CHAPTER 7 #5
Her discomfiture added to Alex’s pleasure as he stood there watching her.
She was perched on David’s bed, her bare feet peeking out from the bottom of her thin chemise, untidily wrapped in a red and black plaid that kept slipping off the silky skin of her shoulders.
The purple stain on her cheek seemed worse in the morning light, but perhaps it was because her impossibly pale skin made the bruise darker by contrast. She set down the cloth she had been using to bathe David’s face and gently brushed back a wayward lock of his hair, as if wanting to make him more presentable for his father.
Alex found himself moved by the gesture, and by the fact that the moment she had the strength to rise from her bed, her first thought was to care for his son.
It had been the same with Flora, he reflected, in the early days of her illness, before her ever-weakening body finally entombed her in her bed.
He shoved the painful memory into the dark recesses of his mind.
“You are going to get a chill running around dressed like that,” he said brusquely. “You will return to your chamber and get back into bed at once.”
“But I’m not ill,” Gwendolyn protested, crossing the plaid modestly over her chest. “And I’m feeling much better.”
“You have had a bad fall. You need to rest.”
“Is that blood?” David asked, staring curiously at Alex’s stained shirt.
“No—it’s wine,” Gwendolyn quickly assured him. “I rested all night,” she told Alex, disliking the idea of being treated as if she were infirm. “I don’t want to rest anymore. Besides, David needs me.”
“You will be of little use to him if you become ill with fever or suddenly faint dead away. You will rest today, and if you seem well enough tomorrow, then you may return to tending David.”
“Really, MacDunn, I am not nearly as fragile as you think. All I require is a hot bath,” she said, rising from the bed, “and I shall feel perfectly—”
Pain shot through her skull. She stifled a moan and sat back on the bed, cradling her head in her hands.
Within two strides Alex was kneeling before her. “What is it?” He cupped her chin with his hand. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Gwendolyn managed, although she was not entirely sure of that. “My head just hurts a little.” She closed her eyes, struggling to conquer her pain.
“Ned!” Alex called sharply.
Within an instant Ned appeared in the doorway.
“You will help Gwendolyn to her chamber at once and see that she returns to her bed and stays there.”
“I don’t need any help,” Gwendolyn said stubbornly.
“You can either permit Ned to assist you or I will pick you up and carry you myself. The choice is yours.”
Gwendolyn shot him a disgruntled look. Realizing she had no choice, she turned to David and gave him a weak smile. “I will be back to see you this afternoon, David. Until then, I shall ask Clarinda to come and sit with you.”
David regarded her fearfully. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course I shall be all right,” Gwendolyn assured him, stroking his cheek. “I’m just a little tired.”
“When you come back, I will tell you the story about the giant who mashed up the eyes of warriors to make a spread for his oatcakes,” David offered. “That always makes me feel better.”
“What kind of ghastly stories have you been telling the lad?” Alex asked.
Gwendolyn cautiously rose from the bed and accepted Ned’s arm. “Just a few silly tales,” she replied innocently. “As I’m sure you know, David likes his stories with a bit of blood and gore.”
Alex frowned. He had no idea what kind of stories his son preferred.
“Maybe you could sit with him until Clarinda comes, and David could tell you one,” she suggested.
“I will tell you one about the mighty Torvald,” David offered eagerly. “He is a powerful warrior like you, who lived far away in a land called—”
“I don’t have time for storytelling,” Alex interrupted impatiently. “Already the morning is half wasted. I must lead my men in training.”
“Of course,” said Gwendolyn. “Perhaps another time. When you can spare a moment for less important matters.” Her voice was cool with disapproval.
Satisfied that both Gwendolyn and his son were safe for the moment, Alex quit the room, turning his thoughts to the upcoming challenge of a MacSween attack.
But all that morning he was plagued by the strange feeling that he had disappointed her, although he could not imagine how, or why it should matter to him.
“Who would do such a foul thing?”
The small gathering assembled in Ewan and Lettie’s cottage regarded each other uneasily, troubled by Owen’s question.
“ ’Tis one thing to burn a gown,” Reginald observed, “for no one is actually hurt. But if someone purposely tries to harm the lass, that is another matter entirely.”
“We don’t know that it wasn’t an accident,” argued Lachlan. “The witch might have been entranced in some evil spell, and as she was concentrating all her unearthly powers on slaughtering us as we sleep, she tripped.”
“Why would such a sweet lass want to kill us?” Owen asked.
“She isn’t sweet,” Lachlan countered. “And she isn’t fair, and she isn’t young. Munro has already told us that she looks like a shriveled old toe.”
Owen scratched his white head, considering this. “How is it that Munro can see this but the rest of us cannot?”
“I have a gift,” Munro boasted.
“More like a curse,” observed Garrick, “if she looks that bloody awful!”
The clan members laughed.
“Maybe she fell because she was drunk,” suggested Farquhar. He took a deep swig of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “She drinks, you know.”
“I’ve spent more time in her company than you, and I’ve never known her to take more than a cup of wine,” Clarinda countered impatiently.
“Those lower stairs are very slippery,” Robena pointed out. “It’s easy to see how someone could have fallen down them—especially if the torch had gone out.”
