The Witch and The Warrior (10 page)

She looked down at the pallid, sweat-soaked head lying still on the damp pillow. She guessed his son's age to be about nine, certainly no more than ten, though his illness might have delayed his growth. He had a delicacy of structure that reminded Gwendolyn of an eggshell, fine and white and smooth, and she feared if she laid her hand against his feverish brow he might suddenly shatter. His breathing was so faint it was almost imperceptible—and no wonder, she thought angrily. The terrible heat and stench corrupted what little air remained in this dreadful chamber.

“He can barely breathe—could we not open a window?” she suggested, looking hopefully at MacDunn.

“No,” interjected Robena. “The boy is weak and vulnerable to drafts.”

“He must be kept warm,” Elspeth added firmly. “A sudden chill could kill him.”

Gwendolyn bit back her response that between the raging fire and the suffocating mound of blankets and furs, there was little chance of the lad catching cold. Instead she gently laid her hand against his hot cheek, then his brow, wondering how much of his unnatural heat was due to fever and how much was due to the ungodly warmth in this room. The lad's eyes slowly fluttered open. He stared at her a moment, puzzled, as if he thought he should know who she was but could not remember. And then his eyes grew wide and he began to tremble, not with cold, Gwendolyn realized, but with fear.

“Are you the witch?” he asked in a small, frightened voice.

“My name is Gwendolyn,” she replied gently.

He interpreted this as an affirmation. “Elspeth says you're evil.”

“Elspeth has never met me before,” returned Gwendolyn, “so I don't see how she could know such a thing.”

The lad appeared to consider her response a moment. And then he looked at Alex and whimpered, “I don't want a witch near me.”

“You will tolerate her presence,” Alex ordered.

The boy's eyes drifted shut, as if the effort of wakening for that brief moment had completely drained him.

Gwendolyn cast a disapproving look at MacDunn. The lad was obviously extremely ill and terribly frightened. She could well imagine what horrid tales this Elspeth woman and possibly others had told him about witches and what they did to helpless young children. MacDunn's unnecessary gruffness would only succeed in frightening the child even more. As she frowned at him, she suddenly noticed a striking similarity between the structure of MacDunn's face and that of his son's. The boy's cheeks and jaw were softer, prettier almost, and his coloring was different, for his damp hair lay dark against the pillow, and his brows were red. But his nose was a virtual copy of MacDunn's, smaller, but perfectly straight and narrow, and his chin bore the same distinctive cleft.

“You will heal him,” Alex commanded.

His voice was flat and emotionless, as if he were ordering her to do something simple and of little consequence. But Gwendolyn was not fooled by his dispassionate mien. The agony in his eyes a moment earlier had already revealed how deeply he cared for this child. This was why he had brought her here, she realized. Not because he wanted to use her supposed powers to bring him riches, or to render him invincible, or to destroy other clans, as she had believed. MacDunn had gone in search of her and brazenly stolen her from her executioners because he prayed she had the ability to perform a miracle and save his dying son.

And by playing along and pretending to be a witch, she had encouraged him to believe such an impossible feat was within her grasp.

She lowered her gaze.

“You
can
heal him,” Alex persisted, troubled by her failure to respond. “Can't you?”

“She will destroy him,” Elspeth warned, casting a hateful glance at Gwendolyn. “She is evil and can only work the devil's mischief. David's soul is young and pure, and she will steal it for her own foul purposes, just as she has no doubt stolen the souls of countless other innocents—”

“That is enough, Elspeth,” commanded Alex.

Elspeth clamped her mouth into a tight line, then moved toward the fire and began to hurl more sticks of wood on it.

Streams of sweat were leaking down Gwendolyn's face, making her acutely aware of the unbearable heat in the room. Her head was starting to spin, and her breath had been reduced to shallow gasps as her body rejected the foul air she breathed. She could only imagine the effect these insufferable conditions were having on MacDunn's poor son.

“We will discuss this matter elsewhere,” MacDunn stated abruptly. He crossed the chamber, flung open the door, and left.

A gust of marginally cooler air entered the room.

“Mind the draft,” ordered Robena, frowning at Gwendolyn.

Grateful to be leaving the stifling chamber, Gwendolyn hurried out, feeling strangely guilty that she was abandoning David to the ministrations of these two women.

         

“Can you cure him?”

His manner was calm as he posed the question. Had Gwendolyn not witnessed his pain as he looked upon the lad a few moments earlier, she would have thought him only vaguely interested in her response.

The chamber he had taken her to was at the top of one of the castle's towers, where she would be isolated from the rest of the clan. She did not know whether this was for their protection or her own. Like the rest of this bleak fortress, it was dark and airless, and choked with the smoke emanating from two vessels of burning herbs. Feeling dizzy and nauseated, Gwendolyn went to the shuttered windows and threw them open, then greedily inhaled several long, cleansing breaths of fresh air. Once she felt sufficiently recovered from the stench of smoke and sickness, she turned to face MacDunn.

“Is this to be my chamber?” she asked, ignoring his question.

