My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  It had been far longer than he wanted to admit since he’d been with a woman. He’d smothered his natural desires beneath his grief and his duty of leading and overseeing the clan. Apparently, his desires were awakened in full now and demanding release. But he could not pursue this with Gwyneth. He could not dishonor her.

  He turned away from the sound of her seductive voice and strode upstairs onto the battlements. The cool night wind blew his hair back from his face. He released a pent-up breath and drew the fresh air in deep.

  The high-pitched skirl of bagpipes echoed through the darkness from the village. Beautiful and haunting, the hymn reminded Alasdair of his father’s funeral. The pain and confusion that came with becoming the clan’s new laird was something he had finally overcome. But the grief he had not forgotten. Of course, all his life he’d known he would one day be laird, but he had not expected to be so young, twenty-three, when it happened.

  He had promised himself he would avenge his father’s murder, but he hadn’t been able to. He hadn’t told all of his clansmen who the murderer was. They simply blamed it on the MacIrwins, Donald in particular. Not long after his own father’s death, Shaw had been killed in a skirmish with the Kerrs.

  The matter was finished, but it didn’t seem so. Donald, along with Baigh’s two grown sons, had been with him that day. Accomplices. No, Alasdair didn’t want revenge against them, but he considered them the lowest of common criminals.

  He was sure Gwyneth had nothing to do with his father’s death, but he couldn’t remove certain images from his mind—images of her and her vile husband together.

  “What are you doing out here moping? Did you grow tired of the fairy’s tale?” Lachlan chuckled.

  He turned, surveying his brother’s amused and carefree expression. He envied him that. “I’m but thinking.”

  “’Tis the lady that’s put you in this glum mood.”

  The truth of that prickled like a thistle in his plaid. “There is naught wrong with my mood.”

  Lachlan snorted. “I saw the way you were watching her. Like a juicy red apple just out of your reach.”

  Alasdair flicked a glare at his meddlesome brother. “’Tis hard to ignore someone who has bewitched the whole of our clan.”

  “Including you, first and foremost.”

  “As I recall, you were not immune to her charm.”

  Lachlan snickered. “I’m not immune to any wench’s charm.”

  Nor were they immune to him. The lasses from miles around were in love with him. Alasdair had never had time for such frivolities. Nor did he now. Best to put Gwyneth from his mind.

  “Are you certain you can trust her? She is, after all, a relation of the MacIrwin,” Lachlan said in a more serious tone.

  “It matters not. I’m helping her as she helped me. ’Tis all.” But indeed he did trust her, no matter her clan connection.

  “’Tis time you were looking for another wife.”

  Alasdair lifted a brow, determined to remove the focus from himself. “You’re one to talk.”

  “I’m not the earl and chief, and don’t need a legitimate heir. But you do. An heir, and a spare. And a few wee lasses.” Lachlan grinned.

  In truth, ’twas what Alasdair yearned for so badly his chest ached. Children and a cherished wife. But he shrugged it off. “If I don’t, the clan has plenty of other lads who can step up and be chief one day. ’Haps one of yours if you marry.”

  “Ha!” Lachlan shook his head. “I’ll never marry. Besides, Da would’ve wanted the next chief to be your son.”

  “I’m certain he would’ve approved of either.”

  Lachlan had never been in love and therefore had never had his heart ripped from his chest even as he stood helplessly by and watched the life drain from his wife and child.

  Alasdair did not possess the strength to endure it again.

  ***

  That night Rory was sleeping with Alasdair’s cousin’s family in the village, with whom he’d stayed while Gwyneth was sick. She trusted them completely, and Rory had made friends with their sons.

  Lying on the soft featherbed, Gwyneth wondered what Alasdair was doing in the bedchamber next to hers. Was he sleeping? She couldn’t. Her imagination worked overtime.

  She could hardly believe the shocking and seductive words he had said to her. I have sinful thoughts about you at night, in my bed.

  What sort of thoughts, precisely? And was he having them now? Her heart rate escalated.