“It couldn’t have just gone out,” objected Quentin. “I checked the torches just yesterday and made sure they were all well oiled, with plenty of rag for burning. That torch had hours of light in it.”
“Perhaps there was a sudden gust of wind,” Robena suggested.
“From where?” asked Ewan. “There are no windows in that passage.”
“The witch must have stirred the air into a wind as she walked,” Lettie decided. “Haven’t you noticed how strange the weather has become since she arrived?”
“It always rains when her mood is foul,” Lachlan grumbled.
“How do you know what her mood is?” wondered Owen.
“A wee drop of rain may be one thing, but I’ve never seen her extinguish a torch just by walking by it,” said Reginald.
“Did you see how upset MacDunn was when he found her?” asked Marjorie. “Sat with her like a man possessed, not letting anyone else near her.”
“Perhaps he is possessed,” said Lachlan. “No doubt that’s part of her wicked plan!”
“It’s the madness.” Clarinda sighed, shaking her head. “Poor man. Her lying helpless and still like that must have reminded him of Flora.”
“The witch looks nothing like Flora,” contradicted Robena sharply.
“But does MacDunn know that?” wondered Garrick. “Or is his mind playing tricks on him once again?”
“MacDunn knows the difference between a witch and his dead wife,” Marjorie argued. “He was only disturbed because the witch is his last hope to cure poor David.”
“But if his mind were sound he would realize she is killing David,” said Elspeth. “Plunging the poor lad into freezing baths, exposing him to drafts, and letting the poisons fill his body. Did you see the dreadful red bumps that rose on him the other day?”
“He has had those before, Elspeth,” Marjorie reminded her. “When he was in your care.”
“He should have been bled immediately for it,” Elspeth snapped. “He hasn’t had a good bleeding since she arrived—I hate to think how tainted his poor flesh must be.”
“He actually seems a little stronger at times than he used to,” observed Clarinda. “I think Gwendolyn may be doing him some good.”
“If she strengthens him, it is only so she can sacrifice him to the devil,” Elspeth returned. “That is her plan.”
“What about this chap who arrived today from the MacSweens?” said Owen. “Does anybody know what message he brought?”
“Last I saw of him, he was sitting in the hall drinking with Brodick,” Quentin reported. “Don’t know what became of him after that.”
“MacSween has no doubt sent him to declare war on us,” fretted Lachlan. “And tomorrow morning we shall waken to find we have been slashed to pieces as we sleep!”
“Do forgive, Lachlan, but if we are slashed to pieces, how will we waken?” asked Owen.
“I shall find the scurvy knave and serve him his bowels for breakfast!” declared Reginald fiercely.
“Let’s see what the MacSweens think of that!
” He reached for his sword, frowned, then checked between his spindly calves to see if it had somehow slipped behind him.
“That’s odd, I was sure I had it with me. ”
“I doubt Brodick would share a jug with someone who was about to attack us,” said Ewan reasonably. “MacSween likely sent the messenger to thank MacDunn for his gift. Why else would Brodick be treating him like a guest?”
“If he’s a guest, then why hasn’t he been introduced to the rest of us?” wondered Garrick.
“Perhaps MacDunn has forgotten about him,” suggested Lettie. “He was very preoccupied today.”
“He was absorbed with readying the clan for battle,” said Lachlan, “because he knows we are about to be slain!”
“MacDunn always seems a little preoccupied,” Clarinda pointed out. “It is because he is listening to Flora.”
“If the MacSweens attack, then we shall have to fight them. It is as simple as that,” declared Reginald.
“I say we just give them the witch and be done with it,” said Lachlan. “No point in sacrificing our lives for a sorceress who is just going to kill us anyway.”
“MacDunn would never permit us to do such a thing,” protested Marjorie. “He still believes she can heal his son.”
“And maybe she can,” added Clarinda. “Sometimes David actually seems to be getting better.”
“That’s splendid!” declared Owen enthusiastically.
“And other times it is clear he is dying,” said Elspeth.
Owen’s expression fell. “That’s terrible.”
“I believe we need to be patient,” proposed Reginald. “If the lass somehow manages to cure David, then perhaps MacDunn will recover from the melancholy that has claimed him since the lad first fell ill.”
“He has been melancholy for four years now,” Clarinda argued. “Ever since his Flora died.”
“There have been times when he has been happy,” countered Robena.
“Happy?” repeated Owen. He frowned, considering. “He has pieced his mind back together relatively well, and he certainly has been a dedicated and hardworking laird. But I’ve known the lad all his life, and I would not say he was happy.”
“His mind is cracked,” added Reginald. “If David dies, it will be broken completely. We will lose him forever.”
“Then we must let Gwendolyn do what she can to save David,” said Clarinda firmly. “And let us make sure no more accidents happen, either to her or to her gowns.”
“The lass is right,” decided Owen. “We shall bide our time awhile longer, for the sake of MacDunn and the lad.”
“And if David dies as a result of the witch’s care?” demanded Elspeth.
“Then we must send her back to the MacSweens,” said Lachlan firmly, “and tell them to burn her.”