CHAPTER 11
“Alex!” called Robena anxiously, “what are you going to do?” “I’m going to fight him, Robena,” Alex replied, striding toward the stairs that led to the battlements. “He leaves me no choice.”
“This is madness! You cannot let your people die for the sake of that whore!”
Alex stopped. “What did you say?” His voice was ominously soft.
Realizing she had gone too far, Robena made a cautious retreat. “I mean only that she is a witch, Alex.” She began to wring the fine linen square she held in her hand as she continued meekly, “You brought her here to help your son, but he seems better now. We don’t need her anymore. It would be best for everyone if you simply gave her back to the MacSweens.”
“So they can kill her?”
“Whatever they decide to do with her is their affair, not ours. She is one of them, and they have the right to punish her for her evil crimes. It is not your responsibility to protect her.”
“You’re wrong, Robena. From the moment I rescued Gwendolyn from that stake, she became my responsibility. And I will defend her the same as I would any member of my clan.”
“But she doesn’t belong here, Alex,” she persisted. “Surely you can see that?”
“Whether she belongs here or not, she will be protected.”
Robena’s gaze narrowed. “Elspeth said the witch would bring misery and death to the clan, and so she has. And she has bewitched you with her sluttish charms until you are too blind to see the truth!”
Alex stared at her, shocked by the sudden change in her demeanor. The linen square she held was crushed into a limp ball, and the feminine fear sparkling in her eyes a moment earlier had been obliterated by utter loathing.
“You disappoint me, Robena,” he said tautly. “I would have thought that you, of all people, would have more faith in me than that.”
“But Alex—” she began, laying a pleading hand upon his shoulder.
“Get yourself below. I have a battle to fight.”
He shrugged off her touch and mounted the stairs, deeply troubled by the realization that Robena was likely not alone in her convictions.
“Get off my wall, ye louse-ridden heap o’ fur!” shouted Munro, awkwardly shoving a heavy stone off the parapet.
Farquhar leaned over and blearily watched as the boulder plopped to the ground, missing a cluster of MacSween warriors by a good six feet. “You missed,” he reported. He took a deep swallow of ale and belched loudly.
“Christ, those buggers are fast,” complained Munro, mopping the sweat off his face with his sleeve.
“They’re coming up the ladder now,” observed Farquhar, not sounding overly concerned. “Why don’t you try again?”
“How many are there?” asked Munro, critically scanning the enormous pile of boulders at his disposal.
“Three—no—four—no—one’s been shot—but here’s another—and that one there makes five—or more like four and a half—the last chap is rather scrawny….” He paused to take another draft of ale.
“For God’s sake, Farquhar, how many?” bellowed Munro.
He belched. “Definitely five.”
“This one looks like a fiver,” decided Munro, selecting an enormous boulder from the pile. He hauled the heavy stone up, grunted loudly, and heaved it over.
“A clean strike!” praised Farquhar, watching as the five MacSween warriors were knocked from the ladder.
“Let that be a lesson to ye, ye stinkin’ clods of dung!” shouted Munro triumphantly. “Oh-ho,” he said, spotting another group advancing with a ladder. “You’re wantin’ some of the same, are ye? Well, I’ll not be disappointing ye!”
“Stand back so I can shoot them,” said Ned, slipping between them with his bow and arrow.
“Now, Neddie, Farquhar and I have this little area well in hand,” protested Munro. “Why don’t ye move along and find your own space?”
“It’s too crowded,” grumbled Ned.
Munro sighed. “Very well. Come over here. But try to hit the MacSweens who are farther out, and leave the ones scrambling up the wall to us.”
Ned obligingly took aim at a warrior who was pointing at them with a burning arrow.
“Now, that’s a daft thing,” commented Cameron, coming up behind them. “Does he not realize the flame from that arrow makes him a pretty target?”
Ned released the string of his bow, sending his arrow flying. The MacSween warrior let out a bellow of pain as the sharp missile pierced his chest. “I’d warrant he does now,” Ned reflected.
“Spread yourselves out!” commanded Alex, driving his sword into the belly of a MacSween who had nearly climbed to the top of his ladder. “They’re coming up the east side!”
The MacDunns instantly thinned ranks, covering the exposed areas.
“We’re here, laddie!” trumpeted Owen, emerging on the wall head. He squinted into the darkness, then awkwardly began to grope his way along the parapet. Suddenly he stumbled and grabbed Cameron’s plaid, jerking it down to the enormous warrior’s ankles. “Do forgive, lad,” he apologized hastily. “Not much light out here, is there?”
“Not unless you count the moonlight bouncing off Cameron’s backside!” joked Brodick, who had just finished knocking a MacSween off the parapet.
“Stand over here, Cameron. Ye can help me to better see these stones!” roared Munro, nearly doubled over with amusement.
“By God, those MacSweens have had it now!” shouted Reginald, appearing with his sword wobbling before him. “I’ll slice them open and feed their rancid, stinking bowels to the frogs!”
