The Witch and The Warrior (24 page)

He was sending her back, Gwendolyn realized helplessly. She had failed in her attempt to heal David, so MacDunn was returning her to the MacSweens. That she would be burned the moment she arrived did not trouble her nearly as much as the fact that she was abandoning David to Elspeth's care.
I will purge your evil from this lad's tiny soul, so he can enter heaven with a pure spirit.
With Gwendolyn gone, Elspeth would be free to leech David's life away in her misguided attempt to cleanse the child of evil. David would be entombed in a dark, stifling chamber once again, where he would be constantly purged, and bled, and suffocated with foul air and unbearable heat.

And he would die.

“You cannot do this,” she said desperately. “You must not turn David over to the care of that horrible woman.”

Alex narrowed his gaze. “Do you dare tell me what I can do with my own son?” His tone was dangerously low.

“Elspeth is so determined to purify his soul, she doesn't care if she kills him in the process!” Gwendolyn retorted. “I will not permit you to subject him to such cruelty. I don't care what you do to me, MacDunn. Punish me for what happened today however you see fit. But if you try to return me to my clan, I will escape and come back here. David needs me.”

Alex regarded her in bemused silence. He had no intention of sending her back to her clan. He was stripping her of the responsibility of healing his son, but that was all. He had not actually considered the matter much past that, but it had certainly not occurred to him that she should leave. The moment she stepped beyond his lands, she would be captured by Robert and his warriors, returned to her clan, and burned. Alex was devastated that she had not been able to cure David, but he was not about to sentence her to death.

A remarkable strength emanated from her as she stood before him, her face pale but determined, her small hands fisted tightly on her hips. It was a strength that completely bewildered him. Gwendolyn was far slighter and more delicate than Flora had ever been, at least before that ghastly illness. The pallor of Gwendolyn's skin clearly indicated a thinness of blood and a weak constitution. And yet this tiny witch had endured being arrested, imprisoned, and nearly burned. She had ridden long and hard for three days to reach his castle without once complaining or asking for rest. She had even cracked her head open and bled all over his stairs, and then been up a short while later, cheerfully relaying the episode to his son.

How could this impossibly frail slip of a girl have such incredible resilience?

She was staring at him with grim defiance, awaiting his response. Her ebony hair had all but slipped free of its ribbon and was falling in loose waves across her shoulders. The sleeves of her emerald gown had been carelessly shoved up to her elbows, and the garment itself was stained and wrinkled. Strangely, Alex found her disheveled appearance immensely pleasing. It was clear Gwendolyn gave no thought whatsoever to herself as she cared for his son—unlike Robena, who always emerged from David's chamber looking as immaculately arranged as when she first entered. The light woolen fabric of Gwendolyn's gown was cascading over her in liquid ripples, creating an enticing swell at the small curve of her breasts. Alex found himself remembering their exquisite softness when he cupped them with his palm, and the salty-sweet tang of her skin as he dragged his tongue languidly across her.

Desire shot through him.

Appalled, he struggled to suppress it. He would not be controlled by base physical hunger. He had brought the witch here to punish her, he reminded himself harshly. But instead of crying and begging for forgiveness as he might have expected, Gwendolyn had confounded him by coolly declaring that she had no intention of obeying him, and inviting him to do what he would with her. Her apparent lack of fear was incomprehensible. Women had always been intimidated by his very presence. Aside from his formidable physical bearing, Alex was laird of the powerful MacDunn clan and was therefore accustomed to a degree of deference from both men and women alike. Any reasonable woman would be quivering right now in the face of his anger. Yet this witch seemed completely unconcerned as she gazed up at him, boldly refusing to obey his commands. Had his descent into madness so destroyed his bearing that even diminutive girls no longer feared him? The thought infuriated him.

In that moment he was overwhelmed by a need to make her fear him—just a little.

