My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  “Aye, m’laird.” Smitty headed across the great hall.

  Donald would have the clerk scribe a fancy missive to Southwick. The Englishman would be on his way here by the time they snatched the lad from MacGrath’s talons.

  ***

  Guilt tormented Alasdair though he sat in a peaceful place. Leitha’s flower garden was a walled, private spot to the side of the castle, with a gate, herbs and shrubs. The scent of roses surrounded him, reminding him of his late wife. But another woman, very much alive, occupied his thoughts.

  He’d tried to avoid Gwyneth for the last few days, but he knew she was healing. He’d noticed she had started using her arm.

  His carnal attraction to Gwyneth gnawed at his conscience, and was the reason he steered clear of her. When he was in her presence, he sometimes forgot about Leitha. Forgot he was supposed to be grieving her loss. “I’m sorry, Leitha,” he murmured. “I’m the worst sort of rogue.”

  An appealing scent caught his attention—the lemon balm plant that his leg was brushing against. He snapped a leaf from it and chewed it. Would it ease his grief as was rumored? At least the tangy citrus flavor was pleasant and refreshing.

  A soft summer breeze, like a gentle hand, touched his face and blew his hair back. After a time, a sense of peace settled in his chest.

  “Oh!” a feminine voice said behind him.

  Turning on the stone bench, he glanced over his shoulder and found a wide-eyed Gwyneth standing just inside the gate.

  “Pray pardon. I didn’t know you were here.” She turned away. “I won’t bother you.”

  “Nay. Come back.” Please.

  He was thankful for her recovery from the fever. The Almighty likely had not heard so many prayers from him in the past two years.

  Though at first she hesitated, Gwyneth came forward. “I thank you for showing mercy to Mistress Weems and Eileen.”

  Yesterday, he’d had the two women escorted miles away to Aviemore. “The world is surely a more dangerous place with those two loose in it, but I couldn’t have them roaming about the castle trying to kill you.”

  A faint grin lifted the corners of her lips. “I am much indebted to you for your protection. You are too kind.”

  He snorted. “I have never been called such afore, and I would thank you to keep it a secret. I have the reputation of being a fierce warrior.”

  “So, what are you, fierce warrior, doing sitting in a flower garden?”

  He smiled and savored the teasing glint in her eyes far more than he should have. “’Tis the only quiet place about.”

  “And beautiful.” Gwyneth’s light blue gaze darted over the pink, white and red flowers growing near the wall. “Sometimes I come out here for a breath of fresh air and to smell the roses.”

  He’d always found it the best place for reflection. “Are you fond of flowers, then?”

  “Yes. In England—” She pressed her lips closed, looking a bit shocked at herself, and glanced quickly away.

  “Go on,” he encouraged.

  “We had…a garden.”

  He waited for her to elaborate, and when she didn’t, he let it go. She didn’t trust him enough yet to talk of her past. How he wished she did. But trust was something he’d have to earn.

  She strolled to the wall where a climbing rose was secured against it, cupped a red blossom in her hand and buried her nose in it. “Ahh. I love roses.” She turned to him with a smile more beautiful than all the flowers gathered here. So tempting. She effortlessly drew him under her spell, against his will. And he found himself wanting to grin like a fool, but controlled the impulse.

  “So why do you have such a lovely garden? Was it your mother’s?”

  “’Twas my wife’s.”

  Gwyneth’s smile faded. “Oh, pray pardon. I shouldn’t have intruded. I’m sure you want time alone.”

  “Nay, I’d like it if you stayed. Truly.”

  Leitha, if you’re out there anywhere, looking down on us…this is Gwyneth. You would’ve liked her, I think. She saved my life.

  “Did she like roses, too?” Gwyneth asked, standing a few feet away.

  “Aye, she loved them. She’d wanted that particular rose to grow here. I sent one of the servants to the Lowlands to get it, but Leitha died before he returned. The servants planted the rose in the garden, then rooted another to plant by her grave at the kirk.”