“Disgusting,” sniffed Lachlan, who was following him, carefully balancing a frothing pitcher in his hands. “You have been spending far too much time with that Isabella.”
“That’s not from Isabella,” protested Reginald, his aged arms trembling as he struggled to wield his weapon. “That’s what the mighty Torvald says when he goes to fight the Gunns.”
“Do forgive, Reginald,” interjected Owen, “but I believe that’s dogs, not frogs.”
Reginald dropped his sword and scratched his white head. “Are you sure?” he asked, bewildered.
“For heaven’s sake, how long do you suppose it would take to feed just one man to a bunch of frogs?” demanded Lachlan impatiently. “Years!”
“That’s what makes the threat so dreadful,” explained Reginald. “All those green, slimy creatures hopping in and out—”
“Get down!” roared Alex, racing toward the elderly trio. “Now!”
Ned, Cameron, and Brodick instantly threw themselves at the council members, knocking them down and shielding them with their bodies. A flurry of burning arrows sailed up to the battlements and landed around them.
“Now, that was bloody close!” swore Cameron, angrily kicking one of the flaming arrows aside.
“Release the first cauldron!” commanded Alex, watching as a group of MacSweens reached the gate carrying an enormous timber.
“Wait!” cried Lachlan, still cradling his frothing pitcher in his hands. He scrambled to his feet, shuffled over, and dumped the mixture into the cauldron of boiling water. “Not yet,” he ordered, waving away Garrick, Ewan, and Quentin. “It has to ripen.”
“For God’s sake, Lachlan, get the hell out of the way!” shouted Alex.
“Very well. I suppose it will have to do,” Lachlan relented. “But don’t blame me if it doesn’t work.”
The MacDunns heaved the giant pot on its side. The startled MacSweens instantly abandoned their log as the boiling water poured down. There were a few shouts of pain and much colorful language, but nothing that suggested too serious an injury. Gazing warily up at the wall head, the cluster of MacSweens moved back to pick up their timber.
“Watch this,” said Lachlan, cautiously peering over the parapet.
When they were just a few yards away from the abandoned log, the MacSweens began to gag.
“Christ almighty,” complained one, “what the hell is that stench?”
“You’ll find out soon enough!” shouted Lachlan merrily, waving at them. “Just keep on coming!”
“Ram the gate, you fools!” bellowed Robert impatiently from somewhere in the darkness. “Now!”
Hacking and choking, the MacSweens manfully continued toward their objective.
“Prepare to release the next cauldron!” commanded Alex.
“No, no,” said Lachlan. “Let’s wait and see if my potion worked.”
“Lachlan,” Alex began, struggling for patience, “this isn’t the time—”
“It will only take a moment,” Lachlan assured him. “Just watch.”
“Fine,” Alex muttered, thoroughly exasperated.
Pinching their noses with their fingers, the MacSweens reached the log. The instant they released their nostrils to pick up the heavy timber, half of them bent over and began to retch.
“Poison!” screeched one, falling to his knees. “By God, they’ve poisoned us!”
“The log is dripping with filth!” observed another, staring in horror at his slime-coated hands. “My God, the stink!”
“It’s on your clothes!” shouted another. “Bloody hell, we’re covered in it!”
“It worked!” burst out Lachlan, dancing with elation. He leaned boldly over the parapet. “Ruined your pretty log, didn’t I?” he cackled. “Now you’d best find a stream to scrub yourselves in, before that slime turns to fire and burns your flesh off your miserable bones!”
The MacSween warriors stopped gagging and looked up at him in horror.
And then they turned and ran, knocking each other over in their haste to find a stream.
“My God, Lachlan, will that muck really turn to fire?” demanded Alex, incredulous.
“No,” he admitted slyly. “But it won’t hurt them to think so, now, will it?”
“Well, that’s a damn nuisance,” complained Reginald, leaning against his sword. “If you do that to all of them, who will be left for me to feed to the frogs?”
“He means dogs,” Owen assured Alex.
“MacDunn!” roared a low, furious voice.
Alex watched as Robert rode forth from his vantage point with a group of mounted, torch-bearing warriors flanking him on either side. He lifted his sword, signaling for the remaining MacSween warriors to abandon their attack and form a protective line in front of him. They moved forward with the deliberate, elegant precision of a highly trained army, their shields and swords flashing in the amber waver of torchlight. The moment Robert caught a whiff of Lachlan’s foul brew he halted, some thirty yards from the castle wall. The torch-bearing warriors swiftly reassembled, safely enclosing him in a ring of horse and fire.
“Good evening, Robert,” called Alex pleasantly. “How splendid that you have decided to join us. I was actually starting to miss your cheerful presence.”
“Give her to me, MacDunn,” demanded Robert coldly. “You have no right to her.”
“You’re quite right,” Alex agreed. “I don’t.” He sighed. “The problem is, Robert, she doesn’t want to go with you.”
