The Witch and The Warrior Read Free

spirited ale.” With that he raised the bucket and began to drink once more.
    Disgusted, she shifted her gaze, only to notice another MacDunn warrior perched in the second-floor opening of a window, his slim legs dangling against the castle wall. This slight fellow was almost elfin compared to his burly clansmen, and only the light brown growth upon his cheek assured Gwendolyn he was actually a man and not a boy. Though he had managed to procure a most enviable seat, he appeared uninterested in the drama playing before him in the courtyard and was absorbed, instead, in whittling a stick.
    Another MacDunn warrior with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard leaned casually against the outer wall, shamelessly flirting with Laird MacSween’s daughter, Isabella. Clearly he held Isabella enchanted. He leaned inappropriately close to her, his lips nearly grazing her hair as he whispered something into her ear. She raised her hand to her throat in feigned shock and giggled prettily. Gwendolyn watched her with irritation. As Laird MacSween’s only daughter, Isabella did not have a worry in life beyond what gown she was going to wear that day and which of her many suitors she might ultimately decide to wed.
    Meanwhile, while Mad MacDunn and his boorish warriors were engaged in coy seduction, crafting toys, or getting blinding drunk, Gwendolyn awaited her death by burning at the stake.
    â€œâ€¦therefore the
devil
within her
must
be sent back to the fires of
hell,
so she can no longer unleash
death
and
destruction
on this clan,” finished Laird MacSween.
    â€œBurn the bloody bitch!”
    â€œQuickly, before she casts more of her evil upon us!”
    â€œBurn her, burn her, burn her…” The chant rose like a prayer, until the entire clan was demanding her death.
    As Gwendolyn stared at their snarling faces, she understood the utter despair her mother must have endured on the day she was executed. But her mother had suffered more, for she had died leaving an anguished husband and a tiny daughter. At least Gwendolyn left no one behind. Her father was dead and was therefore spared the horror of watching his child die as her mother had died before her. There was some solace in that, she assured herself, fighting the tears that stung her eyes.
    â€œLight the fire,” commanded Laird MacSween, striving to be heard above the chanting crowd.
    The clan raised their arms in the air and cheered.
    Two men stepped forward bearing torches. Gwendolyn’s breathing grew shallow. She braced herself against the stake.
    Please God, let me faint before the flames begin to devour my flesh.
    She hurled one last, hate-filled look at Robert. He lounged back in his chair and regarded her with something akin to triumph, but she knew his victory was hollow.
    You’ll never have the jewel now, you bastard.
    The first torch began its descent. Terror gripped her, but she willed herself not to whimper.
    One guard smiled as his torch hovered just above the dried grasses and branches. “Away with you, witch,” he snarled. “To the fires of—”
    She waited for him to say
hell,
but all that came out was a stifled groan. Gwendolyn watched in confusion as his eyes widened, then rolled upward. With a sigh, he collapsed heavily onto the ground, the jeweled hilt of a dirk protruding from his back, his fallen torch abandoned in the branches.
    The other torchbearer stared at his dead partner in shock. Then he tossed his torch onto the arid nest at her feet.
    The red-haired, drunken warrior at her left heaved his bucket of ale over it, extinguishing the flames. Then he slammed the pail hard onto the guard’s head, spun him around, and gave him a solid kick to his backside, sending him flying into the crowd of astonished MacSweens.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” demanded Laird MacSween, straining to see through the crowd. “Is that red-haired fellow truly so drunk—”
    â€œStop him!”
roared