The Witch and The Warrior (4 page)

Alex raised his hand, signaling for Ned to hold.

“Good evening, Robert,” he called pleasantly. “I must confess, I wasn't expecting you quite so soon.”

“I'm sure you weren't,” Robert sneered. “I prefer to surprise my enemies.”

“Enemies?” repeated Alex, sounding surprised. “But what a sad turn of events this is, when just hours ago you so graciously invited me to attend your marvelous witch burning. You know,” he continued conversationally, planting the tip of his sword in the ground and leaning against it, “I was really looking forward to that feast.”

“You should have kept out of it, MacDunn,” Robert advised, moving closer. “You were a fool to think I wouldn't come after you.”

“Oh, but I knew you were coming,” Alex assured him. “Gwendolyn told me you would. Her powers of perception are quite extraordinary.”

Concern flashed across Robert's face, but he was quick to master it. “What else did she tell you?” he demanded, closing the distance between them.

“Everything,” Alex promptly lied. “In fact, we had quite a long talk.” He idly adjusted the folds of his plaid. “She really is an intriguing creature, isn't she? I can understand why you want her back.”

“I want her back so justice can be carried out,” Robert replied shortly. “She is a witch and a murderess.”

“Ah, yes, that nasty business about her father. Fortuitous that you were there to witness it, wasn't it, Robert?”

“Where is she?” demanded Robert, taking another step forward.

“Actually, I'm not sure,” Alex replied, shrugging. “She is hiding somewhere out there,” he added, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “I honestly don't believe she is anxious to see you.”

“Bring her to me,” commanded Robert, raising his sword, “or I will carve you into a dozen bloody pieces, MacDunn.”

“You know, Robert, I do find it a bit puzzling that you have not yet inquired about your dear niece's welfare. A charming girl, that Isabella, despite her penchant for rather disagreeable threats. No doubt she gets that from you?” he suggested brightly, making it seem a compliment.

“Bring Gwendolyn to me, you mad fool!” snapped Robert. “Or I'll splay you wide like a fish and pull out your—”

“There, now,” interrupted Alex, “you see what I mean?”

“By God, MacDunn, you've had your chance,” snarled Robert, drawing back his sword.

“Now, that would not be prudent,” observed Alex, his own weapon still comfortably acting as a crutch. “Would it, Ned?”

“No,” agreed Ned, from his perch in the tree above him.

Startled, Robert looked up.

“You know, I really don't think you would enjoy having an arrow in your chest,” Alex remarked.

“Or a sword in your belly,” said Cameron, appearing through the trees.

“Or a dirk in your eye,” added Brodick, standing beside him.

Robert hesitated. Realizing he had no choice, he threw his blade onto the ground.

“I believe I'd like your dirk also,” said Alex. “I seem to have misplaced mine in the back of one of your warriors.”

Robert scowled, then withdrew his dirk from his belt and tossed it beside his sword.

“Excellent. Now, as you have no weapons, and as we were forced to kill the warriors you brought with you—”

“You couldn't have killed them all,” objected Robert.

“Well, I distinctly remember killing at least two,” Alex said. “What about you, Brodick?”

“I killed two as well,” Brodick replied.

“And I finished off three,” added Cameron, moving behind Robert. “How many did you kill, Ned?”

“Three.”

Alex counted on his fingers. “I believe that makes ten. How many warriors did you bring, Robert?” he asked curiously.

Robert's face was nearly crimson with rage. “Damn you, MacDunn! This means war!”

“Now, don't blame yourself,” soothed Alex. “After all, there were eleven of you, and eleven against four does seem like good odds. Listen, you've had a difficult day, and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. Have a good night's rest, and things will seem far better in the morning.”

“I've no intention of resting, you dull-witted clod!” Robert raved. “I may be your prisoner, but I intend to—”

Cameron slammed the hilt of his sword on Robert's head. Robert sighed and sank to the ground.

“He'll sleep like a babe,” Cameron assured Alex.

“Good. Tie him to a tree, just in case he wakens early,” instructed Alex, moving back toward the camp. “Maybe now we can finally get some sleep.”