  Remembering the firmness of his lips on hers, she re-experienced his kiss in the darkness. She craved his taste, the hard press of his powerful body against hers. Never had a kiss been so intoxicating and delicious, like wine infused with herbs and honey—sweet, warm and citrusy. She smiled against her pillow, then traced her overly-sensitive lips with her fingertip.

  She recalled the sound of his deep voice murmuring in her ear. Gwyneth, I wonder, have you ever had a kiss that near took your breath away? Oh heavens, yes, his kiss had done that and more.

  She could easily imagine lying in his big cozy-looking bed she’d sat beside several nights ago. The best part would be his hard-muscled body next to hers, his skin heating hers, his mouth and hands doing wicked but exquisite things to her.

  Energy tingled through her body, as if she’d been standing a bit too close to a lightning strike. What had Alasdair done to her?

  She must have slept…and dreamed. The images before her and the lustful sensations possessing her body couldn’t have been real life. She had never experienced such carnal indulgences before—not at her promiscuous downfall nor during her hellish marriage. Those were mere gray pebbles compared to the diamond-like sensations that sparkled through her at Alasdair’s touch.

  Loud shouts and running footsteps woke Gwyneth from her restless dreams. The fire had gone out in the hearth, casting the room in cool darkness. She jumped up, crept to the door and opened it a crack. She couldn’t understand the shouts of alarm coming from the great hall, but something was terribly wrong. Even MacDade, her guard, was gone.

  Gwyneth yanked on her petticoats, skirts and arisaid over her smock and crammed her feet into her leather slippers. She strode along the dark corridor and down the steps. In the great hall, the women servants scurried back and forth.

  She spotted Tessie and hastened to catch up. “What’s happened?”

  The young woman turned panic-stricken eyes on her. “’Tis the MacIrwins. They’re burning the village.”

  A sickening chill shook her. “Rory’s down there!”

  Tessie’s face blanched and tears glistened in her eyes. “Oh, Gwyneth,” she whispered and shook her head.

  No! Something deep inside Gwyneth screamed. Denial blocking out all other thoughts, she dashed out the door and down the stone steps into the barmkin.

  “Gwyneth!” Tessie chased after her as she ran mindless toward the gate. “You cannot go down there.”

  No one would dare keep her from it. She stopped at the gate and faced Tessie. “I must go get Rory. Where’s Laird MacGrath?”

  “With the men, of course, fighting.”

  “Is he a lunatic? His foot is not healed.”

  “’Twould surprise me if he is not at the forefront. ’Tis his way.”

  “Open the gate!” she told the guard. Resolve tightened her muscles.

  “You’re forbidden to leave. The MacGrath’s order.” The large, battle-scarred warrior stood firm.

  “Some of the men are in charge of bringing people up here from the village,” Tessie said. “Maybe Rory’s here.”

  Could it be possible? Hope making her lightheaded, Gwyneth glanced back, searching in desperation among the villagers milling about the barmkin. But she didn’t see Rory or the family he was staying with.

  Beyond the iron gate, fires blazed in the distance, lighting up the pitch black night. She closed her eyes and the screams of the villagers reached her ears. A shudder of revulsion and terror ran through her.

  Gwyneth’s throat tightened
and she feared she might be sick and burst into hysterical sobs at the same moment. But she gathered her strength. “Let me pass! I must get my son.”

  “Nay!” the guard bellowed, his scowl and thick beard giving him an intimidating look.

  “I beg you to stay here.” Tears streamed down Tessie’s face.

  Gwyneth didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred. She swiped the tears away and tried to think logically. How could she slip past the guard?

  A group of armed men and villagers, including women and crying children, approached the gate outside. Soot and smoke blackened their faces and clothing.

  Please let Rory be among them.

  The guards motioned her and Tessie back as they admitted the villagers. Gwyneth searched each face.

  She was devastated to see none of the four children who’d arrived was Rory. Making a desperate decision, Gwyneth ran through the gates before they swung closed.

  The guard shouted behind her, and Tessie screamed out her name, but Gwyneth didn’t look back. She would find her precious child.

