The Witch and The Warrior (29 page)

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

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

“It isn't the whole clan.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C
HAPTER
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.”