My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  At any rate, he was far more generous than her father or her late husband had ever been, but discussing such matters did not seem appropriate. The atmosphere of the room already felt too intimate by far. She stood in a bedchamber, in the middle of the night, with a handsome man who dangerously lured her without even trying. One glance from him could draw forth the sensual side she tried to keep bound and hidden.

  Her son snoring in the bed, along with the pain in her arm, kept any shameful thoughts at bay.

  “Have a seat, m’lady, afore you fall down. You’re pale as a specter.” Alasdair motioned toward a chair, then paced to the door. “Where is Tessie?”

  Gwyneth sat. “I’ll wait for her. Please, you should go back to bed. It is late.”

  “Nay, I cannot sleep now anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I should’ve let Mistress Weems go years ago. She’s a right olkeyr.”

  Gwyneth wasn’t sure what an olkeyr was, but it didn’t sound pleasant.

  “She was in the employ of my father,” he continued. “I feared she wouldn’t be able to find another position at her age. I’ve a feeling she’s terrorized more than one of the maids.” He was silent for a long moment. “What she had Eileen do is unforgivable.”

  Unforgivable? Did he mean to have Weems killed? And Eileen—she’d practically been forced into her actions. In Gwyneth’s experience, men often judged women too harshly.

  “What will you do to them?” Surely he wasn’t the sort of man who would execute women for injuring someone.

  “Let them stay in the dungeon for a few days while they worry about what I might do to them. As for after that, I haven’t decided.”

  “I think Eileen is as much a victim as I am.” Gwyneth hoped he would show her some mercy, at least.

  “In a way, aye. But she should never have carried out the stabbing. She should’ve come to me instead of believing Weems. And if any of the other servants or clan members get it in their heads to stab someone, outside battle, they will know I’ll dole out a just punishment.”

  Tessie trotted into the room with the water and whisky, then upon seeing Alasdair, halted and bobbed a curtsy. “M’laird. Mistress, I’d have been here sooner, but I had to draw fresh water from the well.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Tessie helped her clean the wound again with the whisky. Gwyneth mixed the herbs with the water and applied a paste, and then a bandage, while Alasdair watched from the background. She could scarce believe he had so much interest in her wound. The concern in his eyes made her feel self-conscious. She was afraid his clan would notice and whisper speculations behind their hands. That was all she needed, to be the focus of another scandal.

  Once Tessie finished and left, Alasdair glanced into the corridor and spoke to the large, dark-haired man who waited there. “MacDade, you are to guard Mistress Carswell and her son. Don’t let anyone pass through this door without checking with me.”

  “Except Tessie,” Gwyneth said.

  “Aye, if you trust her.”

  “I do.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll be next door if you should need anything.”

  “Many good thanks, my laird.”

  He gave a brief bow, and his troubled gaze lingered on her until he closed the door between them.

  His kindness confused her. Was he simply repaying the favor since she’d helped save his life days ago? Or was it something else? She didn’t know how to interpret his actions. In her experience, men were only kind to women in the presence of others, or when they wanted something. Such had been the case in her parents’ marriage when she was growing up.

  Gwyneth paced to the bed and observed Rory sleeping. He looked pale and exhausted after the turmoil of the last few days. The dark circles beneath his eyes concerned her.

  She was not the least bit sleepy. The sharp pain in her arm remained strong.

  In the dim candlelight, she glanced around at the luxurious room. Green velvet curtains draped the bed. Indeed, the featherbed was the softest she’d ever touched. Rory had never slept on something so fine. If the man who’d sired him had taken responsibility, Rory would have slept on a bed soft as this from the time he was a tiny babe. And she would’ve been a marchioness. But such things were of no significance now.

  She shivered and climbed into bed. During the next few hours, sleep eluded her. Despite the extra blankets she piled on the bed, she only grew colder.

  ***

  “Laird MacGrath.”

  Alasdair roused from a fitful sleep he had just fallen into. Thin dawn light strained through the window.