  Gwyneth blinked quickly against the moisture that gathered in her eyes. “Oh. That’s so romantic.”

  He shook his head, denying any emotion. “Nay, I don’t have a romantic bone in my body. ’Tis only what she would’ve wanted.”

  Gwyneth glanced away and brushed a finger against her eyes.

  Her response touched him. She felt his loss. He didn’t know what to do with that realization, but he would like to hold her in his arms. Comfort her. Comfort himself.

  “The servants attend to the garden,” Alasdair said to distract himself from her. “Continuing Leitha’s work.” Some of the female servants knew how much it meant to him. But he would not have the men of his clan know. He was a warrior and a chief, and should not give flowers or women’s feelings a second thought.

  Nor, if he were wise, could he let another woman inside his heart. It would be too painful when she left him alone. The same had happened to his father. Alasdair’s mother had died when he was a child, and his father had spent the rest of his life alone. Such loss painted a dismal picture.

  “Tessie told me yours and Leitha’s was a love match.” Emotions apparently under control, Gwyneth sat on the other stone bench, opposite him, and cast a shy but curious glance his way.

  Too many keen-edged feelings stewed inside him, and not wanting Gwyneth to see them, he dropped his gaze to the carved falcon’s head on the wooden handle of his cane. “Aye, I did grow to love her. We met at a banquet one night at the home of a friend in the Lowlands.”

  “Did you offer for her hand right away?”

  “The next day.”

  “Sounds like a romantic legend.”

  He shrugged, dismissing such sentiment. “In truth, ’twas for practical reasons. I needed a wife and an heir. The romance didn’t last long. She died giving birth to our son a year later. And the wee bairn with her.”

  Gwyneth came forward, sat on the stone beside him and clasped his hand in hers. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and filled with sympathy.

  “I should be getting over it by now.” He stared at his large hand in Gwyneth’s small, cool ones, then turned one of hers over and brushed the palm. Her hands were not like Leitha’s. Gwyneth’s were near rough and calloused as his own. Work worn. It wasn’t right. She was a lady, and she should have a lady’s smooth hands. Despite this, he hungered for her touch upon his deprived skin. Stroking, caressing, coaxing this simmering ember to life within him.

  When he thought of kissing her hand the way Lachlan had, something within him riveted and burned with a flickering heat. Aye, he should—he would love to—but he feared he couldn’t stop with her hand.

  She closed her fingers and pulled away. “Nonsense. We never forget the pain of losing those we love.”

  His fingers ached with her desertion. He had not realized how lonely and deprived he was until that moment.

  “You ken the pain of loss, too, for you lost your husband.” The murdering bastard. Had she loved him? In truth, it shouldn’t matter, but Alasdair wanted to learn more of their association.

  “Yes, I know something of loss.” Gwyneth stood and paced toward the bed of herbs a few yards away. Her action was nothing less than what he’d expected.

  “What about you and Shaw? Was that a love match as well?”

  “Heavens, no.” She shook her head. “Not at all. My cousin arranged the whole thing.”

  Tension he hadn’t realized he’d been feeling released him. His shoulders relaxed. “Why would you, an English lady, marry a course Highlander, and one who isn’t a chieftain at that?” He had to know
. But would she answer? She hadn’t admitted to being a member of the aristocracy, but he knew from her manner and speech she had to be.

  A long tense moment of silence followed. “Well, ’tis a long story, and I wouldn’t want to bore you.” She faced him. “I would ask another favor of you, Laird MacGrath.”

  “Alasdair, please,” he corrected, loath to admit that he wanted to hear his name from her lips.

  “Alasdair, I know you will grow tired of providing food and shelter for me and my son before long.”

  How could she say such a thing? “Nay, you are both welcome to stay here as long as you like. I have the room, and you both eat like wee birds.”

  “I thank you, but I do not wish to impose. I’ve been thinking I would like a position as a governess or tutor for some wealthy family in the Lowlands or in England. I thought perhaps you might know of someone who could use my services. I would need to take Rory with me, of course. I have no references, but if you could provide some sort of character reference or letter of recommendation, I would be deeply indebted to you.”