“I don’t give a damn what she wants,” Robert snarled. “She must be returned to me so she can be burned.”
“Good Lord,” said Alex, sounding startled, “that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“That is her punishment.”
“Well, I can’t say I approve of that,” mused Alex, clicking his tongue. “I mean, if we all went around burning every young girl who rejected her suitor—”
“I’m not talking about Isabella!” snapped Robert.
Alex regarded him in bewilderment. “You’re not?”
“Give the witch to me, MacDunn, or I shall not rest until every man, woman, and child in your clan is reduced to a hot stew of flesh and blood.”
Alex frowned. “Does this mean you don’t want Isabella?”
“Forget Isabella!” he thundered.
“Well, that is a feat easier said than done, I’m afraid,” Alex told him. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but the lass loves to be the center of attention—which I suspect she gets from you—”
“Hear me, MacDunns!” shouted Robert, deciding to appeal directly to the clan. “Your mad laird has placed you in terrible danger by bringing an evil witch and murderer into your midst…”
“Nonsense!” shouted Owen, wagging a gnarled finger in the air. “The lass would never harm a soul!”
“…who viciously murdered her own father,” continued Robert, “by casting a hideous spell over him that sucked out his spirit and delivered it straight to the devil.”
“Did she, now?” snorted Reginald. “Then maybe we should ask her to do the same to you!”
Robert stared up at the jeering elder in confusion. Why the hell weren’t these ignorant louts afraid of Gwendolyn, as her own clan had been?
“The witch has cast a horrible pestilence on my people and lands,” he told them dramatically, “to punish us for trying to put an end to her wickedness. From the day your feebleminded laird stole her, scores of MacSweens have died in the most horrendous agony, their flesh consumed by fetid black sores. Our crops have rotted in violent storms, in which unearthly winds have uprooted house, tree, and animal alike, smashing them against the ground as she tries to destroy us—”
“Liar!” shouted an enraged woman’s voice. “How can you stand there and tell such vile falsehoods?”
Surprised, both the MacDunns and the MacSweens turned to gaze at Isabella, who was leaning out of one of the castle windows.
“Isabella!” yelled Brodick, “get back inside at once!”
“No,” returned Isabella defiantly. “Not when my uncle sits down there telling such ridiculous fabrications!” She leaned out even farther to ensure that everyone could see her. “Shall I tell them the truth, dear uncle?”
“Go and haul her back inside, Brodick,” Alex ordered between clenched teeth, “before she falls and breaks her bloody neck.”
“When I get her, I may break it for her,” muttered Brodick, moving swiftly away.
“Isabella, my child,” said Robert smoothly, “I am deeply relieved to see that you are well. Your dear father has been overcome with worry. Come to me, my sweet, and I shall take you home.”
“You would take me to a place where the starving MacSweens are dying from some ghastly scourge, and unearthly winds are destroying forests and homes?” Isabella asked sarcastically. “Your concern for my welfare is truly touching.”
“That does seem a wee bit odd,” observed Owen, knitting his white brows together.
“There was no pestilence after Gwendolyn left,” Isabella shouted, “nor were there storms, or winds, or uncommon occurrences of any kind! He only says this to make you think she is evil, when in fact the only evil one here is the man you see befo—”
Her tirade ended abruptly as Brodick grabbed her by the waist and yanked her back through the window.
“What are you doing?” Isabella shrieked, struggling to escape his grasp. “I’m not finished!”
“Yes, you are,” Brodick assured her. “And if I ever find you doing such a dangerously foolish thing again, Isabella, I swear to you I will make certain you cannot sit for a month!”
“How dare you!” she raged, trying to break free. “I’m trying to help Gwendolyn! Robert is filling their heads with lies!”
“You have already helped her. You have exposed Robert’s charges against her for the falsehoods they are. You needn’t put yourself in any further danger by falling out the window or getting shot by one of Robert’s men.”
“No!” she cried, struggling violently against him. “I must help her more!”
“Isabella, stop!” He gave her a hard shake. “Enough!”
Startled by the anger in his voice, she suddenly stopped and gazed up at him, her eyes sparkling with tears.
“Forgive me, Bella,” he apologized, instantly easing his grip on her. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Isabella swallowed thickly and shook her head. “You didn’t,” she said, her voice small and forlorn. “It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
She hesitated a moment, then inhaled a ragged breath and whispered brokenly, “I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” asked Brodick, gently capturing the silver drop trickling down her cheek. “Tell me.”
“They were so cruel to her,” she said, the words choked with misery. “Everyone was, because they—we—thought she was evil. ’Twas common knowledge, so none of us ever thought to question it. And whenever anyone grew sick, or died, or a crop failed, or milk soured, or bread wouldn’t rise, we blamed Gwendolyn.”
Brodick regarded her grimly and said nothing.
