CHAPTER 4 #6
But now as she stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at the wary glances of the MacDunns, she wished she had not come.
She endured their silent, hostile scrutiny with an air of cool detachment, a manner she had learned to call upon from the time she was a child.
Reminding herself that MacDunn had ordered her to join the clan for the evening meal, she slowly descended the staircase.
Uneasy murmurs rippled through the room.
On reaching the floor, Gwendolyn realized she had no idea where she was supposed to sit.
Owen, Lachlan, Reginald, and Morag were seated at the laird’s table, which was situated on a raised dais in the center of the hall.
Owen had cheerfully waved at her as she entered, but stopped when Lachlan poked him disapprovingly in the ribs.
The rest of the clan members dining in the hall that night were crowded on benches arranged around long, cloth-draped tables.
Seeing an empty place at one of them, Gwendolyn moved toward it.
As soon as the MacDunns there realized her intent, they immediately shifted positions so that the opening previously there was now gone.
Gwendolyn stopped, straightened her spine, and began to move purposefully toward another table.
The people there quickly closed ranks, effectively preventing her from seating herself.
She hesitated a moment and then approached a third table.
The MacDunns glared frostily at her as she drew near, making it clear her company was not welcome.
Shaken and humiliated, her hunger all but forgotten, Gwendolyn moved quickly toward the archway leading to the corridor, only to plow straight into MacDunn as he rounded the corner with Brodick and Cameron.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“I—I am returning to my chamber,” she stammered.
“Then your sense of direction is askew,” observed Cameron, amused. “The stairs to your chamber are on the other side of the hall.”
Alex studied her a moment. The gown he had sent to her poured over her slender form in a glorious wash of crimson and gold, its brilliant color accentuating the paleness of her skin and the inky cape of her hair.
But the fabric draped too loosely across the narrow width of her waist and hips, reminding him of her fragility.
He found himself wondering if she had always been this thin, or if the death of her father and the bleak days spent in a dank dungeon had melted her flesh away.
“Have you eaten anything?” he demanded.
“I am not hungry.”
“Are you ill?” he persisted, troubled by her lack of appetite.
Her gaze lowered, Gwendolyn shook her head.
“Then you will stay and eat something,” he commanded. “I will not have you starving yourself to death.”
“Please, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn implored softly, “I wish to return to my chamber.”
Her voice was small and strained, as if on the verge of breaking.
Alex frowned. Though he had vowed he would not touch her again, he found himself grasping her chin and gently raising her head.
Her wide gray eyes were sparkling with pain, and her expression was pleading.
Stunned to see her so obviously hurt, he raked his gaze questioningly over the rest of the clan.
Their guilty expressions quickly told him that they had driven her to this state.
Anger reared within him, anger and an oddly protective sensation, which made him want to wrap his arms around her and soothe her battered spirits with gentle words.
Instead he gave her a small bow and offered her his arm.
“Do forgive me, m’lady, for arriving so late.” His tone was purposely contrite, as if she had every reason to be angry with him. “But now that I am here, I hope you will reconsider and agree to join me at my table.”
Gwendolyn regarded him in confusion. There was no hint of mockery in MacDunn’s expression.
Instead he seemed genuinely remorseful, as if her sudden flight from the hall were somehow due to his unforgivable neglect of her.
He was trying to salvage her wounded pride, she realized, by apologizing before his clan and giving her the choice of either accepting or rejecting his gesture.
Moved by his sensitivity, she reached up and laid her hand on the firm muscle of his arm.
Alex escorted her across the silent hall to the laird’s table, where he pulled out a chair and seated her. Then he took his place beside her and sternly addressed his clan.
“Gwendolyn MacSween is our guest. During her stay here, I have faith that you will treat her with the honor we normally extend to our guests, and give her any assistance she may require as she heals my son.”
The clan remained silent. Satisfied that he had made his expectations clear, he turned and began to pile food on Gwendolyn’s trencher.
Although Gwendolyn felt somewhat fortified by MacDunn’s support, there was no mistaking the animosity swirling through the room.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Elspeth and Robena glaring at her, and they were not alone.
The MacDunns feared and resented her presence.
A command from their laird could not change their feelings toward her.
“Well, now, lassie,” began Owen, breaking the awkward stillness, “I’m wondering if you know a witch named Fenella.”
Gwendolyn shook her head.
“Come, now, surely you have at least heard of her?” he persisted.
“She was an ugly old thing, with a singularly nasty disposition, which was unfortunate, because she was a sorceress of immense power.” He began to chuckle.
“When I was a lad, a friend of mine mocked her behind her back. He was just a silly boy and meant no harm, but Fenella punished him by making his ears and nose ridiculously large, so that he would learn what it was like to be the victim of taunts. You’re sure you don’t know her? ”
“Why would she know her?” asked Lachlan impatiently. “Fenella was as ancient as a rock when we were lads. She died long before this lass was born.”
