My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  Before she turned her attention to the bread again, she caught sight of Alasdair standing just inside the door, watching her. Her pulse skittered like a startled rabbit and she pretended to ignore his progress in their direction.

  Her hands were a bit unsteady on the knife handle as she continued her chore. She had not talked privately to him since the library incident. Well, truly, it wasn’t an incident. It was an indulgence. One she must not fall into again.

  “Padraig, how’s the arm?” Alasdair asked in a boisterous tone.

  “’Tis improving, m’laird. I was just telling Mistress Carswell about the time the demon cow run my two brothers and me to ground.”

  “Indeed? I wish I could’ve seen that.” Alasdair’s gaze upon Padraig was not as friendly as it should’ve been. The silence between the two men extended and the tension thickened. Pretending not to notice, Gwyneth continued with her task. Slice, slice.

  Padraig cleared his throat. “Well, then. I must find Sweeney. Pray pardon.” He bowed and ambled away.

  Gwyneth glanced up at Alasdair and lifted a brow. Men. Could they do naught but compete in everything they did?

  She tried to pretend their kiss of a few nights ago hadn’t happened. A kiss and a bit more. Do not think of it. He had seemed to be avoiding her the past few days.

  “Glad I am to see you here.” The tightness had not left his face.

  She tried to think of something intelligent, yet not flirtatious, to say. “I never thought I’d be serving food in an alehouse, but in this case it seems innocent enough.”

  Alasdair’s expression lightened. “Aye. No carousing today.”

  Gazing into his dark eyes was like food for her soul, but she must not overindulge even in that small pleasure.

  A thick post blocked them from most of the others in the large room and created a sense of privacy. Her awareness of him intensified. He smelled of fresh wood shavings, a few of which still clung to his kilt.

  “But we’ll be carousing during Feill Sheathain a week hence. Midsummer’s Eve or St. John’s Day to you Sassenachs.” He grinned. “’Haps even a lady such as yourself will let down her hair.”

  Good lord, the celebration was certain to be pagan…and beyond scandalous. She had been excluded from festivities while a part of the MacIrwin clan. Donald’s idea of a celebration involved him and his soldiers, food and drink, and all the whores they could find. The common people of the clan were suppressed and barely given enough food to survive, even though they were the ones who did all the work.

  “I do not think so, Laird MacGrath. I’m not much for that sort of thing.”

  “Well, you should be.” He turned his head sideways and gazed down at her. “There is a time to mourn and a time to celebrate. We should throw ourselves wholly into each when the time comes. ’Tis a part of living. If we don’t enjoy life when given the chance, then the chance may never come again.”

  His words sounded sage enough. She longed to live her life fully and enjoy it. But she didn’t know how. Her circumstance for the past few years had been too uncertain.

  In the next instant, Alasdair stepped in close behind her, and her awareness of him shot upward like a flaming arrow. His breath warmed her ear, and he brushed his lips across her temple. “Don’t be afraid of living, Gwyneth.”

  Chills shimmered through her body. The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered on the table beside the bread.

  Oh, good lord. Don’t do this to me, Alasdair. Don’t turn my body into a traitor.

  He pulled back a few inches, slid something behind her ear and stroked a finger down the sensitive skin of her neck.

  “What is…?” Her words trailed off on a breath. She inhaled the scent of wild roses even as she removed the smooth stem from behind her ear. A simple white rose with only a few petals and yellow stamens in the center. Emotion caught in her throat. Alasdair. She closed her eyes and pressed her nose to the flower, letting its lavish scent and his sweetness wash over her.

  “I thank you,” she whispered, not daring to let him see the moisture in her eyes.

  He stepped back. “Och! Rory, what are you doing down there?”

  Her son peered up at them from beneath the tablecloth. His hair stuck out in all directions, and his curious, wide-eyed gaze darted back and forth between them.

  Alasdair chuckled. “You have the look of a wee hedgehog about you, lad.”

  Rory grinned and crawled out. “I saw a badger yesterday.”