  He wished he could employ Gwyneth. If his son had lived, he would’ve one day needed a governess. Aside from that, he didn’t want Gwyneth and Rory to leave. In such a short time, he’d grown fond of the lad. As for Gwyneth, he could not yet begin to fathom the impact she was having on his life. She’d saved his life, helped him heal. That was only the beginning. But now…seeing her never failed to shine more light into his day. In the most crowded of rooms, the great hall, his gaze always found her, singled her out as if she were the only person in the room.

  “Would you be willing to help me find a position?” She pulled him from his musings.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Another idea came to him. “I ken ’tis beneath you, but I have need of someone to oversee and organize the maid servants, now that Weems is gone. I’d pay you well, of course. Would you be willing to help out in that way in the meantime?”

  “I’d be glad to.” Her sincere and direct gaze lit on his for a moment then slid away. “But it would only be temporary until you find someone else, because I would prefer a governess position away from the Highlands.”

  “I understand.” But he didn’t have to like it. “I’ll send some letters out.”

  “You will?” She seemed much too pleased.

  “You’re surprised that I would help?”

  Her gaze drifted to the flowers. “You are a kind man. Not like my cousin Donald.”

  “You asked for his help, and he refused, didn’t he?”

  “Indeed.”

  What a bastard the MacIrwin was. “Well, I don’t ken your family’s situation. Mayhap he had a reason to want to keep you on his lands.”

  She frowned and jammed her fists onto her hips. “That’s it. My father.”

  “And who would he be?” Alasdair was glad for the opportunity to ask.

  “’Tis of no importance.”

  “Is it now? Somehow I doubt that. I suspect your father is someone of much import.”

  Gwyneth shrugged. “I would wager—had I anything to wager—that my father is paying Donald to keep me.”

  “Why would he?”

  “I’d rather not say, but I’m sure Donald would’ve wanted something for his trouble. Oh, men!” She thumped her foot against the stone-paved ground and turned away. “I detest every last one of them.”

  Alasdair snorted. “’Tis saddened I am to hear that you detest me, as well.”

  She halted by the rock wall and sent him a sheepish glance. “I didn’t mean you.”

  “And what am I, then? A wee hare?”

  In the glow of sunset, her blush deepened. “Hardly.” A stiff, refreshing breeze off the loch pulled strands of hair from the knot at the back of her head.

  He rose and limped forward on his cane. His gaze traveled over the tall rock wall, toward the mountains and the setting sun obscured by pink and orange clouds, but his full attention locked on this mesmerizing woman.

  Gwyneth.

  He passed her name through his thoughts a hundred times a day. He wanted to say her name, whisper it into her ear. But that would imply an intimacy they didn’t share.

  In that moment, the sharp urge to kiss her burst through his defenses. Her small yet full lips were dark-pink and moist. Last night he had dreamed of kissing her, and a lot more—removing her clothing, stroking his lips over every inch of her soft skin, sliding fully into her tight, wet depths. He had wakened hot and aroused as he had not been in years.

  “What would you do, m’lady, if I kissed you?”

  Her wide-eyed gaze flew to his, and she stepped back.

  Aye, retreat if you ken what’s good for you.

  He was strong enough to resist her allure, but he didn’t want to. Not anymore. Damnation, he’d tried. But each day she stole more and more of his attention, until finally his nights were filled with those heated dreams, and his days with scorching fantasies. He was a chief with no interest in leading at the moment.

  Slowly, he moved toward where she stood with her back to the wall. Arms crossed, she watched him warily for a moment as if he were going to attack her. She didn’t know him very well at all, did she?

  He propped his cane up, placed his arm on the wall beside her and leaned casually, close to her. Closer than was proper. Her womanly essence sent his thoughts scattering. “Gwyneth, I wonder, have you ever had a kiss that near took your breath away?”

  Her cheeks reddened even more.