  Chapter Seven

  Alasdair rode hell-bent between the burning cottages of the village. Acrid smoke stung his eyes and congested his lungs. The intense heat seared his skin. In the bright light from the flaming thatch roofs, he searched for the thrice-cursed MacIrwins.

  He would see Donald pay for this as he had never paid before. Alasdair had let things go on far too long—the murders, the ambushes. And now this, killing the innocent people of his clan…women and children.

  No more. No mercy for the MacIrwins.

  He prayed for rain to pour from the cloud-filled sky and death to all the murdering MacIrwin men.

  He’d dispatched five of the enemies thus far himself. His men had taken out several more.

  Most of the villagers had gone to the relative safety of the barmkin and tower. But some had already lost their lives in either the fires or the battle.

  His cousin Fergus approached on horseback. “The MacIrwin wants Mistress Carswell and her son back,” he shouted. “He claims we’ve taken them hostage.”

  Alasdair faced him, his rage escalating. “That hell-hated bastard! He will kill them if he so much as sets eyes on them. I would never make them go back.”

  Fergus wheeled his horse and charged a MacIrwin approaching from behind.

  Pounding hooves and a war cry shot toward Alasdair from the shadows.

  Determination rushing thorough his veins, he tugged on his mount’s reins and turned about to meet the threat, head-on. The horse reared and near unseated him. He wrestled the temperamental animal under control just in time to strike out. The blade of the MacIrwin warrior clashed against his own.

  Alasdair slashed and thrust. His spooked horse reared again, catching him off guard. He toppled over the horse’s hindquarters, slammed against the stony ground but maintained a hold on his sword. Damnation! Though the pain in his hip near blinded him, he scrambled out of the path of the MacIrwin’s horse.

  Lachlan stormed into the fray, engaging the enemy and running him through.

  “Are you all right, brother?” Lachlan called over the roaring fires of the cottages.

  “Aye, just busted my arse.” Coughing, he rose and turned about in search of his horse. He could hardly see through the smoke and brightness of the flames.

  “You should return to the tower! You’ve scarce recovered from the last skirmish,” Lachlan said.

  “You’re wasting your breath, mother hen.”

  Riding away, Lachlan found Alasdair’s horse, slapped it on the rump and sent it trotting to him.

  Once mounted, Alasdair cursed at the fresh wave of MacIrwins invading the village, on foot and horseback, slashing at anything that moved.

  “Murdering bastards!” Alasdair gripped his basket-hilted sword and joined Lachlan to fight beside him.

  ***

  Shaking and almost out of breath, Gwyneth approached the village from the shadows. The roaring of the flames chilled her to the core. How many had already died in the fires? How could Donald do such horrid things?

  Heaven help me, if Rory dies, I’ll personally kill Donald myself, even should his men strike me down after I do the deed.

  She’d been to the cottage where Rory was staying once and hoped she could find it again. But, dear heavens, all the cottage roofs were on fire.

  The heat singed her skin. The bitter smoke choked her. Coughing, she yanked her plaid over her head and pulled the small dagger from her bodice.

  Her attention ahead, her foot caught on something. Saints! A fallen warrior…three of them. Whispering a prayer, she skirted around them.

  Near the first burning cottage, two men on horseback broke into a sword-slashing duel. Sparks popped off their clashing blades.

  She circled back and approached from the rear. In the light from the fires, she now saw that one of the men was Alasdair, his smoke-blackened face a mask of fury.

  “Dear God, protect him,” she whispered.

  Alasdair’s injuries of a few days ago hadn’t slowed him down. He skillfully parried and thrust against his opponent.

  A tiny child ran screaming from behind the row of cottages near her and blindly headed toward the fighting warriors. A surge of strength jolted Gwyneth. She darted forward and snatched the child from the ground. He wasn’t Rory, but he was someone’s baby.

  A MacIrwin foot soldier wielding a two-handed sword, chased the child, quickening his pace when he noticed Gwyneth. Skin prickling, she dashed in the opposite direction, toward the tower.

  I have to get Rory.

  Halting, she glanced back at the same moment Alasdair struck his mark, his sword sliding with deadly accuracy into the mounted MacIrwin clansman’s chest. The man shouted and toppled from his horse.