“But when they said that she had killed her father…I knew that couldn’t be right.” She bit her trembling lip. “I’d seen them, you see, walking together on the hill. I used to go sometimes and hide in the deep grasses when I wanted to be alone. And they would be walking—just the two of them, because no one else would go near her—and they’d be holding hands, and he’d be telling her the most marvelous stories about a great warrior called the mighty Torvald. Then they would sit on the ground, and he would tell her things that he thought she should know, about birds and clouds, or the world that lives under a rock when you turn it over….” Her voice began to break. “And Gwendolyn would look at him with such love….” The words disintegrated into tears.
“Shhh, Bella,” soothed Brodick, wrapping her in his arms. “It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t. Because I knew there was something wrong when Robert said she had murdered her father—but I didn’t do anything. I just let them find her guilty. But how could Gwendolyn have killed the only person in the world she really loved?”
“She couldn’t have,” Brodick agreed quietly.
“I believed she was a witch, and told myself it didn’t matter,” she confessed, her voice sodden with contempt. “I thought that even if she didn’t kill him, she was responsible for all kinds of other terrible things, so she deserved to die. And then I just put it from my mind. I chose a pretty gown to wear, and I laughed and flirted with you while they tied her to that awful stake—and set her afire—” She began to sob.
“Hush, Bella,” crooned Brodick, tenderly stroking her hair. “You couldn’t have saved her. Your people had feared her for years and were determined to burn her. There was nothing you could have done to change that.”
“But I should have tried. I should have said something in her defense. But instead I remained silent.” She buried her face in the warm mantle of his plaid and wept uncontrollably.
“And yet tonight you leaned out of a tower in the midst of a battle and challenged Robert’s false allegations against Gwendolyn.” Brodick grasped her chin and tipped her head up so he could look into her eyes. “Do you realize Robert could have had you shot just to silence you?”
“I don’t care,” she told him fiercely. “At least the MacDunns would know the truth about Gwendolyn.”
Brodick stared at her a moment, overwhelmed by her unexpected courage.
And then he bent his head and crushed his lips against hers.
“…and therefore I shall be forced to destroy this holding and everyone in it,” finished Robert menacingly.
A long silence followed.
“Do you hear me, MacDunn?” he thundered.
Alex peered over the parapet, politely stifling a yawn. “Forgive me, Robert,” he apologized, stretching, “but you were talking for so long I found my mind wandering a bit. What were you saying?”
Robert’s face contorted with fury. “Shoot them!”
A volley of burning arrows vaulted into the air, making a graceful arc of flame against the velvet sky before they dipped and rained upon the battlements.
“Sweet Jesus!” shouted Munro, grabbing his blazing shoulder. “I’m hit!”
Cameron quickly whipped off his plaid and threw it over Munro’s shoulder, extinguishing the flames.
“By God, Cameron,” Munro said between clenched teeth, “ ’tis noble of you to bare that ivory backside of yours again just for me.”
“Be grateful it’s a warm night,” joked Cameron, “or I might have thought twice about it. Steady, now,” he commanded, gently easing Munro against the stone floor. “Breathe deep. If it’s not in too far we can take the arrow out straightaway.”
“Are you going to give her to me, MacDunn?” demanded Robert.
Alex gripped the hilt of his sword, focusing on the cold steel pressing against his heated palm. “Never,” he swore. Instead I’m going to kill you, you bastard.
“Then prepare to die!” Robert raised his sword to signal the next volley of arrows.
“Stop!” cried a high, desperate voice.
Alex irritably shifted his gaze from Robert, wondering why Brodick still hadn’t brought Isabella under control.
His heart froze.
It was Gwendolyn, struggling to balance herself on one of the tower merlons as a group of MacDunns rushed anxiously toward her.
“Stay back!” she warned. “Come one step closer and I’ll jump.”
“No one move!” commanded Alex, terrified that she might slip and fall if they startled her. “Gwendolyn,” he began, affecting a nonchalance that completely belied his anxiety, “just what, exactly, do you think you are doing?”
“I cannot bear this,” she replied, her voice trembling. “I cannot bear the thought that some of your clan may die because of me.”
“We’re happy to do it, lass!” said Owen grandly. “These MacSween scoundrels need to be taught a lesson, just as the mighty Torvald would do to them!”
“I’m going to whip up another batch of that potion,” Lachlan added, “only this time I’ll make it so strong they’ll be spewing their bowels out their eye sockets!”
“And then we’re going to feed them to the frogs!” finished Reginald enthusiastically.
“Come down, Gwendolyn,” interjected Alex. “We can discuss this better if you are over here.”
“You don’t understand,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He will never give up.”
“Perhaps not.” Alex slowly moved along the parapet toward the tower. “But I don’t intend to let him have you.”
“And how much blood will be shed because of me?” She gazed at him sadly, her eyes two silver pools against the paleness of her face. “How much death will I have brought to your people?”
“I knew the risks when I took you, Gwendolyn.”
“No, MacDunn,” she said, her voice laced with pain. “You didn’t.”
She turned away from him suddenly, and his heart constricted with terror.