  “Did you now? What did he look like?” Alasdair winked at her before they strolled away, Rory talking as fast as his tongue would move.

  Gwyneth exhaled, releasing the tension and savoring the affection he conjured in her. After sniffing the rose once more, she slipped it into her pocket. She would not have anyone wondering what she was doing with a rose behind her ear, or what secret person might have given it to her. Feeling overheated of a sudden, she wished for a hand fan.

  Straightening her spine, she picked up the knife and continued slicing the bread, though her hands were less steady than before.

  I cannot allow him to weaken me with a rose…with his teasing touches and hot breath, whispering in my ear. I must remain strong at all costs.

  Nothing but trouble would follow if she did lose her head. And though he was kind, he was a man like all others, interested in bedding whoever was willing and available…and caught his fancy. It was simply the way of men to pursue their baser sensual instincts.

  Well, she was neither willing nor available.

  Truly, I am not! I will not think of him anymore.

  ***

  “My lord, a messenger from Scotland is here to see you.”

  Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick glanced up at his footman who bowed then straightened. Messenger from Scotland? Could it be that the MacIrwin barbarian was finally heeding his request?

  “Show him into the library and wait with him. We don’t want him to stuff his pockets with trinkets, now do we?”

  “No, my lord. As you wish.” He bowed again and retreated.

  Southwick smiled. He’d written months ago to that damned MacIrwin, inquiring about his son. Finally, a response. He’d never met his son, nor did he know his name, but he would soon. This was the only son he’d ever have, so he had no choice but to find him. All he had to do now was figure out how to make him legitimate. But first he had to gain custody of him from his whore of a mother. That should prove easy enough given he was a marquess with powerful connections, and Gwyneth was…nothing.

  Taking his time, Southwick stood and straightened his green brocade doublet and his white ruffled cuffs. He proceeded down the wide, ornate stairway to the library, where a footman opened the door for him. He entered to find another footman and a shabbily dressed messenger in a belted plaid. A barbaric Scots peasant, to be sure.

  “M’laird.” He bowed at least.

  Southwick cringed at his accent. There was nothing that grated on his nerves more.

  “Are you Laird Southwick?” the messenger asked.

  “Indeed, I am Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick. And who might you be?”

  “Robertson, sir. Chief MacIrwin sent me to bring you this.” He extended his hand and in it was a dirty, bent and folded missive.

  Thankful he was wearing gloves, Southwick took the paper, broke the red wax seal and flung the paper open. Perching his spectacles upon his nose, he tilted the paper to the light from the tall, heavily-draped window and read. Well, he tried to read. The handwriting was near illegible. Something about his son. MacIrwin had him and if he wanted him, he must send two hundred pounds.

  “Outrageous! Two hundred pounds is an outrageous sum! He is my son. Why should I have to pay for him?” he shouted at the messenger, who stepped back wide-eyed and bowed slightly.

  A hostage. MacIrwin was using his son as a hostage, and this was the ransom. Bastard! Southwick squinted down at the paper again, trying to decipher more of its words. Whoever wrote it didn’t use standard spelli
ngs, and it looked more like a sheep had written it. Damned Scots couldn’t speak or write in a coherent manner. He crumpled the paper. Where in blazes would he get two hundred pounds silver? Certainly he was wealthy, but he didn’t keep that much silver and gold lying around. He’d borrow funds from his friends, and ask a few of them to accompany him. He’d need plenty of guards.

  “You are to take me to MacIrwin, and I do mean with great haste,” Southwick said.

  The messenger’s eyes near bugged out of his head.

  “You didn’t think I was just going to hand you two hundred pounds, did you?”

  “Eh…nay, my laird.”

  “Good. We leave at first light.” It would take him all day, at least, to gather all the funds. MacIrwin was a thief and an outlaw!

