CHAPTER 4
“By God, there’s no sweeter place in all of Scotland,” Cameron remarked happily, inhaling a deep breath of air.
Alex stared vacantly at the whitewashed cottages tidily arranged on the green and purple mountain rising before them.
The fields were crowded with shaggy, plump cows, fat geese, and apple-cheeked, bare-legged children who were squealing with excitement as they ran to greet their laird.
He raised his gaze to the dark castle at the crest of the mountain.
On the day he brought Flora home, he had proudly boasted to his new bride about the splendor of the enormous stone fortress—how it was a testament to simplicity, order, and the latest developments in military defense.
Now, as he looked at it, he could think of only one thing.
This is where my son lies dying.
“MacDunn! MacDunn!” called the children, their voices bright. “You’re back!”
“They seem happy,” observed Brodick. “That’s a good sign.”
Alex nodded. If David had died during his absence, the clan would be in mourning, and dreading their laird’s return.
But his people were gathering together and waving at him, their faces lit with guarded optimism.
Obviously they hoped he had found the witch and that she would be able to cure the lad.
“Come,” he said, anxious to see his son. “Let’s hurry.”
Gwendolyn clung to Ned as they galloped past the waving MacDunns.
The moment their eyes fell upon her, their smiles were erased by wariness and fear.
It was a look she knew well. Ignoring their stares, she gazed at the enormous castle looming above her.
It was a cold, forbidding structure, roughly chiseled from black stone, with four ominous towers and a massive curtain wall that stretched some sixty feet into the air.
The stronghold had been built solely for the purpose of defending its occupants.
It was so lacking in either warmth or grace that it seemed more a prison than a home.
As she drew closer, she noticed that every window in the keep was tightly shut, which seemed peculiar, since the day was warm and bright.
MacDunn and his warriors clattered through the yawning iron jaws of the gate and entered the courtyard.
Men and women were pouring out of the dark castle, hastily adjusting their plaids and gowns while rushing to greet their laird.
On stepping into the bright sun, they squinted and shaded their eyes, as though they found its brilliance almost blinding.
Several men were taking in long, greedy drafts of air, leading Gwendolyn to wonder about the purity of the air inside the castle.
“Welcome back, MacDunn,” called a slender, brown-haired lad who ran up to catch hold of his horse.
“Thank you, Eric,” said Alex, dismounting. “The horses require extra care today. They have been ridden long and hard.”
“Aye, MacDunn,” said the boy solemnly. “I will see to it.” He stole a curious glance at Gwendolyn, and then turned to carry out his order.
Gwendolyn slid down from Ned’s horse, acutely aware of everyone’s eyes upon her.
Their expressions ranged from uncertainty to outright dread.
The men had positioned themselves in front of the women, and the women in front of the children, each trying to shield the other from Gwendolyn’s evil.
She returned the MacDunns’ wary stares with frigid calm, giving no hint of the emotions roiling within her.
Long years of being treated as something vile and dangerous had not hardened her feelings, but those years had taught her how to conceal her own fear and humiliation.
For a brief moment during her journey here, she had actually thought that the fact that the MacDunns were seeking a witch might mean they would treat her differently than her own clan had.
She had been mistaken.
MacDunn was striding purposefully toward the castle, apparently oblivious to the cold reception his people were giving her. On realizing Gwendolyn was not with him, he stopped and turned.
“Are you coming?” he demanded impatiently.
Gwendolyn tossed the MacDunns a dismissive look, then slowly began to walk toward their laird.
The MacDunns instantly parted, giving her a wide path.
Brodick and Cameron positioned themselves on either side of her, while Ned walked behind her.
Evidently the warriors were trying to reassure their clan that she was their prisoner and therefore the MacDunns had naught to fear.
Her head held high, her expression serene, she moved toward the castle with unhurried dignity, exuding what she hoped was a compelling aura of power.
Above all, she must not let these people think she cared about what they thought of her.
To do so revealed weakness, and weakness would only invite persecution and contempt.
She joined MacDunn in front of the massive oak door leading into the keep. The stone arch framing the door was festooned with a garland of rowan branches and berries, and a small, bulging sack had been tied with red wool and nailed to the scarred boards of the door.
“What is this?” Frowning, Alex tore the linen bag off the door. A foul stench instantly filled his nostrils, causing him to gag.