  The other beast, chasing her on foot, shouting taunts in Gaelic, and waving his claymore about, didn’t let up.

  Clutching the wriggling child, she faced forward and ran. She would take him to the tower and come back to search for Rory, if she could get this barbarian off her heels. Hooves clattered on the earth behind her. A hoarse battle cry erupted, blades clashed.

  Afraid she’d stumble and fall on the rocks, Gwyneth could spare no time to glance back. The sound of a blade slicing against bone met her ears, followed by a man’s scream. She cringed.

  “Go to the tower and stay there!” a man yelled. Was that Alasdair’s voice?

  She stopped and turned. The villain who’d been pursuing her lay in a heap on the ground.

  “Gwyneth? Is that you?” Alasdair rode closer on his big black warhorse. “God’s teeth, woman! Get inside the gates and don’t come back down here!” His hair hung wild about his soot-blackened face, and his fierce expression brooked no argument.

  “I must find Rory! He was with your cousin, Colin, and his wife.”

  “I sent Rory to the tower with Fergus some time ago, along with Colin’s family.”

  Gwyneth almost sank to her knees in relief. “Is he well?”

  “Aye. Go back. Now!”

  “I thank you. God keep you,” she called out, though it was pitifully little and did not convey what she wanted to say. She wished to drag him off his horse and bring him back to the safety of the tower with her.

  “Don’t worry. Now go!”

  She turned and climbed the road up the hill even as the first drops of cool rain fell. When she glanced back, he was still watching her, guarding her.

  Once she was inside the gates, Alasdair wheeled his horse about and galloped away.

  May God protect him.

  Still carrying the screaming child, she glanced about for Rory inside the barmkin. The summer rain shower increased, drenching her and everyone around her in a chilly downpour.

  “Rory!” Gwyneth called. Alasdair had said Rory was here, so he had to be. But where?

  “Och, wee Kean!” An elderly woman approached Gwyneth and gently took the child from her arms. “Thank you, mistress.” Rain washed through the soot on the
woman’s wrinkled face.

  “You’re welcome. Do you know Rory? Have you seen him?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “He was with Colin and Grace.”

  “Mayhap inside the castle.”

  Gwyneth raced up the spiral tower steps. How had she missed Rory’s arrival?

  In the great hall, women, children and elderly men moved about or sat on benches. Her gaze searched each child’s face.

  “Ma! Ma!” Rory, soot-covered and ragged, dashed toward her.

  Thank you, God. She dropped to her knees in relief and caught her precious child in her arms. “Oh, Rory. Sweetheart, I’m glad you are well.”

  Now, if only Alasdair were safe too.

  ***

  Hours later, Alasdair stood beside his horse on a small rise, overlooking the village and the activity there. He and his men had cleared the area of live MacIrwins, but several dead ones remained. Their bodies would need to be returned to their clan.

  Though Alasdair had lost only two of his own fighting men in the skirmish, the loss was great to him. And he didn’t yet know how many of the villagers had perished. Each member of his clan was family, whether by blood or friendship.

  He still couldn’t believe Gwyneth had been in the village—damn her daft hide—right in the midst of the fighting. He should string up the guards for allowing her beyond the walls. And he’d rake her over the coals as well. Of course, nothing would hold her back from saving the life of her son. Thank God she hadn’t gotten herself killed, and Rory was safe, too.

  The first rays of orange dawn light shone above the high mountains on the horizon. Exhaustion weighing his sore, overworked muscles, Alasdair craved to do naught more than collapse in his bed, but he well knew he would get no sleep for a while.

  The belated rain had helped douse some of the fires, but all that remained of most of the cottages were the thick rock walls and trails of smoke drifting toward the purple-gray sky. The flames had quickly devoured the thatch roofs, which then caved in and burned everything inside the cottages. The villagers had lost nearly everything they possessed of material value.

  Various sheep, goats and cattle milled about the cluttered and muddy dirt street. It would take a tremendous amount of work to put the village back to rights. But some things could never be replaced.