CHAPTER 4 #3
“I’ll just fetch my sword and shield,” said Reginald. “Those crafty MacSween devils could strike at any moment.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about an attack today,” Alex said. “We encountered a few of them on the way home and they were quickly taken care of. It will be a while before a new force can make its way here—if Laird MacSween decides he wants to pursue the matter.”
“Oh, he will have to pursue it, laddie,” Owen assured him. “It’s a matter of honor. After all, you’ve stolen his witch.”
“Are you sure she is a witch, Morag?” asked Lachlan, studying Gwendolyn suspiciously. “She doesn’t seem bothered by all this smoke.”
“Cameron, Brodick, and Ned can all attest to her powers,” Morag replied. “Can’t you?”
“Aye,” said Cameron, nodding. “One night during our journey here, she whipped the spirits into a fair frenzy, she did.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” added Brodick. “One minute there was a raging storm, and the next minute the night was as still as can be.”
“Really?” Owen was clearly impressed. “Can you do that for us now, lassie?”
“I can’t see how that will be of any use to us,” remarked Lachlan, frowning. “Creating a storm in the middle of a perfectly adequate day.”
“But it would be amusing,” said a silky voice.
The woman who entered the hall was smiling, but as her eyes fell upon Gwendolyn her mouth tightened slightly, as if she had unexpectedly tasted something bitter.
She quickly recovered, however, and proceeded to make her way across the room.
She was exceptionally attractive, with thick honey-tinted hair that spilled down her lushly curved body.
Her movements gave the impression of unhurried grace, but Gwendolyn sensed her pace had more to do with the fact that all eyes were upon her, and she was very much enjoying the attention.
“Welcome back, Alex,” she murmured, stopping directly in front of him. “We have missed you.” She frowned at the tattered bandage circling his otherwise naked chest. “Were you badly injured?”
“No, Robena,” he assured her. “ ’Tis barely a scratch.”
Gwendolyn noticed the gown the woman wore was cut low and a shade too tight, so that the fabric strained over the pale swell of her breasts.
But it was neither faded nor worn, suggesting that this clinging fit was intentional.
For some reason this observation irritated her.
She had an overwhelming desire to grab a swath of plaid and cover her.
“So this is the witch,” observed Robena, turning toward Gwendolyn.
She smiled, but her smile did not quite reach her eyes.
She stared at Gwendolyn’s naked arms, recognizing that the fabric of her torn gown matched MacDunn’s bandage.
Now that she was closer, Gwendolyn could see a fan of fine lines under her eyes, betraying her age to be closer to thirty than she had previously thought.
“You poor thing,” she cooed, taking in Gwendolyn’s disheveled appearance.
“You look half starved. Alex, did you not feed this child on your journey here?”
Her tone was playfully chastising, but Gwendolyn sensed there was something about her appearance that displeased Robena.
“She will eat well enough now that she is here,” Alex replied. “How is my son?”
A pall fell over the room. The clan members eyed each other uncertainly, not knowing how to answer. Only Morag’s expression remained serene.
“His condition remains unchanged, Alex,” Robena volunteered, her voice soft with regret.
“I managed to get him to take a little food last night, but his body quickly rejected it. Elspeth said it was the poisons in his body that caused this, and so she bled him last night, and then again this morning. He is now resting quietly in his chamber.”
Alex absorbed this information in silence. The report was no different than what he had expected. That was why he had brought the witch here. And the news could have been far worse. They could have said his son was dead.
“I will see him now,” he announced, striding toward the staircase at the far end of the hall. “The rest of you, see if you can’t do something about cleaning up this mess. I dislike having my hall smell like a putrid cavern.”
Robena picked up her skirts and rushed to follow him. Suddenly Alex stopped and looked expectantly at Gwendolyn. “Are you coming?” he asked impatiently.
The trio made their way up the staircase and along a dim, torchlit corridor.
The air grew heavier and staler as they continued, and by the time they stopped in front of a wooden door, Gwendolyn felt she could scarcely breathe.