“Shoot me, Robert!” she commanded, opening her arms wide in invitation. “Let us bring this to an end!”
“Hold!” roared Robert as his warriors instantly took aim at her. “The first man to release an arrow is dead!”
Their arrows taut against the strings of their bows, his warriors regarded him in amazement.
“What in bloody hell is the matter with you?” demanded Derek. “Are we here to kill the witch or not?”
“Shut your mouth,” snapped Robert.
“Why don’t you let them kill me, Robert?” Gwendolyn taunted. “That is what you came here for, is it not? To finally put an end to my evil powers? Now is your chance to save the MacSweens from all the devastation I have wrought on them, and punish me for murdering my father at the same time. Why do you hesitate?”
“You must be burned, witch,” Robert told her, grappling for some reasonable explanation for his reticence. “Your cursed form must be consumed by fire.”
“Then have one of your brave warriors shoot a burning arrow through me. That will suffice, I think. Once I fall, you can heap dry twigs and peat around me, to be certain I burn to nothing.” She raised her arms slightly higher, wobbling on her tiny perch.
Alex stood paralyzed, afraid if he moved she would plunge to her death. A cool wind had begun to gust, blowing the silky black of her hair and gown out behind her like great, dark wings. She looked utterly glorious as she stood precariously on that merlon, her small, slender form a wisp of shadow against the brilliant wash of moonlight glowing behind her. His people were willing to protect her, yet she had chosen to face Robert’s army alone, bravely offering her life in exchange for the safety of a clan that had been hostile toward her from the day she arrived. She was completely magnificent to him, as courageous and honorable as the finest warrior he had ever known. He swallowed thickly, humbled by her.
“You have erred, Gwendolyn,” said Robert, the corners of his mouth curling in a predaceous smile. “You have just revealed your weakness.”
“I have nothing to lose, Robert,” countered Gwendolyn. “You have stolen everything from me.”
“Is that so?” he drawled. “Then you won’t mind what I am about to do.” He raised his sword and gestured at the neat little cottages scattered upon the hill. “Burn them,” he commanded harshly. “Destroy the fields and gardens. And slay anything that breathes, be it human or animal.”
The torch-bearing warriors circling him immediately disbanded.
“My God,” murmured Cameron, watching in horror. “He’s going to destroy our homes and kill our livestock.”
“Cowards!” shouted Owen, shaking his gnarled fist in the air. “Come back and fight like warriors, not demons!”
“My grandfather built my cottage,” reflected Ewan, his voice filled with despair. “I was born in it, as was my son.”
“It will be all right,” said Quentin, resting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We will build again.”
Sick horror welled in Gwendolyn’s throat as she watched Robert’s men touch their torches to the roofs of the MacDunns’ cottages. The flames leaped eagerly onto the thick nests of thatch, consuming the sweet, dry straw with voracious hunger. In little more than a breath a half dozen homes were blazing, their orange and gold flicker strangely beautiful against the charcoal cape of night. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the hideous sight. Somewhere in the darkness a dog was frantically barking.
“That’s my Laddie,” said Garrick. “He must think I’m trapped in my house.”
“Kill that goddamn dog!” Robert commanded, wheeling his mount about.
“Run, Laddie!” Garrick shouted, leaning over the parapet. “Run!”
The barking stopped.
And then it started again, only now it was coming closer.
“No, Laddie!” said Garrick, his voice rough with emotion. “Go away! Run, damn you! Run!”
“I see it!” snarled Robert. “It’s coming up the hill. Shoot the damn thing!”
Gwendolyn did not bother to open her eyes. Instead she raised her arms high, reaching into the clear black of the sky. A deafening roar filled her ears, blocking out the sound of the dog barking, the cottages burning, the MacDunns’ despair as they watched their beloved homes being destroyed.
You cannot do this, Robert. I won’t let you.
A brilliant ribbon of light suddenly tore across the cloudless sky, cracking it open for the torrent of rain that burst forth. It poured down in hard, icy needles, drowning the flaming cottages and extinguishing the MacSweens’ torches and flaming arrows. The sharp water lashed against the attacking warriors with such force they could scarcely open their eyes. Another streak of lightning ripped through the night, and another, the searing flashes of light as blinding as the rain. Earsplitting waves of thunder crashed over the mountains, causing the MacSweens’ horses to whinny and rear up in fear as their masters shouted at them to be still. The rain fell in heavy sheets and began to pool on the ground, swiftly turning the grass and earth to a slippery, muddy slop.
“Damn you, MacDunn!” bellowed Robert, as if he felt that Alex were somehow responsible for the sudden squall. “It will be mine!” He stared up at him a long moment, his face twisted with fury, heedless of the water whipping against him.
And then he jerked his mount’s head to one side and galloped into the thundering darkness.
The MacSween warriors turned and scrambled after their retreating commander, their heads held low as they vainly tried to shield themselves against the lash of the rain.
The MacDunns raised their weapons into the air and cheered.
