CHAPTER 4 #5
Unable to control himself, he released her chin and sank his fingers deep into her hair while wrapping his other arm around her, pulling her against him as he ground his mouth to hers.
She moaned in outrage and tried to shove him away, but the hunger surging through him was staggering, consuming every vestige of his reason.
She was fighting him, yes, but he could not understand it, could not believe that the need now raging within him had not inflamed her as well.
His tongue delved into the sweetness of her mouth, tasting her, possessing her, pleading with her to give in.
She froze for an instant, as if shocked, or perhaps her body was remembering when he had kissed her so before, and how she had responded.
He moaned and deepened his kiss, drawing her closer, until her slim, soft form was pressed tight against his own hard length.
And then suddenly her hesitation vanished, and she was clinging to him and returning his kiss with a desperation that seemed to match his own.
It was wrong, it was unthinkable, he understood this well, and yet he continued to touch her and hold her and taste her, like a drowning man who at last has found something to grasp on to.
In a moment his reason would return, he felt almost certain of it, but until then he released himself to this glorious madness, this stolen ecstasy, which he had never thought to know again.
When Flora had been well she had stirred his blood, but never like this, never to the point where he could scarcely think, could scarcely breathe, or remember who and what he was.
He was Flora’s husband.
Appalled by his brutish behavior, he abruptly released Gwendolyn and stepped away.
He regarded her warily, wondering if she had cast some spell over him.
The thought gave him some comfort, for it almost explained, if not pardoned, his staggering desire for her.
But she had raised her fingertips to her lips and was staring at him in bewilderment, as if she, too, could not understand what was happening between them.
“Very well,” he said, his voice strangely hollow. “Cure my son, and I will grant you your freedom.”
She said nothing. He interpreted her silence as acquiescence.
“You will dine in the great hall tonight with the rest of the clan,” he commanded, moving toward the door. The chamber had grown smaller, somehow, and he was overcome with a need to have distance from her. “I will instruct my people that they are not to try to poison you while you are here.”
“I do not wish to dine with your clan,” Gwendolyn informed him, shaken by what had just transpired between them. “As I am here as a prisoner, I will take my meal alone in my chamber.”
“You will eat where and when I tell you to eat,” Alex countered. “And I order you to join me in the great hall.”
Gwendolyn shook her head. “I won’t come down.”
He jerked open the door. “Then I’ll send someone to carry you down.”
Sunlight was pouring through the open windows, wrapping her small form in a brilliant haze as she glared at him.
It shimmered through the black silk of her hair and etched the slim outline of her body in gold, making him achingly aware of how fine and womanly she was, even in that tattered, smoke-stained gown.
Desire pulsed through him once again, so intense it was almost painful.
“You will need another gown,” he murmured thickly. “I will arrange for it.”
He slammed the door as he left.
“…The pot flew in a great loop, and then it stopped, just sat there in the air, as if it were being held by terrible, ungodly hands,” said Munro, cupping his own plump hands to better illustrate his tale.
A murmur of awe rippled through the great hall.
“And what did you do?” prodded Reginald.
“Why, I just stood and stared at it, frozen, for my legs had been turned to stone, and when I opened my mouth to yell, no sound came out. That was when I knew the witch had cast one of her wicked spells upon me and there was nothing I could do but pray for mercy.”
“Then what happened?” asked Lachlan.
“Well, the vessel hung there a moment, casting its great, black shadow over me,” continued Munro, waving his arms for effect.
“And all at once I felt chilled to the very bone. Just as I was certain I could bear no more, the pot suddenly began to fly toward me, like a falcon swooping down on a hare. I let out a long, terrified scream before it banged me most cruelly on the head, knocking me out cold.” He tilted his head forward and pointed to the egg-sized lump swelling from his scalp.
The women of the clan gasped in horror.
“Do forgive, Munro, but how could you scream?” Owen wondered. “I thought you said you could make no sound.”
“It was a silent scream,” Munro clarified. His eyes narrowed and his voice grew ominously low as he finished, “The most terrifying scream of all.”
“But why has the witch chosen to harm you?” asked Reginald. “You’ve done her no wrong.”
