My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  Glad to be free, but at the same time, hating to see anyone die, she rose and stumbled further away from him.

  Pausing a short distance from the main skirmish, she frantically scanned the turmoil for Rory. The meager light revealed less than a dozen men on horseback and some on foot. They cut and jabbed at one another.

  A man on foot, a good friend of Donald’s, spotted her and stalked her way. He wielded a claymore, bloodlust gleaming in his eyes.

  Panic spurred her into a full run.

  Where is Rory? Where is Rory?

  A horse approached, chasing her. God protect me.

  Yet again, a rider grasped her belt and yanked her off her feet. She screamed. Her new captor slammed her across his saddle. Pain throbbed in her abdomen.

  She struggled to draw breaths. Her black-speckled vision cleared by slow degrees. This man’s kilt was of an unfamiliar tartan. She prayed he was a MacGrath.

  Her strength drained away. Her whole body trembled with weakness.

  I must find Rory.

  The Scot urged his horse up an incline. They were not traveling toward Donald’s holdings. This territory was foreign to her.

  “Ma! Ma!”

  “Rory!” she yelled. Thanks be to God, he was alive. She glanced about upside down, but couldn’t see him.

  At the top of the hill, the man slowed his horse. Other men surrounded them.

  She squirmed, attempting to escape. “Let me down!”

  “What do you have there, Fergus?”

  “He’s gone out and captured himself a bonny bride.”

  Masculine laughter erupted around her.

  Her captor grasped her belt and dragged her backward. “Hold her.”

  She slid toward the ground, flailed about, but strong hands caught her arms.

  The blood rushed from her head. Dark spots obscured her vision, and she grew lightheaded. She swayed and jerked against the hands that held her. They tightened like ropes.

  “Ma!” Rory called yet again.

  Her vision cleared, and she glanced around in the pale dawn light. The man who’d snatched Rory handed him down to another.

  Rory kicked, punched and screamed like a wildcat.

  “Rory!” she warned, not wanting the man to hit him. With a trained eye, she searched his body for blood or wounds and thankfully found none.

  Her son stilled, looking about wide-eyed.

  “Shh,” she said when his gaze met hers. She turned her attention to the men around her. “Are you MacGraths?”

  “Aye.”

  She almost collapsed with relief and gratitude, but she still didn’t know what kind of reception she’d get.

  Her rescuer, the one they’d called Fergus, dismounted and faced her. “Are you MacIrwin?”

  His appearance startled her for an instant. He held a strong resemblance to the man whose life she’d saved days ago. His long dark hair reached his shoulders. He had a clean-shaven face and a square jaw, but his eyes were of a different shape and light color.

  “I’m Gwyneth Carswell, and this is my son, Rory. The MacIrwins are trying to kill us. We seek refuge.”

  “And why would they be wanting to kill you, Sassenach?” he asked in a derisive, disbelieving tone.

  “They learned that I helped save the life of one of your clansmen, Angus MacGrath.”

  Fergus frowned and glanced at another man. “Angus, do you ken this woman?”

  She scanned the men standing about, expecting to see the man whose life she’d saved. Where was he? And why had he not stepped forward?

  “Nay.”

  She didn’t recognize the man who spoke. While he had the same dark hair as most of his other clansmen, he was fully-bearded and a decade older than the man she’d helped. She felt disoriented. He wasn’t Angus, unless there were two men named Angus in their clan, a definite possibility. “No, not him.”

  “I’m thinking she means Alasdair,” another man said.

  “What were his injuries?” Fergus asked her.

  “A large knot on his head, a broken toe, and several cuts. Did he make it back safely?”

  “Aye, by the skin of his teeth. That would be Chief MacGrath you’re speaking of. And grateful we are that you helped him.” Fergus gave a brief bow.

  “But he said….” As she’d suspected, he’d lied to her about who he was. Indeed, he hadn’t trusted her. But could she blame him?

  Six horses charged over the crest of the hill. Five riders sat in saddles and the sixth lay strung over his horse’s back.

