” he whispered, raising his hand to trace the contour of her jaw, “you are not alone.”

She shook her head. “I am, MacDunn. I always will be.”

“No,” he murmured, lowering his lips until they hovered barely a breath from hers. “Not as long as I live.”

With that solemn pledge he crushed his lips to hers, wrapping his arms around her and hauling her hard against him. He kissed her deeply, ravenously, wanting to lose himself to the pleasure of holding her and kissing her and touching her. Gwendolyn’s mouth was soft and dark and wine-sweet, like ripe, sun-warmed fruit, and she smelled of summer meadows and sunlight, a scent that had driven him mad since that first time he had held her. She did not fight him as she had before, not even a little, but instead she whimpered and wrapped her arms around him, seeking the comfort of his hard body against hers. Alex complied by pressing himself against her, feeling her soft form set fire to every inch of his flesh, until his loins were throbbing and his knees were weak. He took her hand and guided it beneath his plaid, then pressed it firmly against the hardness of his thigh. She froze for a moment, her soft palm fixed against him, uncertain. And then she tentatively began to explore him, her fingers drifting up and down, flitting with agonizing curiosity across his burning skin. Up, then down, then up a little more, until finally he thought he would go mad from the need to have her take hold of him. He plunged his tongue deep into her mouth and sank his hand into the depths of her black gown, capturing the forbidden lushness of her breast. Releasing his mouth from hers, he pulled down the silver-embroidered fabric covering her shoulder with his teeth, causing her bodice to crumple to her waist. Then he lowered his head and closed his lips around the sweet peak of her breast, suckling the dark berry of her nipple until it was taut against his teasing tongue.

Gwendolyn moaned with pleasure and threw her head back, offering more of herself to Alex as she explored the smooth curve of his buttocks, the chiseled form of his thighs, the iron ridges of muscle layered across his stomach. He felt as if he had been sculpted from granite, except that he was warm and powerful as he groaned and flexed beneath the gentleness of her touch. His hand was swiftly trailing up her gown, but she was scarcely aware of it until his finger slipped inside her hot wetness just as he suckled hard upon her breast. Hot pleasure tore through her, causing her to cry out. Abandoning her shyness, she closed her hand firmly around the velvety hard length of his manhood. Alex groaned and buried his face into the soft hollow between her breasts, pulsing against her caress as he stroked her with his finger. She opened her thighs wider, offering more of herself to him, and he eagerly complied, pressing his fingers deeper into her with each languid thrust against her hand.

Alex’s fingers were bathed in Gwendolyn’s sweet wetness and the intricate petals of her flesh were slick and swollen, telling him how much she longed for release. Unable to bear her stroking a moment longer, he sank to his knees and lifted her gown, then pressed his face between the creamy silk of her thighs and began to lap at the rosy hot folds of her. She cried out and gripped his shoulders, struggling to remain upright, and then she sighed and opened herself even further, inviting him to seek out the hottest, deepest recesses of her body. He held her gown to her waist with one hand and cupped her buttocks with the other, pulling her closer to him as he licked and probed every delectable inch of her, inhaling the womanly fragrance of her as he took her closer to the crest of ecstasy.

Gwendolyn stood frozen, clinging helplessly to Alex’s massive shoulders as his tongue flitted in and out of her. Her breath was coming in tiny gasps as her heart pounded hard against her chest, until she could almost feel the surge of her blood as it raced through her straining flesh. And still she opened herself wider, pressing herself shamelessly against Alex’s mouth as he worshiped her with his tongue, wanting him to taste her faster, deeper, more, wanting it never to end, and yet knowing she could not possibly bear it another moment. She laid her hands against the roughness of his jaw and threaded her fingers into the golden thickness of his hair, holding him to her, experiencing a dark, forbidden thrill at the sight of him passionately lapping at her most intimate place. And then her pleasure began to soar. She gasped and held him even tighter. Alex responded by thrusting his finger deep inside her, filling the hollow ache that had bloomed within. In and out with his finger, up and down with his tongue, stroking and thrusting and kissing until she could no longer breathe, could no longer think, could no longer do anything except stand there clinging to him mindlessly. And still the sensations within her continued to surge and swell, higher, more, and Alex tasted her harder and faster, until suddenly sweet, pure ecstasy exploded through her, and she cried out, her entire being flushed with hot joy as she crumpled limply against him.