“That was simply splendid!” exclaimed Owen, dabbing at his dripping face with his sopping-wet mantle. “In all my years, I’ve never seen such a beastie of a storm.”
“The lass has a fine way with the weather,” yelled Reginald, trying to be heard above the crashing thunder. “Brought it on just in a whisker of time.”
“A bit excessive, if you ask me,” shouted Lachlan, irritably squinting into the gale. “A tempest of half this potency would have sufficed.”
Alex was barely aware of their comments as he cautiously moved toward Gwendolyn. She rose from the parapet like a magnificent stone sculpture teetering over the precipice of death, her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, apparently oblivious to the fact that the MacSweens had retreated. The pelting rain had reduced her gown to a liquid black sheath that poured over the curves of her breasts and hips, turning her into a rippling shadow against the jagged strips of light flashing around her. Alex locked his gaze on her as he closed the distance between them, willing her not to fall.
“Gwendolyn.” He reached out to her. “Take my hand.”
Her lids fluttered open. Even through the heavy veil of rain he could see that her gray eyes were distant and blurred, like someone who has just been roused from a long and restless sleep. She regarded him in confusion, as if wondering who he was and how he had come to be there.
And then she sighed and fell into the blackness.
Alex roared as he threw himself forward, his arms outstretched. For an endless shred of time he felt nothing but rain and darkness and death, and his mind began to shatter, as surely as it had the night Flora had forever escaped his grasp. No, by God, no. He extended his body farther, reaching through the night until every bone and tendon and muscle was strained to the very limits of his skin.
And then he had her, her slender form whole and firm as she dangled helplessly in the crush of his aching hands.
With a savage groan he heaved her up, too overcome to be gentle as he hauled her over the parapet. Holding her tight against him, he sank to his knees, fighting the splintering pain tangling like a web through his skull.
She is all right, he told himself fiercely. She is not going to die. The stinging rain thrashed against them as he cradled her in his arms, soaking their hair and skin and clothes, and he leaned over her, vainly trying to protect her from the rain, the cold, the night, from every dark force that might seek to harm her or steal her from him.
He did not know how long he remained huddled over her. When Brodick’s voice finally penetrated the aching fog in his brain, the wall head was all but deserted.
“Let’s take her inside, Alex,” Cameron was saying, resting his hand upon Alex’s shoulder. “Come.”
“The battle,” Alex murmured stupidly.
“The battle is over,” Brodick said. “Everyone is safe and accounted for, including Garrick’s dog. I have posted men to watch from the towers for any further disturbances, although there is little Robert can do as long as this storm rages. Just to be certain, the entire clan will be spending the night within the confines of the castle. There is nothing more to be done tonight, Alex. Come.”
Dizzy and disoriented, Alex rose to his feet, still holding his precious burden tightly against him. Gwendolyn’s eyes were closed and her body was limp. “She is not dead,” he said dully, staring down at her.
“I believe she has fainted,” Brodick told him. “You’ve been holding her out here a long while.”
“He has,” Gwendolyn agreed, the chalky line of her lips barely moving. “But I’m awfully cold, MacDunn.” Her gray eyes opened and she regarded him with a steady clarity that had been completely absent when she regarded him just before she fell. “Could we go inside now?”
He drew her closer to his chest as he carried her along the battlements, down the stairs, into the corridor. Neither Cameron nor Brodick spoke as they made their way along the torchlit hallway, the only sound being the spatter of their sodden garments as they dripped streams of water onto the stone floor. Alex did not pause at Flora’s old sickroom, but continued to his own chamber. He carried Gwendolyn inside and closed the door on Cameron’s and Brodick’s confused expressions. He didn’t give a damn what they thought of his taking Gwendolyn to his chamber. He didn’t give a damn what anyone thought.
She was his, and she belonged here, with him.
He placed her in a chair before the hearth, then quickly heaped a mound of twigs and dry logs in the fireplace. He lit it with one of the candles flickering in the room, watching impatiently as the amber flames began to billow and snap. When the fire was blazing, he added several more lengths of wood to the pyre, ensuring its heat would last for several hours. Then he turned to her.
“We must remove that wet gown before you catch your death from a chill.”
Gwendolyn obediently stood and began to remove her gown. Alex went to his bed and stripped off the plaid covering, then quickly wrapped her in it as her black gown and chemise dropped to her bare feet.
“There, now.” He rubbed her through the softness of the plaid, trying to restore blood and heat to her chilled flesh. “Feel better?”
She stared up at him in numb silence. The lines of his handsome face were deeply etched in the flickering firelight, making him look far older than his years. His pale blond hair spilled like shimmering wet satin over his shoulders, and he seemed heedless of the fact that his shirt and plaid were lying cold and wet against his own skin. His touch was achingly gentle as he warmed her with his hands, the steady, sure stroke of a man who was well accustomed to tending someone weak. The thought of Flora filled her mind—Flora lying trapped in a dark, stifling room, but in a bed that had been carefully embroidered with flowers and sunshine and waterfalls. A bed that Alex had insisted on sharing with her as she lay dying, so she would not be alone. A bed that he had ordered burned after she died, so he would never have to endure the agony of looking upon it and remembering her in it.