“Don’t think for a moment that Munro will be the only one to suffer from her spells,” warned Elspeth grimly. “Witches need no reason to create mischief. They bring harm to others purely out of sport!”
“Dear me,” said Owen, shaking his head. “She seemed like such a nice lass.”
“I didn’t think so,” countered Lachlan petulantly. “A nice lass would have tried my elixir, just to be polite.”
“Good God, Lachlan, that potion you made would have dissolved steel!” observed Reginald. “MacDunn would have been most annoyed if you’d poisoned his guest the moment she arrived.”
“It may have been a trifle strong,” Lachlan conceded. “But I have been working on another one, and this time I have the measurements just right.” He patted the small ewer next to his goblet.
“If she truly is a witch, her powers must be great, for she seemed unaffected by the herbs and amulets in the hall,” fretted Marjorie, laying a platter of roasted meat on the table. “I wish MacDunn had permitted us to leave them a while longer.”
“I don’t,” said Reginald. “The place looked bloody awful, and smelled even worse.”
“The witch was not unaffected,” Elspeth assured Marjorie. “She merely used her powers to disguise her distress. But she did not fare so well in the lad’s room. I could see the smoke was bothering her.”
“What the devil does that prove?” Reginald demanded impatiently. “That stinking haze you women have created in every room bothers me, and I’m certainly not a witch.”
“It is not the same,” Elspeth replied testily.
“What are we going to do?” lamented Robena. “Poor David is terrified of her, but MacDunn is determined that we submit the boy to her care.”
“She will certainly kill him,” Elspeth predicted. “If not with her spells, then with ignorance. Today she wanted to open a window in his chamber.”
“Does the lass not realize how dangerous that could be?” sputtered Owen, clearly horrified.
“It would seem not.” Elspeth’s expression grew pensive. “And then again, perhaps she does.”
“This is terrible,” Marjorie fretted. “Someone has to talk to MacDunn.”
“MacDunn won’t listen to reason,” said Lachlan. “Not when it comes to his son.”
“Aye, that’s true,” Owen agreed. “The poor lad just hasn’t been the same since dear Flora died.”
“MacDunn is much better than he was,” pointed out Robena. “If we can just get him to see that this witch will only use her evil ways to inflict misery and suffering—”
“Good evening, lassie,” called Owen brightly, waving. “We were just talking about you.”
Startled, everyone in the hall turned and looked fearfully at Gwendolyn, who was standing at the top of the stairs.
She shouldn’t have come, she realized miserably.
She had not wanted to. It was only the threat of MacDunn sending someone to carry her down that had finally wrested her from her chamber.
That, and the spicy sweet aroma of roasted meat and freshly baked bread.
The sudden, agonizing loss of her father had left her far too numb to care much about the needs of her body these past few days.
But as she sat in her chamber gloomily watching the fading purple ribbons of summer light from her window, she suddenly grew aware of a great, almost painful emptiness.
The tantalizing scents filtering up from the kitchen and the great hall only intensified this sensation, until finally hunger was clawing impatiently in her stomach.
It was at that moment that two men appeared at her door, carrying a metal bathing tub.
MacDunn thought she might be wanting a bath, they explained, hurriedly setting it down in her chamber.
A parade of men followed with sloshing buckets of water, which they swiftly dumped into the tub before racing from the room.
Just as Gwendolyn was about to climb into the bath, there was another knock at her door.
She opened it to find an extremely timid serving girl cradling a beautiful gown of crimson wool.
A gift from MacDunn, she stammered, thrusting it nervously into Gwendolyn’s arms and scurrying away.
At first Gwendolyn was tempted to call the girl back and tell her she wanted no such gift.
But the woolen fabric poured like warm wine over the bare skin of her arms, and she found herself fascinated by its softness, which was so unlike the familiar coarseness of her own gown.
She draped the garment across her body, marveling at the intricate gold embroidery decorating the low neckline and cuffs.
She had always been responsible for making her own clothes, and without a mother or woman friend to guide her, her handiwork had never been accomplished.
Suddenly her own gown seemed not only tattered, but ugly and crudely constructed.
Perhaps there was no harm in accepting this gift, she decided.
After all, if she was to dine in the great hall with the clan, she could not appear dressed in what was little better than a rag.