  ***

  Two days after he’d talked to Gwyneth in the alehouse and given her the rose, Alasdair slipped into Leitha’s flower garden, hoping Gwyneth would show up again so he might talk to her in private about nothing in particular until gloaming settled over the land. Or perhaps steal a kiss. The scent of sun-warmed roses brought their first kiss to the forefront of his mind, and he indulged in a bit of daydreaming. At a noise behind him, he glanced around, expecting to see Gwyneth, but found Rory gazing up at him with a trusting look of adoration.

  Och. The lad needed a father, and Alasdair did not feel worthy or capable of filling such a lofty role. But at times like this, he wanted to try.

  “A good eve to you, Rory.”

  “Will you teach me to fight with a sword?” The boy rushed forward, a small wooden sword in his hand and anticipation brightening his eyes.

  How was he supposed to refuse such an eager request? The latest attack must have spurred the lad’s protective instincts. And he truly did need to learn some weaponry skills, for he’d be a man one day. And he’d need to defend himself.

  “Very well. I’ll demonstrate a move or two.” Alasdair removed his own basket-hilted broadsword from his scabbard, held it aloft and waited.

  The lad mimicked his stance.

  “See, Rory, hold the hilt of your sword just this way.” Alasdair showed him the correct grip. “Try it.”

  “Like this?” Rory adjusted his grip on the rough mock weapon that one of the older clansmen had carved for him. The hilt was actually too big for his small hand.

  “Aye, very good. Now, if one of the enemy clan comes at you directly in front, thrusting straight toward your chest, deflect the blow this way.” Alasdair showed him the simple defense tactic.

  The child repeated the move perfectly.

  “Excellent! You’re a natural.”

  His eyes alight, he grinned ear to ear. “Truly?” He even did a little bounce on his toes.

  “Aye. ’Twas perfect.” Och, the lad near carved his heart from his chest at times. Maybe because he looked so much like Gwyneth, with those blue eyes. Or ’haps it was because Rory made Alasdair realize how much he missed his own son.

  But he must not dwell on the past. Here and now were the important things.

  Rory stood beside him, awaiting the next instruction.

  Alasdair backed up to give himself room. “Now, if the enemy is slashing from left to right, trying to take your head off, you would block the blow this way.” He flicked his blade at the correct angle.

  “What are you doing?” the incensed female voice echoed from behind them.

  Alasdair turned. Gwyneth stood with her fists propped on her narrow hips, her brows lowered, and her mouth crimped into a thin line.

  Now I’ve gone and done it.

  “He’s showing me how to use a claidheamh mòr.” Rory proudly demonstrated his new skills for his mother.

  She stiffened. “Why don’t you go find Little John Ray and show him? I need to talk to Laird MacGrath.”

  “Aye!” The boy ran from the garden.

  “Do not run with that sword!”

  “’Tis not real, Ma,” Rory said as if she were daft.

  “I know that, but you could still fall on it and hurt yourself.”

  Rory let out an impatient breath and walked the rest of the way.

  Gwyneth faced Alasdair again and crossed her arms over her chest. He would like to kiss the tightness and annoyance from her lips. But first he would, without doubt, have to endure an unpleasant sort of tongue-lashing. He would much prefer the other type, a flick of her tongue against his lips, inside his mouth. Saints! He could not look at her without hot arousal stirring his blood.

  “I do not want you teaching my son how to wield a blade,” she said firmly.

  Alasdair returned his broadsword to the scabbard at his hip. “And why is that, m’lady?”

  Her face darkened. “Rory will not be a Highland warrior when he grows up. You people fight over everything. It’s your favorite pastime. I tell you, killing should not be a pastime.”

  “’Tis a matter of survival. Do you think we invited the MacIrwins to burn the village? Nay. Every man must learn to defend himself and those he cares about. I make sure all the lads are trained so that when they become men, they can protect themselves, their families and the clan. If Rory grows up without knowing how to handle weapons, he will be at a disadvantage. If he is attacked, he will be unable to defend himself. Is that what you’re wanting?”

  “No. I just don’t want him fighting, or using weapons at all,” she said in a calmer but stubborn tone.