  The men around her rushed forward to meet them, and the one who’d held her captive released her.

  “Campbell didn’t make it through the skirmish.” A bearded man in trews swung down from his saddle.

  “Nay!” Angus yelled and pulled the dead man from the horse.

  Gwyneth saw then that Campbell was very young, perhaps not yet twenty. Big, tough Angus held the young man’s body and sobbed.

  “His eldest son.” The burly man who still held Rory glared at her.

  “Oh, no,” Gwyneth whispered. Because of her, someone else had lost their life. A boy who had not yet had time to live his life.

  She rushed forward. “Are you certain he’s dead? I’m a healer. Let me examine him.”

  “He was stabbed through the heart.” A grim, middle-aged man snarled. “Do you think we don’t ken when someone is dead? All you Sassenachs think we Scots are daft.”

  His words struck her like stones. “Pray pardon.” She stepped back a respectful distance.

  Watching Angus grieve the death of his son was horrible enough. But when she imagined losing Rory in a like manner, she pressed a fist to her mouth to quell the agony. This was why they had to leave the Highlands. She did not want to be in Angus’s shoes ten years hence, grieving the loss of her son in some skirmish.

  Rory broke away from the man restraining him and ran to her. She knelt and hugged him tight. It could just as easily have been her or Rory who had died at the MacIrwins’ hand. Campbell had given his life for theirs.

  “Take her to the tower and see if the laird kens who she is. If he doesn’t, cut her throat,” bellowed the grim man who had spoken last.

  ***

  Gwyneth waited in the quiet, dreary great hall with Rory in front of her. She prayed Alasdair was the true name of the man she’d helped days ago. If not, she and Rory had no hope. One of the men who’d marshaled her and Rory to Kintalon Castle still stood behind them, a sword in his hand. The other man had disappeared up the spiral stone steps to find his laird.

  Fear constricted Gwyneth’s throat. Please let him be the MacGrath I know.

  The delicious scents of bacon and freshly baked oat bannocks drifted up from the ground floor kitchen, making her empty stomach rumble and ache, but she would willingly go hungry if only Rory could have some food.

  Sunrise gleamed through the small windows cut high into the thick stone walls. No fire yet burned in the fireplace—so massive a person could stand upright within. Only a few worn and faded tapestries depicting battle scenes served to decorate the austere walls. Instead of filthy rushes on the floor, clean rush-mats lay here and there. While they waited, servants and clan members entered to set up trestle tables for breakfast, casting a few curious glances her way.

  Many tense moments later, a man limped down the steps on a regal-looking cane, his kilt hastily pleated. With her first glimpse of his familiar face, she whispered a prayer of thanks and gripped Rory’s shoulders. She dared not even draw breath for several seconds.

  Laird MacGrath moved closer and gazed down into her eyes with solemn concern. “Are you well then, m’lady?”

  “Yes. I thank you.” She couldn’t help the unevenness of her voice that betrayed the rush of relief flooding through her.

  He glanced at the men behind her. “Aye, this is the woman who saved my life. Tell the others she and her son have safe haven here.”

  So overwhelmed was she by his words, she could not hear the other men’s response fo
r the blood pounding in her ears. She wanted to throw her arms around him in gratitude, press her face to his chest and cry her eyes out. But she would never demonstrate such a loss of control, no matter how drawn to him she was or how thankful for his compassion.

  She swallowed against the constricting emotion. “So, in truth, you are Laird MacGrath?”

  “Aye. But you may call me Alasdair. I found it necessary to lie to protect myself. I didn’t ken whether I could trust you or not.”

  “And you’re still not sure, are you?”

  A slight smile lit his eyes. “Nay. But I’m hoping I can.”

  His friendliness conspired to put her at ease, but she still had to be sure of his intentions. “You will not turn me over to Donald’s men, will you?”

  “Nay.” He frowned. “You didn’t turn me over to them. Why would I be doing anything less?”

  She gave a curtsey. “I thank you, my laird.”