  “I confess, just the thought of kissing you the way I would like does that to me.”

  She swallowed hard and stared at the ground, then at the gate as if she might make a mad dash for it. But she didn’t. “Oh, you are…unseemly.” Her whispered chastisement sounded more breathless excitement than offended shock.

  “Aye. That I am. I have sinful thoughts about you at night, in my bed,” he whispered.

  Her breath came out in a rush against his throat. Heat and chills chased over his skin and his erection tingled and tightened, hard as the stone wall.

  He exhaled against her forehead. “God help me, Gwyneth, I want to taste your skin.” Kiss you, lips to ankle and back again, lick you in dark, forbidden places. Get drenched by your desire while you surround me and hold me tightly so deep inside you. Wrap yourself around me and moan my name.

  “Good heavens,” she whispered.

  “Are you wanting that, too?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then drew back slightly. “Gwyneth?”

  She glanced up, her normally light eyes turned dark, her lips parted. Though it might be sacrilege, he thanked Heaven for female lust. She slipped her hand around his neck. Taking that as the signal he needed, he captured her lips.

  She tasted of salvation and damnation at once. No woman had ever lured him to forget who he was…forget his past, his future, and fill him with the need to have her no matter the cost to his soul.

  She was more delicious than the sweetest comfit. She was honey and cream he wanted to lap up like a famished cat. He hardened so fully, dizziness snatched his equilibrium. He could not help but pull her to him, his hands at her waist dropping, caressing her derriere through the petticoats, no farthingale to hamper his progress. His fingers ached to tug up her skirts, to caress the softest skin, wet, hidden female places.

  Alasdair’s kiss was unlike anything Gwyneth could’ve expected. Never had anyone kissed her in such a fierce-tender, devouring way. The shameless movements of his tongue, flicking into her mouth, shocked her and awakened her to each tiny detail of him. He tasted faintly of lemons, delicious and tangy, and she savored him.

  A moan rumbled from his throat. “Mo dia.” A curse or prayer, she wasn’t sure which.

  Tingling heat covered her body and moisture gathered between her legs. By the saints! This was worse—far more sinful than anything she’d ever done, because she exulted in it. The sheer sumptuousness of his mouth obliterated all else.

  Her ac
hing nipples rubbed the hard muscles of his chest. And his hands, good lord, the places he caressed. And then she felt him—his aroused shaft stroked her belly, pressed firmly against her, as if begging to be inside. She ached. His kilt and her own threadbare skirts were almost as nothing between them. Instinct urged her to pull him down to the ground, atop her. Inside her.

  She gasped, shocked at her response to him. What her father had said was true—she was a harlot, easily seduced when the right words were whispered in her ear. And Alasdair knew the perfect ones.

  She jerked away from him.

  In the gloaming, his face was flushed, his eyes black as midnight, his breathing unsteady. She had always thought his eyes had a sensual, lustful look about them. Now, that was multiplied a hundred times. Undoubtedly, he was a man made for the bedchamber. A man who knew everything about seducing a woman and rendering her helpless under his lascivious spell. A woman such as herself would be doomed in his presence.

  “I must go.” She ran back toward the door of the castle.

  ***

  That night, the soothing rhythm of Gwyneth’s clear, animated voice mesmerized Alasdair, as it did his clan. Days ago, she’d started telling Rory and one of the other lads a story of great adventure, but within a few days she’d lured all the children. And now the bigger part of his clan, young and old, had gathered around her in the great hall after supper to hear these fantastic tales they’d never heard before—obviously English, or perhaps she’d made them up herself to amuse her son.

  Her descriptions of the unusual landscapes her characters passed through and their funny adventures were indeed spellbinding.

  What he’d found even more enthralling was her kiss. It was a good thing she’d pulled away. He might have taken her there, against the stone wall, with no protest from her. Indeed, she had been an active participant, tugging him closer, teasing his tongue with her own. Saints! A passionate woman was a wondrous treasure. Thinking of how she had kissed him with a hunger that increased his own now made him hard with need.