         

Gwendolyn searched the darkness, debating whether she should take her chances and try to escape with Isabella. The fighting seemed to have come to an end, but she wasn't sure who had emerged the victor. A tall figure appeared through the trees. Moonlight washed over him as he stepped into the clearing, leaving no doubt that it was MacDunn's enormous frame she beheld.

His shirt was soaked in blood.

“You're hurt,” she gasped, emerging from her hiding place with Isabella in tow.

“I told you my father's men would carve you open,” Isabella said with dark satisfaction. “I told you they would shred your flesh—”

“Brodick, cut Isabella loose and bring her here,” ordered Alex brusquely.

“Why?” Isabella demanded, suddenly nervous.

“You are going to repair the damage your father's men have done to us,” Alex informed her.

“I won't!” she protested as Brodick cut the ropes binding her to Gwendolyn.

“Forgive me, sweet Bella, but you would be wise to do as MacDunn says,” Brodick advised, pulling Isabella across the clearing. “And after you've finished, I've a scratch to my arm that needs tending as well.”

“And I've a split in my scalp,” added Cameron.

“I won't help you!” she raged. “I hope each of you bleeds to death from your injuries, you vile, thieving, murdering scum!”

Alex stripped off his shirt, revealing a pulsing slash across his upper chest. “You will fix this,” he commanded. “Now.”

Isabella took one look at the blood dripping down his torso and promptly fainted.

Cameron roared with laughter. “It seems the lass's tongue is stronger than her stomach!”

“She is tired,” protested Brodick, gently gathering Isabella's crumpled form in his arms. “She has had an exhausting day.” He carried her across the clearing and lowered her onto a bed of moss.

Alex shook his head in disgust. “Very well, then, witch,” he said, eyeing Gwendolyn. “Now is your chance to demonstrate your special healing powers.”

Gwendolyn stepped forward, her mind racing. Where had MacDunn gotten the idea that she had healing powers? While her mother had been a skilled healer, Gwendolyn's father had forbidden Gwendolyn to practice the art, for fear it would draw attention to her, and give someone reason to accuse her of possessing unnatural abilities. Although she had understood her father's concern, Gwendolyn had secretly spent many hours studying her mother's carefully scribed notes. While she had found these studies fascinating, she had never actually practiced her mother's techniques on anyone. How on earth was she supposed to tend to a battle wound?

“If you walk any slower, I'll be dead before you get to me,” MacDunn complained dryly, as he lowered himself to the ground.

“Forgive me,” Gwendolyn said, hastening her step.

She knelt down beside him and bit her lip. A gash as long as the span of her hand sliced across the hard muscle of his upper chest. Blood was leaking profusely from the cut and seeping down his front, making it look as if he had been hacked wide open.

“I think it looks worse than it is,” she murmured, more to reassure herself than him. She gingerly touched the raw edges of the wound, trying to establish its depth. Blood spurted from the opening. She jerked back her hand.

“It needs to be stitched,” MacDunn told her.

She nodded.

He regarded her expectantly. “Go ahead.”

Gwendolyn frantically tried to recall her mother's instructions on closing wounds. She herself had never stitched anything beyond garments, but surely the principle was the same. Except this, of course, would be messier.

“I will need more light,” she decided, tentatively daubing the wound with MacDunn's discarded shirt. “Do you think it is safe to build a fire?”

“The warriors Robert brought with him are dead,” MacDunn replied. “A fire will not matter now.” He signaled to Ned, who promptly began to toss sticks into a pile.

“Is Robert also dead?”

Her voice was flat, but Alex could sense a flicker of desperation behind her inquiry. “No,” he admitted, feeling oddly as if he had failed her. “He is not. But he cannot hurt you,” he added, wanting to reassure her. “You belong to me now. I protect what is mine.”

His expression was deadly serious. Gwendolyn stared at him a moment, contemplating the power emanating from him even as he lay there bleeding. She had no doubt he believed what he said. But the stench of flames still permeated her senses, reminding her of how close she had come to death that day. She could never be safe, she realized stonily. And though she might be MacDunn's prisoner, she was certainly not his possession.