Alex held Gwendolyn tightly, stroking her silky hair as her breath feathered through the wrinkled fabric of his shirt and warmed his chest. His own body was hard and aching for release, but the feel of Gwendolyn resting sated in his arms was far too glorious and fragile a moment to relinquish. And so he remained as he was, kneeling upon the cool stone floor with his arms wrapped around her, resting his chin on the top of her head as he listened to her breathing gradually steady. What spell had this tiny witch cast over him, he wondered, that made him so ravenous for her? How was it that she could arouse such staggering passion in him, when no woman had been able to ignite even the flimsiest spark of desire after Flora had died? He wanted her with an intensity that was awesome, and it scarcely seemed to matter when or where. The fact that he had taken her here, in this room where Flora had suffered so hideously for so long, was ample testament to the depravity of his longing.

He closed his eyes, fighting the surge of guilt threatening to engulf him.

A sudden pounding jerked him from his thoughts.

“Alex!” called Brodick. “For God’s sake, open the door! We’re under attack!”

Alex released his hold on Gwendolyn and sprang to his feet. “Cover yourself,” he said harshly, barely giving her time to adjust her fallen bodice as he flung open the door.

“What’s happening?” he demanded.

Brodick and Cameron stared at him in confusion, their fists still pounding against his own chamber door a few feet down the corridor. Their eyes quickly took in his rumpled hair and disheveled attire.

“It’s the MacSweens,” explained Cameron, regaining his composure first. “Robert has arrived with an army. They are surrounding the castle wall.”

“How many?” Alex hastily adjusted his plaid.

“It looks like about two hundred,” Brodick replied, “but there could be more waiting in the woods.”

“Anyone left in the cottages?”

“No,” Cameron assured him. “Garrick was out looking for his dog and spotted some of Robert’s men as they assembled on the east hill. He alerted everyone as he ran up to the castle, and they quietly made their way through the gate.”

“Cameron, tell Robena and Marjorie to take all the women and children into the storerooms on the lower level,” Alex ordered. “Have five warriors stand guard over them. Bordick, make certain the towers are adequately manned, and place three lines of thirty warriors each in the courtyard to wait for Robert should he breach the gate. Then both of you join me on the wall head. We will fight this battle from the higher level, and end it long before Robert and his men have a prayer of entering the castle itself. Move!”

The two warriors instantly went to carry out his orders.

Alex returned to find Gwendolyn standing before the hearth, contemplating the bone half buried in the ashes.

“So,” she murmured, “he has finally come for me.”

“Fetch David and take him to the storeroom with the other women and children. You will be safe there.”

“Safe?” she repeated, her voice mocking. She turned to face him. “Your people despise me, MacDunn. They want me either gone or dead, and Robert has just arrived to fulfill both those desires. Do you honestly believe your clan will fight to keep me here?”

“They will do as I say,” Alex assured her. “I am laird.”

“They think you are mad. They thought you were mad for bringing me here and entrusting your son to me, and they will certainly think you mad for risking their lives to protect me. They can see that David is faring better and does not need me anymore. Why should they sacrifice themselves to protect a witch?”

“I have no time for this,” Alex growled, exasperated. “Get my son and take him below!”

Gwendolyn shook her head. “I will not hide, nor will I ask your people to protect me against their will. They did nothing to provoke this attack. This is my battle, MacDunn, not theirs.” She began to move toward the door.

Alex grabbed her shoulders with brusing strength, holding her fast. “Listen well, Gwendolyn. You will take my son below and you will stay there, do you understand?”

“Can you not see this is a battle that cannot be won? Robert will not rest until he has made me prisoner once more. Why force your people to suffer and die because of me?”

“Because I protect what is mine!”

“But I am not yours, MacDunn.” Gwendolyn’s gray eyes snapped fire. “I belong to no one!”

She was trembling beneath his grasp, whether from fury or fear he could not be certain. She seemed achingly beautiful to him in that moment, with her ebony veil of hair spilling wildly over the pale silk of her shoulders, and the faint flush of pleasure still coloring her exquisitely sculpted cheeks.

“You’re wrong, Gwendolyn.” He released his grip on her shoulder to gently trace his fingers along the graceful curve of her chin. He crushed his mouth against hers, stifling any further protest. Then he pulled away and regarded her sternly. “Swear to me that you will take my son to the lower level with the other women and children.”

“Your people do not want to fight this war, and Robert will grant them no mercy.” She lowered her gaze, unable to face him as she finished in a tear-choked whisper, “They will be slaughtered.”

Alex cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her head up to face him. “Have faith, Gwendolyn. My people will be able to stand against Robert.” He released her and strode toward the door. “I trained them myself, you know.”

He studied her a final moment, then disappeared into the corridor.

Gwendolyn stood alone, listening to the first cries of battle tear through the night.

And then she raced from the chamber to fetch David.