Gwendolyn managed to hold her ground as MacDunn stalked toward her, his blue eyes smoldering with an emotion she did not recognize. Part of her longed to flee, but her determination to stay with David would not allow her to be so cowardly. She had been threatened and intimidated her entire life, she reminded herself firmly. She had been called every vulgar name imaginable and accused of the ghastliest of sins. She had been taunted, leered at, and jostled, had rocks thrown her way so often she had learned how to sense them slicing through the air long before they could strike her. Ultimately her father had been murdered and she had been thrown into the foulest of prisons, beaten by a mob, lashed to a stake, and almost burned to death. There was nothing MacDunn could do to her that could be any worse than what she had already endured, she decided as he grabbed her shoulders with bruising force. Nothing. She regarded him with masterful calm, determined to show him that she did not fear him in the least.

Alex stared at her a long, frozen moment, his hands clenched so hard on her thin shoulders he thought the bones might shatter beneath the force of his grip. He wanted to shake her, to alarm her so that when he looked down into those clear gray eyes he would see dread instead of that icy, mocking calm. The fury pounding through him was alarming, because rage always eroded his tenuous grasp on his mind. But Flora was dead, and his son was dying, and this witch, who had been his last hope, had failed him. His child was going to die, taking the last shred of Flora with him. It was more than he could bear, this sickening, soul-destroying grief. It stripped him of his ability to think, reducing him to a vortex of agony. He wanted to lash out at the world, to destroy everything within his reach, and he also wanted to lie down and close his eyes and weep forever. He did neither. He just stood there clutching Gwendolyn, feeling lost and angry and helpless, feeling as if he couldn't bear his life another moment.

Suddenly he lowered his head and crushed his mouth savagely against hers.

Gwendolyn gasped and tried to pull away, but MacDunn wrapped his arms tightly around her, imprisoning her. She beat her fists against his chest, only to find his body was shielded by a heavy armor of muscle and the assault seemed to cost her more than it did him. Infuriated, she drew back her foot and kicked his shin as hard as she could. MacDunn grimaced and relaxed his hold—only slightly, but enough to enable her to wedge her hands between them and give him a good shove. It was like trying to push a mountain. Abandoning that tactic, she prepared to attack his other shin.

The next thing she knew, her feet were sailing in the air as MacDunn scooped her up into his arms as easily as he might lift a child.

Gwendolyn struggled and tried to protest, but the sound was stifled by the unrelenting seal of his lips. MacDunn held her hard against him as he carried her across the room, all the while plundering her mouth with his tongue. She wanted him to stop, she was certain of it, but as she sank into the soft depths of the mattress and felt MacDunn stretch over her, bracing his weight on his thickly muscled arms as he held her captive beneath him, a hazy resignation seeped over her. It was as if some part of her had always known this moment between them would come, and she could no longer fight it. MacDunn wrenched his mouth from hers to kiss her cheek, the contour of her jaw, the silky column of her neck, his lips grazing hungrily over her. His tongue tasted her in hot, languid swirls, growing more ravenous as his head lowered and his hands began to roam the crumpled fabric of her gown. She was aware of cool air drifting across her skin, and then MacDunn was closing his mouth hungrily over the peak of her breast.

Pleasure washed through her, stirring her blood and sapping her limbs of strength. She threaded her hands into the pale gold of his hair and held him to her, watching with dark, forbidden excitement as he caressed the rosy bud with his lips, feeling herself tighten against the hot slickness of his tongue. He brushed his rough cheek over the mound of her breast, into the small valley between, and then he was devouring her other breast, kissing and tasting and suckling until it was taut with desire. An unfamiliar ache bloomed deep inside her, strange and hollow and urgent, and she was aware of a honeyed heat between her legs. MacDunn's hand trailed up her calf, raising her gown and chemise, and then he was caressing the velvety skin of her inner thigh. Before she could protest, his finger slipped inside her hot, sweet wetness. A throaty moan escaped her lips, and then his mouth was covering hers again, tasting her deeply as his finger flicked lightly across the satiny slick folds.

Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him fiercely, wanting him to touch her more, kiss her more, wanting to feel the powerful wall of his muscular chest and arms and legs pressing against her as his fingers circled in and out, slowly, then faster, lightly, then harder, binding her to him with every aching caress, until finally she was lost in a mindless swirl of ecstasy. She began to pulse against him, rising and falling to the exquisite rhythm of his hand, kissing him urgently as she opened herself wider to him. Her pleasure began to swell, deeper and faster and harder, until there was nothing except MacDunn and his caresses and kisses, and the granite heat of his body against her as she clung desperately to him. Suddenly she froze, every limb and muscle and tendon straining for more of this incredible, glorious torture. Higher, faster, deeper, more, until she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything except ravage MacDunn's mouth as her fingers dug deep into the chiseled mass of his shoulders. And then she began to shatter, like a summer star exploding against the velvet curtain of night, and she cried out in wonder and joy, and felt him tighten his hold on her, keeping her safe.

Alex kissed Gwendolyn deeply as he pressed against her exquisite wetness, fighting for control. Her clan had accused her of being a whore, but they had lied. Despite his staggering desire to swiftly bury himself inside her, he knew he must be gentle. And so he entered her slowly, giving her time to adjust to him. Her lids flickered open and she regarded him intently, her gray eyes liquid and smoky with desire. He searched her dark gaze for some trace of reluctance, vowing to stop if he saw any. He withdrew slowly and then entered her again, a little more this time, then summoned the vestiges of his crumbling control and retreated once more, feeling as if he might die from the magnificent, unbearable agony of it.

And then Gwendolyn wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down into her, sheathing him tightly in her silky wet heat.

Alex groaned. He had wanted to go slowly, to make this sublime moment last forever. But it had been years since he had lain with a woman, and he could not control the fire raging through him. And so he surrendered to his passion and began to flex within Gwendolyn, filling her, stretching her, melding their flesh as he kissed the dark recesses of her mouth, the softness of her cheek, the silky black river of her hair. Over and over he drove himself into her, lost to her heat and beauty, the impossibly slender delicacy of her, and the staggering passion she laid bare as she eagerly rose to meet his every thrust. Her nails bit into his back as she tasted him, deeply, fervently, the caress of her tongue broken by the rapid little pants escaping in tiny puffs from her throat. Harder and faster he penetrated her, holding her tight to him, aware of her every breath and touch, wanting her to the point of madness, until finally he thought his mind would splinter beneath the awesome force of his desire. It had never been like this, not even with Flora, and the realization both shocked and terrified him. He shoved himself into her as far as he could, feeling lost and afraid. And then he was hurtling over the precipice of ecstasy, and he cried out and buried his face against her throat. Her arms wrapped protectively around him as she clasped him tightly inside her.

In that instant he wanted to stay like that forever, joined to Gwendolyn, inhaling her fragrance of sunshine and meadows, instead of sickness and death.

Gwendolyn lay very still, feeling the steady pounding of MacDunn's heart as it beat against her chest. Nothing had prepared her for this. She had thought he intended to punish her and send her back to her clan. Instead he had roused a tempest within her that she had not known existed. She bit down hard on her lower lip, willing herself not to cry. It was as if MacDunn had trapped her, binding her to him with bonds far stronger than chains. She could not come to care for him, she told herself desperately. She could not care for anyone here, not even David, although she knew it was too late for that. She was going to leave this place, retrieve her mother's stone, and make Robert pay for killing her father. Nothing could alter that plan. The hardness of MacDunn inside her became intolerable, his heavy weight crushing. Overwhelmed, she shoved him away and rose from the bed, frantically adjusting her bedraggled gown.

Ice-cold reason flooded back to Alex as he studied Gwendolyn's tormented expression. What had he done? He had vowed never to touch a woman again after Flora died. Not only had he broken his vow, he had just raped a mere slip of a girl he had sworn to protect. His behavior was as cowardly as it was unfathomable. Had his grip on his mind become so feeble that he could no longer control the base hunger of his body?

He covered himself with his plaid as he rose from the bed. He wanted to say something, to try to explain, but he did not understand it himself. And so he became preoccupied with clumsily adjusting the folds of his plaid, waiting for Gwendolyn to speak. She didn't. Finally, his plaid restored to some semblance of order, he raised his eyes to look at her.