CHAPTER 2 #3
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.
“There,” Gwendolyn breathed, knotting the last stitch, “I believe that will hold if you are careful not to move too much. Now we need to bandage it.”
“I have only my shirt,” said Alex, vaguely disappointed that she had finished so quickly.
“That won’t do,” Gwendolyn decided, critically eyeing the discarded garment. “It is soaked with blood.” She considered a moment, then grasped the fabric of her gown where it met her shoulder and yanked down, tearing off the sleeve. She quickly did the same with the other side.
“Did you sew that gown?” asked Alex as she reduced the sleeves to narrow strips of fabric and knotted them together.
“Yes—why?”
“I was just considering how easily the stitches gave way.”
She glanced at him, uncertain whether or not he was teasing. His expression was contained, but she thought she detected a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“Your stitches will hold well enough if you are careful,” she informed him defensively as she wrapped the bandage around his chest. “But I think you will have to refrain from wielding your sword for a few days.”
“Then let us hope no one else comes after you for a while.”
“Robert came for Isabella as well,” Gwendolyn pointed out. “If you do not release her, Laird MacSween is certain to send more men to retrieve her. She is his only daughter.”
“Isabella will be released unharmed,” Alex replied. “I gave MacSween my word. Besides, she is of no use to me. Come here, Brodick,” he called, before Gwendolyn could ask what possible use he thought she was going to be. “Let the witch close that arm of yours.”
Brodick eyed her nervously. “It is fine, MacDunn. It can wait.”
“If you leave it, it may fester,” countered Alex. “Let her see to it.”
“It is not nearly as bad as I thought,” Brodick assured him, adjusting his sleeve to conceal the wound. “It does not bother me at all.”
“By God, she’s frightened him with that business about casting a spell on his manhood!” burst out Cameron, roaring with laughter.
Alex gave Gwendolyn a warning look. “You will do nothing but fix his arm, is that clear?”
She nodded.
“Get over here, Brodick,” Alex commanded.
Reluctantly, Brodick approached Gwendolyn.
“Careful you don’t make her angry,” Cameron teased. “There’ll be many a lass left sorely disappointed.”
“You’re next, Cameron,” announced Alex. “That cut in your scalp is turning your hair even redder, if that’s possible.”
Cameron’s face fell. “ ’Tis barely a scratch, MacDunn. There’s no need for the witch to—”
“Worried about disappointing your wife, Cameron?” Brodick drawled as Gwendolyn examined his arm.
Cameron scowled.
“Why don’t you heal his wound with witchcraft?” Alex asked, watching as Gwendolyn carefully bathed Brodick’s gash.
She raised her eyes in confusion.
“You have special powers,” he reflected. “Let me see you use them.”
His scrutiny was unsettling. There was a powerful emotion smoldering within the depths of his blue eyes, a sentiment he was struggling to mask, which she could not immediately identify.
“If it’s all the same to you, MacDunn,” began Brodick nervously, “I would prefer she not go to any trouble on my account.”
“Do you have these powers or don’t you?” Alex persisted.
There it was. That lightning flash of emotion, so fleeting she nearly missed it. Yet in that brief glimpse, there was no mistaking what it was.
Yearning.
So this was why MacDunn had rescued her. He did not know of the stone, but apparently he believed she was a witch with unnatural powers. When his attempt to buy her failed, he developed a plan to rescue her, so determined was he to have control of her and her abilities.
He was no better than Robert, she realized bitterly.
“Of course I have great powers,” she lied. It was clear now that her very existence depended on this fabrication. If MacDunn believed she had no powers, he might well decide to either kill her himself, or send her back to her clan. “I am, after all, a witch.”
He nodded with satisfaction. “Good. I would hate to think I had just killed over a dozen men and invited war with the MacSweens for a woman who is of no earthly use to me.”
“The fact that I was about to be consumed by flames did not trouble you?”
“You were found guilty of serious crimes,” he replied. “It is not my way to interfere with another clan’s justice. To do so is to risk war over matters that do not concern me. I have the welfare of my own people to consider.”
“That is most prudent of you,” observed Gwendolyn. “I am surprised you took such enormous risks today.”
“I plan to benefit from your powers,” he assured her. “The rewards you will bring me will far exceed the risks.”