  “I’m glad you and your son are here. I was hoping to see you again…to thank you once more for saving my life.” His intense midnight gaze held her. He’d looked at her thus before, days ago. Though he exuded male interest, there was naught insulting in it. Instead, she sensed deep-seated fascination, as if he were loath to glance away from her.

  Rory stood silent before her, staring up wide-eyed at Alasdair. She understood her son’s fascination and hero worship for she felt the same, though with a woman’s appreciation.

  “You are welcome, of course. I’m very sorry about Angus’s son,” she said.

  “As am I. I must go see to them. In the meantime, break your fast.” He motioned toward the trestle tables with benches where women were assembling food and wooden tableware.

  She curtseyed again. “I thank you.”

  He bowed. “Later, I’ll be wanting the whole story of how you came to be here.”

  Before he left, he spoke quietly to one of the women servants. She stared at Gwyneth and nodded.

  Seeming much too solemn for her satisfaction, Alasdair sent her one last glance and limped out on his cane.

  One of the youths of his clan had lost his life. Would he blame her for it?

  ***

  After breakfast, Rory played with the other children, while Gwyneth busied herself by assisting the servants clearing away the meal and working in the kitchen. Sunlight shining through two narrow windows near the vaulted stone ceiling and the lingering fragrance of oat bannocks helped calm her nerves. The plentiful food she’d eaten soothed her stomach.

  Though her eyes were scratchy with exhaustion and her muscles sore, she was too tense to sleep. Besides, no one had offered her a bed. Thankfully, they had allowed her to wash herself up a bit before breakfast and loaned her clean clothes. Her own had been covered in black mud from the moor.

  Making herself useful to the household was the only way to keep her worries, as well as her grief over losing Mora, at bay. But even washing the wooden bowls reminded her of her dear friend, because they had often shared this task.

  “What’s taking you so long, Sassenach?” the housekeeper, Mistress Weems, bellowed.

  Gwyneth glanced up at the rotund, middle-aged woman with her snarling face. Though no longer above the other woman’s social station, Gwyneth refused to be intimidated and met her gaze squarely. Weems glared for a moment, snorted, then barreled toward the other side of the kitchen.

  “Pay her no mind,” the girl beside her said. “She’s a right auld hag.”

  Gwyneth smiled at the girl. A kerch held her red hair back, but small locks curled about her face.

  “I’m Tessie.” She appeared to be three or four years younger than Gwyneth’s twenty-three years, and the kerch indicated her married state.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m Gwyneth.”

  “I ken it. Everyone’s talking of you.”

  Uneasiness crept in on Gwyneth. “What are they saying?”

  Tessie cast her a nervous glance. “That you’re English and an enemy MacIrwin.”

  “I am English, true, but not an enemy.” She couldn’t deny her distant blood link to the MacIrwins, but she could refuse to accept them as true family. “Anything else?”

  Tessie studied the bowl she was drying. “Well, some are saying if not for you traipsing onto MacGrath land, Campbell might yet live.”

  Gwyneth had feared as much. And indeed she carried a heavy weight of guilt for the boy’s death. “I wish he had never ridden into the skirmish. He was too young. I had no other choice but to come here. It was either flee to MacGrath holdings or be murdered by my own second cousin. I had to protect my son.”

  Tessie nodded. “I understand, mistress.”

  “Please, call me Gwyneth.”

  “As you wish.” Tessie’s smile disappeared when she glanced over Gwyneth’s shoulder. Heavens, what could be behind her?

  She turned to find Alasdair limping across the suddenly quiet kitchen. Goodness! What did he want? Given the servants’ reaction, she suspected he didn’t visit the kitchen very often, and his imposing form seemed out of place.

  His penetrating gaze touched upon her with much familiarity and connection. “I would have a word with you upstairs, Mistress Carswell,” he said in a formal but kind tone.

  “Very well.” She wiped her hands on her skirts and preceded him toward the spiral staircase. She felt all eyes boring into her, speculating what their laird wished to speak to her about in private. She prayed that whispered rumors would not start. The last thing she wanted was another scandal.