  Trained as a warrior who had to be ready for battle at any moment, he sprang out of bed and bumped his sore toe against the floor. Pain shot up his leg. “Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!” he rasped, along with a few more words he wouldn’t utter in mixed company. “Aye, what the devil do you want?” he demanded of Busby when his breath returned.

  “Pray pardon, m’laird. MacDade says Mistress Carswell is worsening with fever.”

  “Damnation!” He pulled on trews and a shirt, grabbed his cane and hobbled into the corridor. “I should string Weems up for this,” he said between clenched teeth, pain still emanating from his abused toe.

  “Would you be needing some help with that?” Lachlan asked behind him.

  Alasdair turned. “Where have you been?”

  “In the village with Celine a good part of the night. I just heard what happened to Mistress Carswell.”

  Well, that didn’t surprise him. Lachlan was usually in the bed of one wench or another. Alasdair rapped on Gwyneth’s door. It inched open, revealing the wee lad standing there, big-eyed.

  “Good morrow, Rory. How’s your ma?”

  “She’s sick,” he said in a small voice.

  Leaning on his cane, Alasdair limped forward to the bed. Gwyneth shivered beneath the covers.

  “Not feeling well, m’lady?” As gently as he could, he touched her face. By the saints, she was burning up. He’d seen more than one person die of a fever, and he did not want to consider such a fate for his bonny Sassenach angel.

  “No,” she whispered on an uneven, intake of breath. “Would you have Tessie bring me willow bark steeped in hot water?”

  “Aye, that I will.” Thanks be to God, she was well enough to ask for whatever medicine she needed. He instructed MacDade to fetch Tessie along with the willow bark tea. Something could be done to help her and she would be well soon. Alasdair willed it to be so.

  Rory stood by, squirming. His wide blue gaze darted back and forth. The appearance of the tiny boy, so silent and alone reminded Alasdair of how he’d felt as a child when his own mother had been deathly ill.

  “Come here, lad.” If he couldn’t do anything right away to help Gwyneth, he’d do what he could for her son.

  Rory hung his head and crept forward.

  Alasdair bent, picked him up and held him on one arm. The lad weighed no more than a full-grown squirrel.

  “Don’t fash about your ma. She will be well soon.”

  Rory nodded and buried his face against Alasdair’s neck. He hoped to God the lad wouldn’t cry. He didn’t think he could abide it with a dry eye.

  Lachlan sent him a curious, lifted-brow look, along with a tiny grin.

  “Rory and I have been friends since I awoke mangled up in the cattle byre, have we not?”

  The child nodded and lifted his head to peer around with watery eyes. Saints, the lad near broke his heart.

  “Rory, this is my younger brother, Lachlan. He’s a right nice sort of fellow most of the time. But sometimes he’s a pain in the rump.”

  “Och. My thanks to you, dear brother,” Lachlan retorted.

  Rory allowed a tiny grin.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Rory.” Lachlan shook his hand.

  The lad averted his gaze, then glanced at the bed where his ma lay, worry again paling his face.

  “Lachlan knows a fair bit about swords, daggers, claymores and such, do you not, Lachlan?” Al
asdair asked.

  “Aye.”

  “’Haps you could show Rory your collection.”

  Lachlan frowned.

  “Rory has a fondness for such things.” He gave his brother a meaningful look.

  “Ah, very well then.”

  Alasdair set Rory on his feet. Lachlan took his hand and led him from the room. Lachlan looked right at home, leading the lad around. He had two sons of his own he carted about on occasion, when he brought them up from the village. Bastards to be sure, but Lachlan claimed them as his own and loved them.

  Alasdair turned back to the bed at the same time Tessie rushed into the room with the willow bark in hot water.

  “Good, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “M’laird.” Tessie gave a brief curtsy.

  “This will help her recover, I’m certain,” he said with the strongest conviction he could muster.

  The girl turned wide eyes on him. She looked no older than a child, herself. “I pray it will.”

  He nodded and forced himself to rebuild the fire when all he wanted to do was touch Gwyneth, hold her hand.

  “Here, Gwyneth, drink this,” Tessie whispered behind him.

  He prayed that another woman he was getting used to having around wouldn’t desert him.