Pity lanced Gwendolyn’s heart. MacDunn had risked everything for her this evening, she realized, bewildered by the incredible selflessness of his actions. He had been willing to sacrifice his people, his castle, even himself, all for the sake of her safety. And she had been equally ready to die, so that he and his clan might be spared Robert’s brutality. In that moment on the battlements, as she stood trembling over the dark embrace of death, she had suddenly understood the depth of her feelings for this mad, tormented laird.
And she had been terrified.
With a little cry she wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him desperately as she pressed her trembling lips to his. She wanted to be enveloped by him, to lose herself to his extraordinary strength and courage, to banish all thought of David and Clarinda, Cameron and Brodick and Ned, and even silly, spoiled Isabella, who had so courageously leaned out of a window and shouted at the top of her lungs that Gwendolyn was not evil. She wanted to wash all of them from her mind, and the cruel, irrefutable fact that by staying here, she endangered each and every one of them. And so she pressed herself against Alex’s hard, rain-soaked length, kissing him deeply as the plaid he had wrapped around her slipped to the floor in a rumpled pool of wool.
Alex groaned and drove his tongue deep into the sweetness of Gwendolyn’s mouth as he swept her up into his arms. He had not planned this, he assured himself as he crossed the chamber and lowered her onto the bed, but he could no more douse the passion blazing within him than he could have stopped the storm still raging outside. He wanted her with a voracity that was staggering. For weeks now he had feared her, not because of her unearthly powers, which he could not begin to comprehend, but because of her physical fragility, which made her seem like a tender blossom that would wither in the sun, or be swept away by the faintest gust of wind. The agony of Flora’s suffering was still raw in his mind, and he had been wary of Gwendolyn from the moment he saw her lashed to the stake, thinking such a feeble wisp of a girl could never endure even the simplest hardships of life. But he had been wrong. She had withstood the rancor of his own people with a stubborn resolution that would have tested his most seasoned warrior. She had endured fire and loathing, injury and humiliation, and the bitter knowledge that everyone she encountered either despised or feared her. Yet she had remained, tending to his son with tenderness and compassion, ignoring everything else in her bid to make a dying lad well. And then, when her mission was nearly completed, she had climbed upon the parapet and offered herself in exchange for the lives of those who had conspired to be rid of her.
The nobility beating within her tiny breast was staggering.
He shed his wet garments and stretched himself over her, covering her with his warmth and strength. He wanted to possess her, to hold her tight against him and lose himself inside her, to chain her to him with his body and mind and soul, so that she would never leave him, never know the touch of another man, and most of all so that she would never barter with her precious life as she had tonight. She was his, and she had to understand that, not with words, but with the heavy press of his thighs against hers, with the rough stroke of his tongue upon her taut nipple, the sun-bronzed splay of his hand grasping her creamy hip, and the harsh moan that escaped his throat as he buried himself deep within her velvet wet heat. A startled gasp escaped her lips, and he felt the bite of her nails as she clutched the muscles in his back, pulling him even closer against her small, silky body. He ravaged her mouth as he drove himself into her, tasting her deeply, thoroughly, feeling her cries of pleasure vibrate against his lips and teeth. Again and again he plunged into her as he drank in her beauty and strength and courage, feeling more a part of her with each aching penetration, stretching and filling her with his desperate need, until finally he did not know where he ended and she began. His mind began to spin as he lost himself to her, touching and kissing and gripping and thrusting, acutely aware of her slippery hot tightness as she held him safe inside her, the rapid flutter of her heart as it beat against his chest, the tangle of her slender legs as she twined them around his thighs, and the painful ache as he moved in and out of her, desperately trying to bind her to him, and feeling instead like he was being chained forever to her. He could not breathe, could not think, could not stop, could not do anything except lunge into her again and again, faster, harder, his body straining for release from this sublime torture. And suddenly he was soaring through the night, and he cried out her name in despair. He never wanted it to end, but his body could bear no more and so he rammed himself as far into her as he could, filling her with every fragment of his flesh and his soul before collapsing helplessly against her.
Gwendolyn lay utterly still, feeling the pounding of MacDunn’s heart against her breast and the warm caress of his breath upon her neck. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him, feeling briefly, impossibly safe, as if the muscular shield of his beautiful body and the inexorable power of his will could protect her from anything. Outside, the storm was still howling with awesome fury, making another attack on the castle impossible tonight. This was a fragile, stolen moment, she realized, tightening her hold on MacDunn, that would never come again.
