CHAPTER 11 #3
“Are you going to give her to me, MacDunn?” demanded Robert.
Alex gripped the hilt of his sword, focusing on the cold steel pressing against his heated palm. “Never,” he swore. Instead I’m going to kill you, you bastard.
“Then prepare to die!” Robert raised his sword to signal the next volley of arrows.
“Stop!” cried a high, desperate voice.
Alex irritably shifted his gaze from Robert, wondering why Brodick still hadn’t brought Isabella under control.
His heart froze.
It was Gwendolyn, struggling to balance herself on one of the tower merlons as a group of MacDunns rushed anxiously toward her.
“Stay back!” she warned. “Come one step closer and I’ll jump.”
“No one move!” commanded Alex, terrified that she might slip and fall if they startled her. “Gwendolyn,” he began, affecting a nonchalance that completely belied his anxiety, “just what, exactly, do you think you are doing?”
“I cannot bear this,” she replied, her voice trembling. “I cannot bear the thought that some of your clan may die because of me.”
“We’re happy to do it, lass!” said Owen grandly. “These MacSween scoundrels need to be taught a lesson, just as the mighty Torvald would do to them!”
“I’m going to whip up another batch of that potion,” Lachlan added, “only this time I’ll make it so strong they’ll be spewing their bowels out their eye sockets!”
“And then we’re going to feed them to the frogs!” finished Reginald enthusiastically.
“Come down, Gwendolyn,” interjected Alex. “We can discuss this better if you are over here.”
“You don’t understand,” she whispered, shaking her head. “He will never give up.”
“Perhaps not.” Alex slowly moved along the parapet toward the tower. “But I don’t intend to let him have you.”
“And how much blood will be shed because of me?” She gazed at him sadly, her eyes two silver pools against the paleness of her face. “How much death will I have brought to your people?”
“I knew the risks when I took you, Gwendolyn.”
“No, MacDunn,” she said, her voice laced with pain. “You didn’t.”
She turned away from him suddenly, and his heart constricted with terror.
“Shoot me, Robert!” she commanded, opening her arms wide in invitation. “Let us bring this to an end!”
“Hold!” roared Robert as his warriors instantly took aim at her. “The first man to release an arrow is dead!”
Their arrows taut against the strings of their bows, his warriors regarded him in amazement.
“What in bloody hell is the matter with you?” demanded Derek. “Are we here to kill the witch or not?”
“Shut your mouth,” snapped Robert.
“Why don’t you let them kill me, Robert?
” Gwendolyn taunted. “That is what you came here for, is it not? To finally put an end to my evil powers? Now is your chance to save the MacSweens from all the devastation I have wrought on them, and punish me for murdering my father at the same time. Why do you hesitate?”
“You must be burned, witch,” Robert told her, grappling for some reasonable explanation for his reticence. “Your cursed form must be consumed by fire.”
“Then have one of your brave warriors shoot a burning arrow through me. That will suffice, I think. Once I fall, you can heap dry twigs and peat around me, to be certain I burn to nothing.” She raised her arms slightly higher, wobbling on her tiny perch.
Alex stood paralyzed, afraid if he moved she would plunge to her death.
A cool wind had begun to gust, blowing the silky black of her hair and gown out behind her like great, dark wings.
She looked utterly glorious as she stood precariously on that merlon, her small, slender form a wisp of shadow against the brilliant wash of moonlight glowing behind her.
His people were willing to protect her, yet she had chosen to face Robert’s army alone, bravely offering her life in exchange for the safety of a clan that had been hostile toward her from the day she arrived.
She was completely magnificent to him, as courageous and honorable as the finest warrior he had ever known. He swallowed thickly, humbled by her.
“You have erred, Gwendolyn,” said Robert, the corners of his mouth curling in a predaceous smile. “You have just revealed your weakness.”
“I have nothing to lose, Robert,” countered Gwendolyn. “You have stolen everything from me.”
“Is that so?” he drawled. “Then you won’t mind what I am about to do.” He raised his sword and gestured at the neat little cottages scattered upon the hill. “Burn them,” he commanded harshly. “Destroy the fields and gardens. And slay anything that breathes, be it human or animal.”
The torch-bearing warriors circling him immediately disbanded.
“My God,” murmured Cameron, watching in horror. “He’s going to destroy our homes and kill our livestock.”