  Chapter Six

  Gwyneth awoke with a start and a clear mind. Her sweat-dampened clothing clung to her skin. Overheated as if she lay in an oven, she shoved the covers down. Claws of soreness sank into every muscle of her body. She stilled, praying the pain would go away. Her gaze landed on the sole light in the room, the fire in the hearth. The faint but bitter scent of peat and wood smoke filled the room. Heavy rain blew against a glass window.

  Where am I?

  The glow from the flames revealed the carved bed draped in velvet. Alasdair’s guest room.

  She glanced aside and found him sitting in a chair by the bed. Good heavens! What was he doing here? All her muscles tensed with shooting needles of pain. Then she noticed his eyes were closed, and his head rested against the back of the chair. It reminded her of the eve she’d found him injured on the battlefield, passed out. Somehow, she’d known then he was an unusual man. A leader who craved peace had to be a caring man. She could never grow tired of looking at him. Long dark hair framed a ruggedly appealing face. His jaw clenched hard, and she thought she heard his teeth grinding together.

  But this was no romantic interlude. Danger and treachery lurked about everywhere, in her clan as well as this one. Someone here had tried to kill her after all. Ignoring the soreness, she sat up and glanced about. Rory wasn’t in bed beside her. Where was he? Maybe Tessie was watching after him. She slid toward the edge of the bed to find out.

  At her motion, the bed creaked.

  Alasdair awoke and straightened. “M’lady?” His gaze searched her face, then dropped to her arm. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.” She gently touched her injured arm. “But still sore. Where’s Rory?”

  “My cousin’s wife is caring for him. No need to worry. She’s very trustworthy.”

  “Good. I thank you.” A bit of relief eased her tense muscles.

  Leaning forward, he examined her closely in the dimness. “The fever is gone, then?”

  “Yes.” Tugging the coverlet up again in modesty, she realized she needed to change out of her sweat-drenched smock.

  Before she knew what he was about, he reached out and placed his hand on her forehead. He skimmed warm, raspy fingertips down to her cheek while his sharp, observant gaze searched her face. His frown remained in place a long moment.

  She forgot to breathe beneath the caring, yet seemingly desperate, ministrations of his hand.

  “Thanks be to God.” He shoved himself out of the chair and grabbed his cane. “Are you hungry?”

  Before she could answer, he wrenched open the door and bellowed a command to someone in the corridor. “Have Tessie bring porridge and milk.” He eased the door closed and sent Gwyneth a sheepish glance.

  Milk? What was she, a child? And his order had made the food sound like a life or death necessity. She hid a smile behind the coverlet and her drawn-up knees. She had never encountered a man such as Alasdair.

  He poked at the fire and added a bit of peat. Long moments passed while he stared at the flames, the only noise the popping of the sparks. Finally, her curiosity overcame her.

  “What are you doing in here?” Without doubt the clan would gossip about their chief’s highly unusual activity of caring for a sick woman of the enemy clan.

  He cast a dubious look over his shoulder. “Making sure you were recovering. Did you do any less for me?”

  She shook her head, remembering the night she’d lain in the byre beside him when he’d had a fever. Surely it wasn’t the same. She was a healer; he wasn’t. Had he applied a cool cloth to her hot forehead? She could not imagine it.

  He seemed intent on coaxing the fire into throwing off more heat, though the room was sweltering.

  “What of the two women in the dungeon?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t done something drastic.

  “They remain imprisoned,” he said in a hard tone. “I held off deciding their fates until I knew you lived.”

  A knock sounded at the door. When Alasdair opened it, Tessie entered with a tray of food.

  “I’ll be next door if you should need anything,” he said.

  She didn’t know whether she was glad or disappointed that he’d suddenly decided to take his leave.

  “I thank you,” she told him before he disappeared. “And I thank you as well, Tessie. You are a blessing.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m pleased to see you feeling better.” She set the wooden tray laden with food on Gwyneth’s lap. The delightful smells made her stomach grumble.

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to fetch me so many things.”

  “Nonsense. I would do naught less for a friend such as you are.”

