The Witch and The Warrior by Karyn Monk Page A

and write, and then he had passed the same skills on to his daughter. Gwendolyn had learned them clandestinely, at night, within the safety of their small cottage. Her father did not want to give the MacSweens yet another reason to fear and ostracize his beloved child.
    â€œWhen I am gone, you will still have your friends in books and stories, my sweet Gwen,” he told her.
    Gwendolyn looked up from her book and frowned. “Wherever you go, Papa, I am going with you.”
    A sad smile shadowed her father’s gentle face. And then he began to fade.
    Cold seeped through Gwendolyn. She curled up even more and struggled to keep her father in his chair. But his image had vanished. Shivering, she inched backward, searching for the comforting wall of heat that had enveloped her all night.
    It was gone.
    Feeling lost, she opened her eyes. Her father was dead, she realized numbly. There would be no more nights of reading to him before a fire or listening to the glorious tales he loved to tell her.
    MacDunn and his warriors were already up and preparing for the day’s journey. Brodick was cooking a simple meal of fresh oakcakes and fish over a small fire, while MacDunn, Ned, and Cameron were tending to their horses. Gwendolyn sat up and rubbed her bare arms. Isabella, she noticed, was still comfortably ensconced beneath Brodick’s extra plaid, sound asleep.
    â€œGood morning, m’lady,” Cameron called cheerfully. “ ’Tis a fine day, is it not? I must confess, my head feels remarkably well this morning, thanks to your spirit friends.”
    â€œThat is good,” she murmured.
    â€œWill you have some oatcake and fish this morning? The fish was just caught by Ned, and is sure to be sweet.”
    Gwendolyn shook her head. The pain of missing her father had destroyed her appetite. “I am not hungry.”
    â€œYou will eat,” MacDunn commanded, not looking at her as he adjusted the girth of his saddle.
    â€œI am not hungry,” Gwendolyn insisted stubbornly.
    â€œYour body requires nourishment,” he argued. “You ate nothing yesterday, and I’d wager that during your time in the dungeon, you ate little, if at all. You are thin and weak.” He critically eyed her up and down.
    â€œI am not weak,” she protested. In truth, since the death of her father just four days ago, she had become a little thin.
    â€œA better nourished woman would not have felt the cold so severely last night. You will be lucky if you are not burning with fever by midday, and dead by tomorrow morning.”
    Gwendolyn stared at him blankly. What was this bizarre preoccupation with her health? “I have no intention of getting a fever—”
    â€œYour life now belongs to me,” he interrupted. “And I have decided you will eat.”
    She was about to point out that her life most certainly did not belong to him or anyone else when Brodick cautiously approached her with some food.
    â€œDo try some, m’lady,” he invited. “Even if you are not hungry now, it will be several hours before we stop again to eat.”
    The aroma of the freshly grilled fish stirred the emptiness in her stomach. “Perhaps I will have just a little,” she conceded. “But I am
not
doing it because you ordered me to, MacDunn.”
    MacDunn shrugged his enormous shoulders. “As long as you eat, I don’t give a damn.”
    â€œI’m hungry,” announced Isabella sleepily, stretching her arms over her head.
    â€œGood morning, Bella,” called Brodick. “Did you sleep well?”
    â€œCertainly not,” she informed him coldly. “I’m bruised all over from lying on the hard ground, and this filthy, coarse plaid has scratched my skin to pieces. I couldn’t sleep at all.”
    â€œYou appeared to be resting well enough last night after MacDunn showed you his wound,” observed Cameron teasingly.
    â€œOh!” Isabella exclaimed.