CHAPTER 3 #4
He could not imagine what terrible sin he had committed to make God want to punish him so viciously.
His life had been far from pure, but whatever his sins, he did not think he deserved this additional, unbearable agony.
He knew for certain David did not. The lad was scarcely ten and surely was entitled to live a much longer life than that.
But David had been blessed with his mother’s bonny features, and plagued with her frailty.
Although Alex had done everything he could to shelter his son from the rigors of life in the Highlands, he had failed to protect the lad from the feebleness of his own body.
That curse, it seemed, was beyond Alex’s earthly control.
But not, perhaps, beyond the control of the darker forces.
He glanced over at Gwendolyn, who lay huddled on the ground shivering beneath Brodick’s extra plaid.
His last hope, faint as it was, was that this witch would be able to save his son.
He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it.
She was a condemned murderess, who looked as if a strong gust of wind might blow her away.
Yet this was the woman he would entrust David’s life to.
He had brought in healers for the lad, who had solemnly purged and prodded and bled him, but David only grew weaker.
Since neither God nor science seemed able to help him, Alex decided to turn to witchcraft.
If Gwendolyn MacSween could not heal David with her sorcery, then he did not know what more to do.
The thought filled him with despair.
It was Morag who had convinced him to seek out Gwendolyn.
There had been stories drifting through these mountains of the MacSween witch for years, bizarre tales of magic and devil worship, which had never particularly interested Alex.
But suddenly David’s condition deteriorated, and Alex feared he was dying.
He went to Morag and begged her to tell him if anything more could be done for his son.
And Morag had told him to find the MacSween witch and bring her to his castle.
At first he had thought he would simply offer to pay the witch for her services.
But when he arrived to find she had murdered her father and was sentenced to death, he attempted to buy her, thinking that spineless fool, Laird MacSween, would be only too happy to make a profit from someone else’s misery.
What he had not anticipated was her clan’s almost gleeful determination to see her burned.
And so he resolved to rescue her, even though he had just four men to fight an entire clan of several hundred.
No wonder people thought he was mad.
He could not forget his shock when she first emerged from the bowels of the MacSween castle.
How could this beautiful young woman be the murdering witch of whom her clan spoke with such dread?
When they fell upon her with their battering fists, he had been ready to kill every bloody one of them.
And then Gwendolyn rose and continued to walk toward her death with solemn, unwavering dignity.
In that moment he had forgotten the crimes of which she stood accused, had forgotten even that she was his only hope of seeing his son well again.
All he knew was, whatever the cost, he would not permit them to hurt her.
And he had felt the same powerful sensation today.
The terror that had gripped him when he saw that boar charging her was not so peculiar, he assured himself.
After all, she was his last hope to cure his son.
That was why he had barely been able to breathe as he thundered toward her on his horse.
And surely it was blinding rage, not passion, that had caused him to crush her in his arms and kiss her.
He had imprisoned her against him and roamed his hands over her delectable body because he wanted to punish her for trying to escape him.
And more, he needed her to fear him. With fear, he would be able to control her.
“MacDunn.”
He looked at her through the darkness, surprised that she was awake. She was shivering with cold, which concerned him. “Yes?” he replied, rising to build up the fire.
“How many more days’ journey is it to your lands?”
“Why? Are you planning your next attempt to escape me?”
Gwendolyn shook her head. She had not relinquished the possibility of escape, but she knew MacDunn and his warriors would prevent any opportunity of that. She would have to wait awhile. “I was wondering how far your holding is from the MacSweens.”
“Because you believe they will come after you again?”
She did not answer.
“Laird MacSween seems a reasonable man, Gwendolyn, and he knows I lead a formidable army,” he pointed out, tossing some dry twigs onto the dying embers.
“Once he has his precious daughter back, I doubt he will be foolish enough to sacrifice more warriors in a battle over a condemned witch, especially since she was stolen by a madman.”
“You have insulted him,” Gwendolyn argued. “And you have sullied the clan’s honor.”
Alex leaned low and blew onto the coals, coaxing a small flame to life.
“I plan to send Laird MacSween a letter formally apologizing for my unseemly behavior while I was his guest, accompanied by a chest of gold. That should adequately restore his tarnished honor, and the gold will more than compensate him for any damages I have caused.”
“Your offering might appease Laird MacSween,” she acknowledged, “but Robert will not be so easily placated.”
“He does seem inordinately anxious to get you back,” observed Alex, tossing a few more sticks onto the fire. “Why is that?”
“I am a witch.” She shrugged. “Robert believes I must be destroyed.”
It was a reasonable answer, but something about it did not sound altogether sincere.
Alex found himself recalling Robert’s near obsession with Gwendolyn as he faced Alex in the woods, and his relative lack of interest in Isabella.
For some reason Robert was desperate to have Gwendolyn back, and Alex sensed his motives had little to do with upholding justice or restoring his clan’s honor.
“If Robert comes again, I will protect you,” he stated flatly. “As will all the MacDunns.”
“You cannot expect that your people will want to risk their lives for a witch,” she countered.
“My people will do as I tell them,” Alex told her, arranging two huge logs on the fire.
A brilliant spire of flames began to lick hungrily at the well-seasoned wood.
“Whether you are a witch or a murderess has no bearing on their loyalty to me. Now come here and warm yourself, before you are wracked with fever.” He moved away from the fire and stretched out once more on the ground.
It was only then Gwendolyn realized he had been restoring the flames just for her.
She rose and hurried toward the blaze, which was blasting a delicious aura of heat.
After warming her bare hands and arms, she curled up beneath Brodick’s extra plaid and wearily closed her eyes.
MacDunn was only concerned with her welfare because he wanted to use her, she reminded herself fiercely.
The moment he learned she had no special powers, he would cease to care whether she was cold, or hungry, or dead.