It will be mine, Robert had vowed. Robert would not rest until he had forced Gwendolyn to give the stone to him. Which she would never do. It mattered little that he would certainly kill her once he held that powerful talisman in the crush of his palm. What was of consequence was the fact that he would use the stone to obtain the power he so lusted for, enabling him to vanquish all those who would rise against him. As long as she remained in this castle, Alex and his people were in grave danger. Robert had made it clear he thought nothing of destroying their homes and brutally slaying them. Although the MacDunns had demonstrated enormous courage in their stand against the MacSweens, she had felt their anguish as they watched their beloved homes being torched as surely as if it had been her own. She did not doubt Alex would fight to the absolute limits of his ability to protect her. In his desperate bid to save the life of his son, Alex had unwittingly brought death and suffering to his people.
And she was the cause of it.
She swallowed the despair welling in her throat, and vainly tried to summon the cold detachment that had always served her so well in the past. But somehow in this shadowed moment it eluded her, and she was left feeling deeply shaken and afraid.
There was no question that she must leave immediately. The moment this violent storm stopped, Robert would bring his savage forces back. Until then, the MacDunns were prisoners in their own castle. Only by luring Robert away could she restore the peace the MacDunns had known before she came here, and thereby protect the people who had come to mean so much to her. Once Robert discovered she was gone, he would waste no time dallying here. His desire for the stone would force him to set out after her immediately.
And when he found her, she would kill him.
She blinked back the tears blurring her eyes, vaguely wondering why the thought didn’t bring her the dark comfort it once had. But all she could think of was young David staring at her in wonder as he listened to her tell one of her stories, and Clarinda smiling sweetly as she pressed Gwendolyn’s hand against her swollen, pulsing belly, and dour old Lachlan vehemently promising her that he would make a potion that would have the MacSweens spewing their bowels out their eye sockets. All this she must leave behind. Hardest of all, she must leave MacDunn, who had awakened emotions within her that she had never imagined existed. He was lying heavily against her, his body still joined to hers, the roughness of his cheek grazing the soft curve of her neck. She inhaled a shallow, ragged breath, unable to suppress the anguish tearing through her heart.
Alex raised himself up on his elbows and frowned. Gwendolyn turned her face away from him, trying to avoid his gaze. He laid his fingers against the elegantly sculpted line of her jaw and tilted her head back, forcing her to look at him. Her gray eyes were filled with a terrible hopelessness, and a tear trickled across the paleness of her cheek and dropped into the wet black river of her hair. He considered himself a hardened warrior, who had seen far more than his share of despondency during his life, both in Flora’s eyes, and in his own. Nevertheless, the sight of Gwendolyn’s torment slashed deep into him, carving fresh wounds over those that would never heal.
“Do not be afraid, Gwendolyn,” he murmured, caressing her shimmering cheek with the back of his fingers. “I will keep you safe.”
She swallowed miserably and shook her head. “No,” she whispered, her voice a thread of sound against the wind and the rain, “you cannot.”
“I can,” he insisted harshly, “and I will. You are mine.” He captured her lips with bruising force, silencing any further argument.
She felt him harden inside her as he ravaged the deepest recesses of her mouth. He began to thrust in and out of her, filling her and emptying her, his powerful form flexing with slow deliberation as he tried to make her his. Gwendolyn wrapped her arms and legs around him and desperately kissed him back, nearly choking on the hot tears that were now streaming down her face. I love you, she said silently, her heart breaking from the agonizing confession. I love you I love you I love you.
She moaned as she moved with him, knowing that she would never hold him deep within the blazing heat of her body again. I love you, she wept, threading her hands into the golden length of his hair. He pushed himself into her with gentle roughness, kissing her tenderly now, trying to possess her body and spirit, his hands roaming across her in a constant, sweeping caress. And then his fingers were stroking the slick soft heat of her as he thrust in and out, and she felt herself begin to tighten and stretch and reach, and her tears stopped as she became aware of nothing but the sheer wonder of him touching her and filling her and kissing her. I love you, she told him silently, not daring to speak the words aloud for fear he would reject them. A low growl curled up from deep within his chest, the masculine sound answering her own soft gasps. I love you more than life itself.
She cried out suddenly, feeling herself shatter into a thousand silvery fragments, and Alex buried himself deeply inside her and let out a harsh groan. Ripples of ecstasy cascaded over her as his muscled weight pressed her deeper into the softness of the mattress, and she knew an instant of pure, glorious joy.
As swiftly as it came it was gone, replaced with a trembling sense of loss. Alex rolled off her and gathered her in his arms, holding her against him as he gently swept back a damp lock of her hair.
“You will stay with me,” he commanded, his voice low. “And I will keep you safe, Gwendolyn.” He trailed his fingers along the slender length of her arm, then grasped her hand and laid it firmly over his heart. “I swear it.”
Gwendolyn stared a long, solemn moment into the piercing blue of his gaze. And then she laid her cheek against the warm marble of his chest and closed her eyes, fighting the tears that were threatening to spill from her again as she felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her palm. She said nothing. There was nothing she could say.
She loved him.
And tomorrow she would leave him forever.