“Sweet Jesus,” he swore, flinging the bag aside. “What is the meaning of this?” He turned to face his clan.
The MacDunns regarded each other uneasily. No one spoke.
“The mixture in that bag is meant to ward off evil spirits,” offered Gwendolyn calmly. “The nail and the length of red wool are charms against witches, and the rowan garland is supposed to ward off curses or prevent anyone with an unholy purpose from entering.”
Alex regarded her with surprise. “You have seen these things before?”
“Of course. The MacSweens were quite skilled at making items of this nature.”
Her voice was flat and her expression contained, as if this attempt to drive her away was no more than she expected.
But her hands gripped the gray fabric of her gown.
It was this wholly unconscious gesture that stirred fury within Alex.
Reaching up, he tore down the arch of rowan branches in one powerful motion, then cast it into the crowd.
“I ask that you welcome Gwendolyn, formerly of the Clan MacSween, to the MacDunn holding. During her stay, I expect her to be accorded the reverence due an honored guest. Is that understood?”
The MacDunns exchanged uncertain glances.
“Aye,” called out a man reluctantly. “Welcome, m’lady.”
A few unenthusiastic welcomes followed.
Marginally satisfied by their acquiescence, Alex threw open the door to his castle and went inside.
“Bloody Christ!”
A few choicer expressions came to mind, but he had to be content with that, for the noxious cloud of smoke he had stepped into had reduced him to a violent fit of coughing.
“That’s it, laddie, get it out, get it out,” advised a cheerful voice.
Gwendolyn entered hesitantly behind Alex and blinked until her eyes became accustomed to the smoky interior.
The chamber they had stepped into was dark, save for the sunlight fighting its way in through the open door behind them, and a number of oily torches spitting far more smoke than flame.
A gust of fresh air was stirring the heavy veil that choked the room and as the haze thinned she was able to make out an enormous great hall.
Two fires roared at opposite ends of the huge room, over which numerous cauldrons were placed, each spewing an acrid funnel of black.
The heavy wooden tables around the room were crowded with pots, bowls, and jars of every size and description, all smoldering with a variety of pungent substances.
The walls and ceiling of the room had been draped with drying herbs, elaborate amulets, and more rowan branches, giving it a strangely mythical appearance, and the stone floor was covered with a mass of rotting rushes.
The resulting heat and stench and smoke made the air virtually intolerable, although the snowy-haired man who suddenly emerged through the fog seemed to be bearing it well enough.
“Don’t worry, laddie, it just takes a minute to get used to,” he said, whacking Alex on the back. “Come, now, take another breath—there—you see?”
“What in the name of God is going on here, Owen?” demanded Alex hoarsely.
“Why, we’re preparing for the witch,” Owen replied, as if the answer were obvious.
“And a damned unpleasant task it’s been, I must say.
Bloody awful, if you must know. Oh, beg pardon, m’lady,” he apologized, noticing Gwendolyn.
“Sometimes an old warrior forgets to soften his language in front of a lady. Do forgive. Owen MacDunn, at your service.” He tilted forward in a slow, creaking bow and pressed a gallant kiss against her hand.
“She’s very comely, MacDunn,” he remarked, smiling as he eyed Gwendolyn up and down. “Is she Brodick’s?”
“No,” said Brodick, entering the hall with Cameron and Ned. “Jesus, Owen, what is that hideous stench?”
“Mind your language,” scolded Owen, wagging a gnarled finger at him.
“There is a lady present, and I would ask that you behave accordingly, you young scoundrel. High time you abandoned your rakish ways and settled down. Our Brodick has broken many a fair maiden’s heart,” he confided to Gwendolyn.
“Too damn handsome for his own good, that’s what.
Well, now,” he continued, stroking his white beard, “you can’t be Cameron’s, or Clarinda would have something to say about that.
Yes, indeed, I’m sure she would.” He chuckled, clearly amused by the idea.
Then his blue eyes suddenly grew wide. “Good God,” he gasped, stunned, “you’re not… ”
Gwendolyn stiffened.
“…Ned’s lady friend, are you? Because that would be just marvelous if you were,” he exclaimed, “simply marvelous.”
She glanced helplessly at Alex.
“She is not Ned’s,” Alex said, looking irritated. “Can we please get back to the subject of the hall?”