  “You’re a woman, and English at that. I don’t expect you to understand what it means to be a man of the Highlands. But Rory has undoubtedly inherited his interest in swords and protecting his family from his father.”

  “From his father? That’s preposterous.”

  “Baigh Shaw was ever a man who relished battle and fighting.”

  Gwyneth opened her mouth, then closed it. Twice. For a moment she reminded him of a grounded salmon. Then the skin of her face and throat turned that adorable pink color. He wondered if her whole body blushed in just that way during lovemaking.

  “The p-point is…I will not allow Rory to learn to fight or go into battle. I am giving him an education, and he will one day find a good position in a safe place. He could be a scholar, perhaps a professor at university, or even a physician.”

  She had a grand dream for her son, and there was naught wrong with that, except it might not be what Rory wanted. When he grew up, he might wish to join the king’s army instead. But Alasdair wouldn’t deepen her anxiety. “Aye, I ken your meaning. No parent wants to think of their child in a dangerous circumstance.”

  “You’re not a parent, so you cannot grasp the import of it.”

  Her words flayed him like the sharp edge of a blade. “You’re right. I’m not a parent because my son died before he could be born.”

  Gwyneth pressed her eyes closed for a moment, and when she opened them, managed to look most contrite. “Pray pardon, my laird. I did not mean that,” she said softly.

  He didn’t respond, but tried to lock his emotions away again. He didn’t like them breaking free at the least provocation, nor did he wish to speak harshly to her.

  “I only meant that, I don’t want anyone to encourage Rory in his interest in swords,” she said. “He’s always fighting mock battles with imaginary people. I usually try to divert his attention to something else.”

  “’Tis a good habit. But you must realize the lad has a lot of Scots blood in him, and making him lose interest in fighting or weaponry will be a task. ’Tis natural. He was born to it. I was the same way as a lad. I was always hacking away at something with a wooden sword, as were my brother and cousins.”

  “That’s fine. I’d just prefer you didn’t show him any more techniques for killing people.”

  “I wasn’t showing him how to kill people. I was showing him how to block the blows of blades coming at him, moves that could one day save his life.”

  She stared at the ground in silence and rubbed her forehead. He hoped she would think that over thoroughly, because a grown man who couldn’t defend himself wa
s as good as dead.

  “He but wants to protect and defend his ma,” Alasdair said.

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “Aye. When I was hurt and in your byre, he said he would protect you from the MacIrwin.”

  “I see.”

  He wasn’t sure she did. “Even then, Rory knew Donald was evil and that you were afraid of him. Rory’s a bright and canny lad, m’lady, and he’s but trying to develop the skills he needs to be a man.”

  “He’s only five,” she said, her voice low and vulnerable.

  Alasdair restrained the urge to take her into his arms and hold her, to soothe away the tension and fear. “He’ll be six soon, but it doesn’t matter his age. He’s a lad without his da, so he feels ’tis his job to protect the women of his family—you.”

  “I must take him from the Highlands.” She locked her determined gaze onto Alasdair’s. “I’m sure Lachlan won’t be back for weeks with news of a position in Edinburgh. Have you thought of a family I might find a position with?”

  Here it was again, the task he didn’t want to push forward with. It created too much turmoil within him. He’d already told her he didn’t want her to leave. But it would be best for Gwyneth, Rory, and the MacGrath clan if she did. Still, Alasdair knew he was a greedy, selfish bastard. He wanted…

  What did he want?

  “I have thought on it some. But I know very few Lowland families. None come to mind with young children.”

  “What about your in-laws?”

  “I’ve had little contact with them for some time. Perhaps one of Leitha’s brothers or sisters would be in need of a governess. I’ll send a letter.”

  Her face brightened. “I would be in your debt.”

  And what he would like in payment was a kiss. But how ridiculous he was—like a green lad on the edge of becoming a man, gazing at a pretty lass.

  How he would love to be the cause of the happiness she now showed. But it was the prospect of leaving the Highlands—of leaving him—that filled her with joy.