“We don’t know how old this witch is,” pointed out Owen. “Perhaps she is using her powers to maintain a youthful appearance. Why, just look at Morag. She is nearing eighty and doesn’t look a day over sixty-nine.”
A splash of color appeared on Morag’s cheeks. “Thank you, Owen. It isn’t sorcery that maintains my youthful appearance, but a special cream I have developed.”
Reginald eyed Gwendolyn curiously. “Are you using your powers to look as you do?”
Gwendolyn shook her head.
Owen looked disappointed. “Then I guess you’re too young to know Fenella. Ah, well, no matter.”
“Here, lassie,” invited Lachlan, raising the ewer beside his cup, “I’ve a wonderful wine here you must try.”
Alex raised a brow and regarded him sternly.
Lachlan huffed with frustration and set the ewer down.
“MacDunn mentioned that you were sentenced to be burned at the stake,” began Reginald conversationally.
Gwendolyn nodded.
“A nasty piece of business, that,” remarked Reginald. “As a warrior, I’d much rather die with a sword in my belly.” He speared a chunk of meat with his dirk. “Clean and simple.”
“I don’t know what’s so clean about having your bowels carved out of you,” observed Lachlan, his thin mouth puckered with distaste. “It sounds perfectly ghastly to me.”
“Do forgive, Lachlan, but I believe it’s better than being trussed to a post and having someone set fire to you,” Owen reflected, reaching for a serving of salmon.
His elbow accidentally knocked Lachlan’s ewer, sending it onto its side.
A thick brown liquid oozed from it. Everyone at the table watched in fascination as the substance began to smolder, then rapidly burned an enormous hole in the cloth covering the table.
“Honestly, Lachlan, you don’t know what you’re doing when it comes to potions,” Morag scolded. “You really must stop making them.”
“I just need practice.” He glanced sheepishly at Alex. “I was certain I had it right this time.”
“I’m sure you did,” agreed Alex, struggling for patience. “But I would prefer it, Lachlan, if you would refrain from concocting special drinks for Gwendolyn while she is here.”
Lachlan lowered his eyes to his food. He looked so defeated, Gwendolyn found herself almost feeling sorry for him.
The meal continued in awkward silence. Gwendolyn managed to eat a little from the mountain of food MacDunn had piled in her trencher, but every bite seemed to lodge in her throat. Finally, unable to bear the strained atmosphere a moment longer, she rose from the table.
“I am tired,” she murmured. “Please excuse me.”
Without waiting for MacDunn’s approval, she turned and walked slowly toward the stairs, affecting a cool confidence that completely belied the misery clutching her heart.
She had to escape before the boy died.
There was no question that he would die, she realized, staring out the window at the black sky.
No one seemed to know what ailed him, and since Gwendolyn was neither a healer nor a witch, she did not see how she could possibly help him.
If anything, her lack of experience in these matters might hasten his demise, a possibility that alarmed her.
MacDunn had warned her she would be punished if the boy worsened or died.
Although he had not specified what form that punishment would take, she had no desire to find out.
Given the hostility that greeted her this evening in the great hall, the MacDunns might well decide to burn her.
She trembled, remembering her terror as flames lapped at her gown.
Tomorrow night while the clan slept she would slip out of the castle, steal a horse, and escape into the surrounding woods.
Next she would make her way back to the MacSween lands and retrieve the stone.
And then she would find Robert and kill him.
The thought invigorated her weary spirit somewhat, so she lingered over it, imagining the different methods she could use.
Poison was an option, but it would have to be a foul enough concoction that would cause him great pain, burning him from the inside out.
Perhaps she should ask Lachlan about his recipes.
Stabbing was another good possibility. She imagined Robert’s stunned expression after she had buried a blade deep into his chest. It would be a sweet moment, watching his life drain out of him and knowing that he threatened her no more.
Once her father’s death was avenged, she would leave the MacSween lands and find a place where she could live in peace.
The thought of being by herself, with no one to fear her or taunt her, was immensely appealing.
She would find a plot of land and hire someone to build her a small cottage, where she would keep a cow and a few chickens.
Of course, these things would require some form of payment.
At dinner she had noticed the goblets used at the laird’s table were of silver, and some were even studded with jewels.
She decided that she would take a few valuable objects from the castle before she left.
A vague sense of guilt wrapped around her as she recalled her pledge to MacDunn that she would try to heal his son.
It seemed a shameless betrayal to break her word to the man who had thrice saved her life.
But it would be worse to stay and pretend she could heal the boy, when in fact she might only be further jeopardizing his already precarious health.
She did not wish to be the cause of the lad’s death.
Once she was gone, MacDunn would return the boy’s care to the clan’s healers, and they would do the best they could for him, she assured herself, blowing out the candles beside the bed.
But as she lay back against the cool sheets and closed her eyes, she found herself remembering David’s pale, sweat-soaked form buried in a casket of blankets, struggling to breathe in the unbearable heat and stench of his room.
And it was deep into the night before she finally escaped into the waters of sleep, still tormented by the thought of his suffering.