  “We shall talk in the library.” His voice echoed when they entered the empty great hall. His cane pecked along the stone floor as he kept pace beside her.

  Alone? In a private room? It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. She did. But there could be much speculation from the clan.

  How singular and strange this seemed, to be strolling along with such a handsome laird. She must remember her manners. “How are your toe, your head and your other injuries, Laird MacGrath?”

  “Please, I would have you call me Alasdair. My foot is mending by the day, and the lump on my head no longer causes me dizziness. As for the cuts, they no longer bleed.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “’Tis to your credit I’ve healed so quickly.”

  She started to argue, but they entered the library through an impressive carved oak door, and he closed it behind them. She glanced about in wonder at the book-lined room. The MacGrath clan must’ve indeed been more fortunate and prosperous than most. The musty scent of books reminded her of the small library in the manor house where she’d grown up. A moment of nostalgia transported her back to a time and place where she’d laughed with her sisters and read stories.

  Oh, if only she could read some of these books to Rory. She wanted to pull one from the shelf and leaf through it, but restrained herself.

  “What a lovely library,” she whispered.

  “My thanks. Do you read?”

  “Eh, yes.” Although she was revealing to him her former social station—because usually only the wealthy or the titled read—it could not be helped. Her mother had educated her and her sisters.

  “You may use it whenever you like.”

  “I thank you. I am teaching Rory to read.” She was also grateful he didn’t ask more questions about her past because they always led to the scandal. And that, he could not find out about.

  This room was smaller than the great hall here at Kintalon, and clearly a newer addition, with a lower ceiling and chairs and benches in groupings. Her toes itched, wanting to dig into the rich plushness of the Turkish carpet spread across the center of the floor. A small fire crackled in the fireplace, topped by a carved walnut mantel. She had not seen such luxury since she’d left England. This was a fitting place for a noble laird such as he was, certainly better than a byre.

  “Have a seat, if you please.” His voice was but a murmur in the cozy room.

  She chose a wooden chair and sat, focusing her attention on the business at hand. “How is Angus?�
�� Her heart ached for the poor man.

  “Bearing up. ’Tis no easy task to lose a son.” Alasdair sat across from her.

  “No, of course not.” Guilt gnawed at her vitals. “I cannot tell you how awful I feel about it. I suppose if I hadn’t come, Campbell would still be alive. It was my fault, I know, and your clan is right to blame me.” She simply prayed he could forgive her.

  “What?” He frowned. “This was not your fault, m’lady. And the clan doesn’t blame you.”

  She kept her mouth sealed tight, wishing that was the case but….

  “Do they?” he asked, his gaze sharpening.

  “I’m not certain. But if they do, I can see why. In truth, I had no other choice but to flee and come here. Donald and his men must have discovered that Mora and I had helped you. When I came back from gathering herbs, the day after you left, I found them burning our cottage.” Gwyneth’s throat closed up and her vision blurred, but she swallowed and continued, determined that everyone know how evil Donald was. “They stabbed Mora in the back and left her lying in the yard.”

  “By the saints. What a barbarian he is!” Alasdair blew out a long breath. “I am sorry.”

  His response gratified her and, she had to admit, surprised her. She could count on one hand the number of times a man had come to her defense. “I knew if any of them saw Rory or me, they’d kill us both.”

  “Of course. M’lady, I’m thankful you and Rory made it here safe and sound. Don’t blame yourself for Campbell’s death. ’Twas his choice to ride into the skirmish. He had trained for many years, since he was a wee lad, and was as prepared as he could be, for his age. Lives are oft lost in such situations. He was a warrior, and defending the clan his job.”

  She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she agreed.

  “In fact, I must blame myself for the trouble you’ve had.” His expression contrite, Alasdair studied the carved wooden handle of his cane, shaped like a falcon. “As I was crossing from MacIrwin land to MacGrath, they near caught me. I’d knocked out one of their men and borrowed a horse and sword. We had a wee skirmish. After that, I feared they’d backtrack me to your cottage.” His gaze locked onto hers. “I ken ’tis my fault Mora was killed, and I’m deeply sorry.”