Even Robena had produced a dainty linen square from her sleeve and raised it to her nose, so she could better tolerate the stifling smoke.
Alex hesitated a moment, his enormous hand gripping the iron latch, as if steeling himself for what lay on the other side of the door.
Finally he lifted the latch, swung the heavy door open, and went inside.
The chamber was dark, hot, and airless, as the windows were shut tight and a fire roared in the hearth, even though the day outside was warm.
The acrid haze produced by countless pots of smoldering herbs was so thick it made the great hall seem almost breezy in comparison.
But there was another smell to the room, a close, sour odor of sickness.
A few dripping candles cast a feeble glow into the gloom, allowing just enough light for Gwendolyn to make out a bed piled high with blankets and animal skins.
A lean, spindly armed woman was bent over the pile, briskly arranging yet another covering.
On seeing Alex, the woman straightened and gave him a respectful nod.
“Welcome back, MacDunn.” She cast a confused glance at Gwendolyn. “Is this the witch?”
Alex nodded. The woman’s expression hardened.
“Forgive me, m’lord,” she began, her tone far more acquiescent than the rigid set of her pinched face, “but your son is quite weak just now and I really don’t think—”
“She will see him now, Elspeth,” Alex interrupted firmly.
Elspeth pressed her lips together, as if trying to contain whatever argument she wanted to give her laird. Realizing she had no choice, she moved away from the bed.
Alex stepped toward it as if he were approaching a coffin.
Summoning all of his courage, he looked stonily at the thin, ashen face of his son.
If not for Elspeth’s certainty that the lad was resting, he would have thought he was dead.
David’s skin was white and bloodless, his cheeks gaunt, his eyelids as thin and fragile as paper.
Alex swallowed hard, fighting the despair threatening to engulf him.
First his beloved Flora, and now his only son.
What had he done, he wondered desperately, to make God loathe him so?
Overwhelmed by the sight of his child laid out like a corpse, he raised his eyes to Gwendolyn, silently imploring her to help.
Gwendolyn stared at MacDunn. It was as if she were looking upon him for the first time. Instead of the powerful mad laird, a man who feared nothing and found amusement by instilling fear in others, she suddenly saw a man in unbearable pain.
She looked down at the pallid, sweat-soaked head lying still on the damp pillow.
She guessed his son’s age to be about nine, certainly no more than ten, though his illness might have delayed his growth.
He had a delicacy of structure that reminded Gwendolyn of an eggshell, fine and white and smooth, and she feared if she laid her hand against his feverish brow he might suddenly shatter.
His breathing was so faint it was almost imperceptible—and no wonder, she thought angrily.
The terrible heat and stench corrupted what little air remained in this dreadful chamber.
“He can barely breathe—could we not open a window?” she suggested, looking hopefully at MacDunn.
“No,” interjected Robena. “The boy is weak and vulnerable to drafts.”
“He must be kept warm,” Elspeth added firmly. “A sudden chill could kill him.”
Gwendolyn bit back her response that between the raging fire and the suffocating mound of blankets and furs, there was little chance of the lad catching cold.
Instead she gently laid her hand against his hot cheek, then his brow, wondering how much of his unnatural heat was due to fever and how much was due to the ungodly warmth in this room.
The lad’s eyes slowly fluttered open. He stared at her a moment, puzzled, as if he thought he should know who she was but could not remember.
And then his eyes grew wide and he began to tremble, not with cold, Gwendolyn realized, but with fear.
“Are you the witch?” he asked in a small, frightened voice.
“My name is Gwendolyn,” she replied gently.
He interpreted this as an affirmation. “Elspeth says you’re evil.”
“Elspeth has never met me before,” returned Gwendolyn, “so I don’t see how she could know such a thing.”
The lad appeared to consider her response a moment. And then he looked at Alex and whimpered, “I don’t want a witch near me.”
“You will tolerate her presence,” Alex ordered.
The boy’s eyes drifted shut, as if the effort of wakening for that brief moment had completely drained him.