CHAPTER 12
Gwendolyn opened her eyes to find David staring at her, his little freckled face puckered with bemusement.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked curiously.
She looked down and saw that she was just barely covered by the soft plaid draped over her.
She gasped and hastily yanked the blanket up to her neck, then glanced over to see if MacDunn was still lying beside her.
Mercifully, he wasn’t. Summoning every shred of her tattered dignity, she regarded David as if there was nothing unusual about her being found stark naked in his father’s bed. “Is everything all right?”
“The whole clan is talking about you,” he reported.
Gwendolyn’s eyes widened in horror. Obviously everyone knew she had spent the night with MacDunn. Mortified to the core, she lowered her lids and meekly asked, “Are you terribly upset?”
He shook his head.
“You’re not?” she asked, confused.
“Your standing up to Robert is the bravest thing I’ve ever heard of—like something the mighty Torvald would do!”
His words penetrated her embarrassment. “Is that what the clan is talking about?”
“What else would they be talking about?”
“Nothing,” she hastily responded. She sat up a little, still clutching the blanket. “What, exactly, is the clan saying?”
He seated himself beside her, forcing her to move over a bit.
“Owen says that of all the witches he has ever known, you are by far the most magnificent,” he said excitedly.
“Then Lachlan demanded to know exactly how many witches he had known, and Owen could only think of you and one other, and Lachlan said that hardly accounted for much of a comparison. Then Reginald said he’s only sorry that he didn’t have the chance to hack off Robert’s monstrous head and present it to you, all bloody and leaking his brains on a pike, so that you might keep it as a memento of your bravery.
And Lachlan snorted and said that was a disgusting notion, and that instead he would spend all day creating a special wine to be drunk tonight in your honor! ”
Gwendolyn stared at him in bewilderment.
“Did you really climb onto the parapet and tell Robert to shoot you with a burning arrow?” David asked eagerly.
She nodded.
“Cameron said you looked like a black angel standing on the merlon, and that when Robert set the cottages afire, you raised your arms and conjured up a storm to put out the flames!”
Of course they would think that, Gwendolyn reflected. After all, the MacDunns were convinced that she controlled the weather.
“Ned says as long as the storm continues like this, the MacSweens won’t be able to attack again. But you won’t let it rain like this forever, will you? I’m feeling quite well today, and thought that maybe I could try riding again soon.”
“It won’t rain forever,” Gwendolyn assured him, although the storm did not seem to have eased since last night. “Have you had anything to eat?”
“I got hungry while I was waiting for you to come with my breakfast, so I went down to the kitchen and asked Marjorie to give me some bread and oatmeal. I didn’t have any milk, eggs, or cheese, or even any of the smoked herring that she was serving to the others.”
“How do you feel?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Fine.”
He certainly looked fine, Gwendolyn reflected.
His blue eyes were clear and sparkling, and although his skin was still pale from a lack of sunlight, his lightly freckled cheeks held a hint of color.
His face was freshly scrubbed, and he had taken the time to comb his bright red hair, so that it spilled in a relatively tidy mass of curls over his saffron shirt.
Gwendolyn remembered the first time she had seen him, lying in that foul chamber with his chalky skin stretched across his sunken face like the thinnest of fabric, and his limp hair saturated with sweat and filth.
She had felt certain he was on the edge of death and that there was nothing she could possibly do to save him.
There was no trace of that dying child in the glowing young lad who sat beside her now, restlessly banging his feet against the frame of the bed.
He was dressed in the plaid he had worn to the great hall last night, which he had arranged to the best of his unskilled ability, so that it hung like a shapeless rag over his narrow hips, with the excess fabric falling in a long swath down his back.
MacDunn would have to give him a lesson in putting on his plaid, she decided, taking pleasure in seeing David look so well.
God had tested her in many ways, but He had given her one incredible gift. He had enabled her to help David live. For that she would be eternally grateful.
“My father said that conjuring up that storm made you tired,” David said sympathetically. “Is that why you’re still in bed?”
She nodded. “Where is your father?”
“He has gone outside with some of the men, to survey the damage to the outer wall and return the rocks that were dropped off the battlements. He has ordered all the tables and benches in the great hall to be moved to the sides so the men can train in there while it rains.”
Which means he knew Robert would return soon, reflected Gwendolyn.
I will keep you safe. She did not doubt that MacDunn actually believed he was capable of such a feat.
But he did not understand the depth of Robert’s ruthless determination to get her back.
Robert would stop at nothing to force her to give him the stone.
And by standing before him last night and offering him her life, Gwendolyn had made a grave, irreversible blunder.
She had armed Robert with the knowledge that she was ready to die for the sake of the MacDunns.
All he needed to do was attack the vulnerable cottages on the hill or take just one MacDunn hostage, be it Cameron, or Ned, or even grumpy old Lachlan, and Gwendolyn would have no choice but to surrender to him.
And then Robert would slaughter the MacDunns anyway, before using the power of the stone for his own vile purposes.
She must lure him away from here and kill him first.
“David, please find Clarinda and tell her I must speak with her at once.”
“Are you going to tell us the story about what happened last night?” asked David, his eyes bright with anticipation. “I’m sure you would tell it better than Owen or Cameron.”
“Not today. Now hurry.”
David obediently rushed out the door, awkwardly hiking up his sagging plaid as he went.
A lump of emotion rose to her throat as she watched him go.
Until she met David, her experience with children had been limited exclusively to the young MacSweens who used to taunt her and throw things at her, or run away whenever she appeared.
She had thought children were either stupid or cruel, and most often both.
But David had changed that perception. During their time together she had discovered that children were quick to abandon the fear and intolerance they learned from adults, and to judge people for themselves, as David had with her.
MacDunn’s son was a sweet and gentle lad, and caring for him had made her understand what it is to love a child more than oneself.
She would not permit any harm to come to him.
She had promised Clarinda that she would stay and help her deliver her child, but that was impossible now.
She must leave today, so she could spare the clan any further attacks.
Although the knowledge that she was breaking her pledge to her dearest friend weighed heavily upon her, she felt certain Clarinda would understand.
Marjorie would be able to help her with the birth, and perhaps Letitia would stay with her as well.
Both these women were far more experienced in matters of childbearing than Gwendolyn was, since they had actually given birth.
“And must one have been cut open by a sword in order to know how to deal with the wound?” demanded Morag cryptically from the doorway.
“I’ve brought you some fresh garments to wear,” she continued, not waiting for a reply as she moved gracefully past the sodden pile of black and cream fabric lying on the floor.
“It would hardly do to have you traipsing about the corridor wearing nothing but that plaid, although you do look quite fetching in it.” She laid upon the disheveled bed a clean chemise and the amethyst-colored gown she had given to Gwendolyn.
“Thank you,” said Gwendolyn, trying to conceal her mortification at being found naked in the laird’s chamber.
“Not at all.” Morag smiled as she eased herself into the chair by the hearth. “I may be old, but I still remember what it is to be young and filled with longing.”
“I am not filled with longing,” Gwendolyn told her, pulling the chemise over her head.
“Of course you are, my dear. You have so much longing in you, you cannot trust yourself to give in to it, for fear that if you open that door you will drown in the flood of need that spills forth. You perceive need as weakness, and that frightens you, because you have always had to be strong and reserved—never giving in to your emotions, be they anger, or love, or even the simple desire for friendship. And sadly, you were correct. Had you listened to your heart and acted without restraint, the MacSweens would have found a reason to tie you to that stake long ago.”
Gwendolyn continued to dress herself, saying nothing.