He nodded.

On learning that, she marched over to the table, scooped up the two smoldering vessels, and hurled them out the window.

“It is clear your clan despises me,” she began, turning to face him, “but if I am to earn their trust—”

“Bleedin' ballocks!”
bellowed an enraged voice from below. “What in the name of Christ are you trying to do up there,
kill me
?”

Gwendolyn gasped and peered out the window. A short, round little man was glaring up at her as he crossly rubbed his aching head.

“I'm so sorry,” she apologized fervently. “I didn't realize you were there.”

The man's scowl melted into an expression of sheer horror. “The witch! The witch!” he screamed, scrambling away. “She tried to kill me! She's put the mark of death upon me! Help!
Help!”

Gwendolyn watched in frustration as the man ran off, shrieking at the top of his lungs.

“I think you should relinquish any hope of the clan coming to trust you,” Alex suggested dryly. “They are quite a superstitious lot, and not likely to believe that a witch can be trusted. Besides, I don't give a damn whether you befriend the clan or not. I brought you here because of your powers. And now I want to know, can you cure my son?”

Gwendolyn regarded him in silence. It was clear the boy was deathly ill, and he had already been treated by healers who were far more experienced than she.

“How long has he been ill, MacDunn?”

Alex wearily shrugged his shoulders. “I don't really know. He has never been a well child, from the time he was born. He takes after his mother, both in appearance and in the delicacy of his constitution. His mother died from it,” he finished gravely.

“But surely he has not always been like this,” argued Gwendolyn.

“No,” he admitted. “He began to take more ill than usual some four months ago. At first it seemed a simple stomach ailment. He could not seem to keep anything inside, and when he tried to eat, he suffered terrible pain. Gradually his appetite diminished completely. He lost weight, and then strength. Elspeth is a fine healer, but she did not seem to be able to help the lad, so I sent for two healers from Scone. They stayed nearly a month and tormented the poor lad with hideous potions and treatments—bleedings and purgings and blisterings. At times it seemed as if they were determined to break the illness by breaking his body, but my son was no better for all their torture. Finally I could bear his cries no longer and I sent them away. Elspeth assumed his care once more, assisted by Robena. I prayed that he would recover, but he did not. I had given up all hope. And then one day I heard there was a witch living amongst the MacSweens. It was said her powers were great, though often used for evil purposes. Morag told me to seek you out and bring you to my clan. And now I want to know—can you cure my son?”

Gwendolyn hesitated. She had no magic powers, and other than her clandestine study of her mother's notes, she had no practical experience as a healer. By all appearances it seemed the boy was certainly going to die, perhaps before this very night was out. But if she admitted this to MacDunn, he would realize he had risked the welfare of his clan for nothing and would have no reason to protect her.

“The lad's illness is severe,” she began, “and he has been forced to endure treatments which may have weakened him rather than strengthened him. I cannot say for certain that I will be able to cure him,” she admitted carefully, “but I will try, MacDunn.”

She saw no trace of hope flicker across his face. Perhaps he had felt hope before and realized how painful it could be. Instead he merely nodded.

“Then I put my son in your care. While you are here, you may roam the castle as you wish, but you are not permitted to go outside without my consent and an escort. If the boy worsens or dies, or if you try to escape while I have entrusted his life to you, then you will suffer the consequences. Is that clear?”

“And if the lad recovers?”

“If my son is cured, your life will be spared.”

“And I will be set free?”

“No. You will remain here, to heal others should they fall ill.”

“That is hardly a satisfactory exchange, MacDunn,” Gwendolyn protested. “If I save the life of your son, then I must be granted my freedom.”

“I have already saved you from death three times,” he reminded her. “Twice from the MacSweens, and once from that wild boar. Your life belongs to me, and your only reward, should you earn it, will be the gift of your life.”

“Then slay me and be done with it,” she retorted angrily, turning away, “for I won't live my life as a prisoner.”

Irritation swelled within him. Did she not understand that she had no choice in the matter? He grabbed her roughly by the arm and spun her around. She gasped with outrage and tried to wrench free, but he tightened his grip until he could almost feel her flesh bruising like ripe fruit beneath his fingers. He captured her chin with his other hand and forced her to look at him, making it clear he would not tolerate her insolence.

“You have no choice, Gwendolyn,” he said harshly.

“It is you who have no choice, MacDunn,” she countered, her gray eyes glinting with fire. “For unless you agree to free me, your son will die, and I will do nothing to stop it.”

He knew his hold on her was painful, but her fury seemed to outweigh her discomfort. Suddenly he was aware of how small and fragile she felt within his grasp. The delicate structure of her jaw could almost shatter beneath the strength of his grip, and the crushed satin of her arm had heated the palm of his hand. Her breath was angry and shallow, her cheeks slightly flushed, whether from the warmth of his son's room or her own anger, he was not sure. The soft swell of her breasts brushed against his chest as she breathed, the coarse fabric of her gown the only barrier between her flesh and his.

Desire ripped through him, dark, powerful, and overwhelming.

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.