“I belong to no one, MacDunn.”

“You are wrong.”

She lowered her gaze to her task. “I will require needle and thread, and some water,” she said, changing the subject.

“See to it, Cameron,” MacDunn ordered.

Gwendolyn folded MacDunn's shirt into layers and pressed it firmly against his wound, trying to stanch the flow of blood. Hot scarlet liquid soaked into the fabric and drenched her fingers. She was unnerved by all the blood, but she vaguely recalled her mother's notes mentioning that sometimes relatively insignificant wounds could bleed horribly at first. More pressure on the wound was apparently needed. She pressed down as hard as she could, causing MacDunn's firm muscles to leap beneath her palm.

“Sweet Jesus,” he swore, grabbing her wrist with bruising strength. “What the hell are you trying to do?”

“F-forgive me,” she stammered, startled by the pain she had caused him. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

Alex regarded her in surprise. Her gray eyes were wide with concern, which seemed incomprehensible in a witch guilty of murder and all the other hideous crimes of which she stood accused. Her wrist was slim and fragile in his grip, and he was acutely aware of the velvety touch of her skin against his palm.

Abruptly, he released her.

“Here are the things you asked for,” said Cameron, handing her a dripping leather pouch and a slim needle.

“Where is the thread?” asked Gwendolyn.

“I couldn't find any,” Cameron replied. “Isn't there something else you could use?”

Gwendolyn thought for a moment. Her mother's notes had mentioned that hair could sometimes be substituted for thread, if no other fibers were available. She reached into her scalp and pulled out several long, dark strands. “This might work,” she told MacDunn.

The bleeding had slowed, so she rinsed his wound with water and blotted it dry. Satisfied that the cut was clean enough for her to close, she carefully threaded her needle. Then she bent her head, swallowed hard—and froze.

“What's wrong?” MacDunn asked after a moment.

“I—I am merely planning how I am going to close it.”

Realizing he found her hesitation peculiar, she summoned her courage and tentatively inserted the needle into MacDunn's skin, fully expecting him to writhe in agony.

He didn't flinch.

Marginally encouraged by that, she punctured the raw flesh on the opposite side of the gash, then stole a quick, apologetic glance at him. He was watching her with enormous calm, his blue gaze intense, as if he were evaluating her work. He certainly did not look like a man in unbearable pain. Satisfied that she was not causing him any great distress, she exhaled the breath she had been holding and continued her task.

Alex watched her slowly lace his wound closed. Firelight played upon her pale cheek as she worked, which was smooth and unmarked by illness or time. Her face was a study of somber beauty, with high, sculpted cheekbones, a narrow, delicate brow, and graceful, berry-stained lips that she bit as she concentrated. Her eyes were wide, gray, and utterly serious, and he found himself wondering what it would be like to see a little merriment reflected in them. Her hair was as black and glossy as a raven's breast; it fell like a heavy cloak around her, shrouding her. She was far from the ancient old hag he had believed he was seeking at the MacSween holding. He had known only that he sought the MacSween witch, and to his knowledge, all witches were hideous, shriveled crones with long, yellow teeth and horny, spotted hands. And yet, from the moment he first saw this pale slip of a girl being led to the stake, he had realized her beauty was not of this world. Her face was too perfect, her coloring too startling, and her slim, curved body too tantalizing to be anything but the work of the devil. She could kindle a man's desire with nothing but a glance, or the simple gesture of brushing a wavy strand of dark hair off her cheek. Even now, he was overwhelmed by the light touch of her cool hands against his torn, burning flesh, by the gentle cadence of her breath as she threaded her own hair in and out of him, by the tangy sweet scent of heather about her, mingled with the smoky aroma of her gown. It had been years since he had endured a woman's ministrations, for his health was infernally excellent, and he was rarely wounded in battle. Surely that was why she was having such a profound effect on him, flooding his senses with heat and fragrance and need, stirring his blood and quickening his desire until he wanted to sink his hand deep into that inky cape of hair and pull her atop him.