  Gwyneth took a spoonful of the warm oat porridge. The slight sweet flavor surprised her. “Did you put honey in this?”

  “Aye. ’Tis the way the MacGrath eats his porridge. Do you like it?” Tessie plopped her thin frame down onto the chair by the bed.

  “It’s delicious.”

  The girl grinned.

  “How long did I sleep?”

  “Since early this morn when I gave you the willow bark. ’Tis now close to midnight. More than eighteen hours, you slept.” After glancing at the door, Tessie leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The MacGrath refused to leave your side, except for a few minutes at a time. He is fair taken with you.”

  Another type of fever washed over Gwyneth. She cleared her throat and stared into the cup of milk. “You must be mistaken.”

  Tessie giggled. “Nay. I’ve worked here in the castle for more than four years. He’s shown no interest in women since his wife. And believe me, more than one lass has tried to catch his eye.”

  Goodness. He’d said his wife had died two years ago, hadn’t he? He must have indeed loved his lady a great amount.

  “Please, tell me about her…his wife.”

  “Leitha was a right sweet lady with red hair and green eyes—a Lowlander. ’Twas a love match, you see. It near killed him when she died of the childbed fever.”

  Gwyneth’s heart ached when she envisioned such a scene. “How awful. Did the babe survive?”

  “Nay, the poor wee laddie.”

  “A tragedy. I’m so sorry to hear of it.” She couldn’t imagine what she would’ve done if she’d lost Rory during the birthing.

  “The MacGrath held up well afore the clan, but afterward he kept to himself much of the time. I’ve a feeling ’twas far harder on him than anyone kens.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Alasdair gave the impression of strength much like a mountain of stone. But he seemed to have a caring heart. “I’ve noticed how kind he is. Tell me, is he typical of the men in this clan?”

  Tessie shrugged. “Some people are kind and others are cruel, in
this clan as in others. My own Robbie is kind as well.”

  “I’m glad. ’Tis clear you have a love match.”

  She blushed and grinned. “Indeed. What of Rory’s father?”

  Gwyneth shook her head, thinking of two men—Rory’s natural father and Baigh Shaw. “He was a beast. I have not known any kind men in my lifetime.”

  “How sad. If anyone deserves kindness, ’tis you. And glad I am that Laird MacGrath is taking to you like honey bees to heather.”

  Gwyneth almost choked on the sip of milk she’d taken. She sputtered but finally swallowed. “I’m sure you’re overestimating his concern.”

  ***

  “We have to get Gwyneth Carswell back, along with her bastard,” Donald MacIrwin told Smitty, his sword bearer, as they leaned over the small table near the fireplace in the dim great hall of Irwin Castle. He kept his voice down, not knowing which of his clan might betray him. Donald thirsted for a mug of ale, but dared not consume too much, else they’d run out. The clan needed funds badly.

  “Aye, m’laird.” Smitty’s dark eyes gleamed like bits of coal.

  “Once Lord Darrow finds out his daughter is nay longer here, he’ll stop sending the payments. But I have a plan.”

  Months ago, a Sassanach lord named Southwick had sent him a missive telling him to send Gwyneth’s son Rory to him in London. Donald had ignored the demand, of course. He didn’t take orders from the damned English and besides, Lord Darrow’s money was useful to him. If the lad was nay longer here, Darrow might send less money for Gwyneth’s upkeep.

  But now maybe Donald could strike a bargain with Southwick. He could retrieve Rory himself…for a price. A very large price. Enough silver to support Donald and the clan for a few years at least. He didn’t care why Southwick wanted the lad, but he suspected the man was the lad’s natural father.

  “How will we get Gwyneth and her son back?” Smitty asked.

  Donald darted a glance around the great hall, making sure none of the busy-body maids were close by and lowered his voice. “A surprise attack. I want as many of the MacGrath clan dead as possible. An utter sacking, I tell you. Take all their cattle and sheep, along with Gwyneth and Rory. I want them unhurt, mind you. But we will torch the rest of them. Find the clerk and the messenger for me.”