“Cowards!” shouted Owen, shaking his gnarled fist in the air. “Come back and fight like warriors, not demons!”
“My grandfather built my cottage,” reflected Ewan, his voice filled with despair. “I was born in it, as was my son.”
“It will be all right,” said Quentin, resting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We will build again.”
Sick horror welled in Gwendolyn’s throat as she watched Robert’s men touch their torches to the roofs of the MacDunns’ cottages.
The flames leaped eagerly onto the thick nests of thatch, consuming the sweet, dry straw with voracious hunger.
In little more than a breath a half dozen homes were blazing, their orange and gold flicker strangely beautiful against the charcoal cape of night.
She closed her eyes, unable to bear the hideous sight.
Somewhere in the darkness a dog was frantically barking.
“That’s my Laddie,” said Garrick. “He must think I’m trapped in my house.”
“Kill that goddamn dog!” Robert commanded, wheeling his mount about.
“Run, Laddie!” Garrick shouted, leaning over the parapet. “Run!”
The barking stopped.
And then it started again, only now it was coming closer.
“No, Laddie!” said Garrick, his voice rough with emotion. “Go away! Run, damn you! Run!”
“I see it!” snarled Robert. “It’s coming up the hill. Shoot the damn thing!”
Gwendolyn did not bother to open her eyes. Instead she raised her arms high, reaching into the clear black of the sky. A deafening roar filled her ears, blocking out the sound of the dog barking, the cottages burning, the MacDunns’ despair as they watched their beloved homes being destroyed.
You cannot do this, Robert. I won’t let you.
A brilliant ribbon of light suddenly tore across the cloudless sky, cracking it open for the torrent of rain that burst forth.
It poured down in hard, icy needles, drowning the flaming cottages and extinguishing the MacSweens’ torches and flaming arrows.
The sharp water lashed against the attacking warriors with such force they could scarcely open their eyes.
Another streak of lightning ripped through the night, and another, the searing flashes of light as blinding as the rain.
Earsplitting waves of thunder crashed over the mountains, causing the MacSweens’ horses to whinny and rear up in fear as their masters shouted at them to be still.
The rain fell in heavy sheets and began to pool on the ground, swiftly turning the grass and earth to a slippery, muddy slop.
“Damn you, MacDunn!” bellowed Robert, as if he felt that Alex were somehow responsible for the sudden squall. “It will be mine!” He stared up at him a long moment, his face twisted with fury, heedless of the water whipping against him.
And then he jerked his mount’s head to one side and galloped into the thundering darkness.
The MacSween warriors turned and scrambled after their retreating commander, their heads held low as they vainly tried to shield themselves against the lash of the rain.
The MacDunns raised their weapons into the air and cheered.
“That was simply splendid!” exclaimed Owen, dabbing at his dripping face with his sopping-wet mantle. “In all my years, I’ve never seen such a beastie of a storm.”
“The lass has a fine way with the weather,” yelled Reginald, trying to be heard above the crashing thunder. “Brought it on just in a whisker of time.”
“A bit excessive, if you ask me,” shouted Lachlan, irritably squinting into the gale. “A tempest of half this potency would have sufficed.”
Alex was barely aware of their comments as he cautiously moved toward Gwendolyn.
She rose from the parapet like a magnificent stone sculpture teetering over the precipice of death, her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, apparently oblivious to the fact that the MacSweens had retreated.
The pelting rain had reduced her gown to a liquid black sheath that poured over the curves of her breasts and hips, turning her into a rippling shadow against the jagged strips of light flashing around her.
Alex locked his gaze on her as he closed the distance between them, willing her not to fall.
“Gwendolyn.” He reached out to her. “Take my hand.”
Her lids fluttered open. Even through the heavy veil of rain he could see that her gray eyes were distant and blurred, like someone who has just been roused from a long and restless sleep. She regarded him in confusion, as if wondering who he was and how he had come to be there.
And then she sighed and fell into the blackness.
Alex roared as he threw himself forward, his arms outstretched.
For an endless shred of time he felt nothing but rain and darkness and death, and his mind began to shatter, as surely as it had the night Flora had forever escaped his grasp.
No, by God, no. He extended his body farther, reaching through the night until every bone and tendon and muscle was strained to the very limits of his skin.
And then he had her, her slender form whole and firm as she dangled helplessly in the crush of his aching hands.