My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  Along the dimly lit corridor, she passed the open doorway to Alasdair’s chamber. He was likely in the library talking and drinking sack with the loyal neighboring clan chieftains who had arrived that day.

  “M’lady.”

  She jerked back and glared at the darkness of the doorway.

  The lone sconce further down the corridor provided little illumination. Alasdair stuck his head out, glanced about, then locked his gaze on her. “I’ve something I’m wanting to give you.”

  Surely he did not mean a kiss. She felt giddy and flushed of a sudden.

  Stepping into the hallway, he presented her with a parcel wrapped in a deep burgundy silk handkerchief and tied with a ribbon. The richness of the wrappings surprised her. “No, I cannot accept—”

  “You don’t yet ken what it is. Open it.”

  She couldn’t decipher his expression, but he seemed hopeful, his anger from the night before not in evidence.

  Gwyneth glanced behind herself to make sure no one watched, then tugged gently at the bow. She parted the silk and found a tortoiseshell comb within the folds. “Goodness, I cannot possibly take such an expensive—”

  “Aye, you can. I didn’t buy it. It used to be my mother’s, and now ’tis yours. You need it…for your hair.”

  His mother’s? That made it an even more extravagant and sentimental gift than if he’d bought it new. How could he part with such an item?

  The fact that he didn’t ply her with false and flattering compliments shattered her defenses. Last night burst into her consciousness—he had combed her hair with his fingers.

  No one had given her a gift such as this in many years. His thoughtfulness overwhelmed her to the point of near tears. “I thank you, my laird.”

  “You’re most welcome. And I pray you will pardon my harshness of last night. Can you forgive me, m’lady?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed. “Of course.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Though his gift meant more than she could express, she knew it was a courtship gift, just like the rose he’d tucked behind her ear…and which she’d pressed into a book so she might keep it forever.

  Obviously, he had hatched up a new plan to draw her under his power and trap her and Rory in the Highlands. Fool that she was, she was sore tempted.

  Wishing to escape before Alasdair could cast his spell upon her and seduce her yet again, she curtseyed. “I thank you and I bid you good evening, sir.” She hastened to her room.

  Once inside, she closed the door and glanced toward the bed where Rory slept. Cradling Alasdair’s gift in her hands, she seated herself before the small fire in the hearth and examined the brown tortoiseshell comb more closely in the light.

  How she wished things could be different, wished Alasdair was not a Highland laird and enemy of Donald MacIrwin. Wished clan warfare did not rule the Highlands.

  ***

  “We have a visitor,” one of the maids announced, entering the busy kitchen the next day just after midday meal. “Some fancy Sassenach lord. He and his men will be needing trenchers.”

  Turning from her task of kneading bread dough, Gwyneth dabbed a sleeve to her sweaty forehead. The heat of the ovens and huge arched fireplace was getting to her. She wondered whether Edward Murray had returned so quickly, perhaps for the Midsummer’s Day feast. No, probably another of Alasdair’s old schoolmates.

  A second servant trotted down the steps and into the kitchen. “The Sassenach’s asking for Lady Gwyneth Carswell, he is,” she said in a dramatic whisper, and her round eyes lit on Gwyneth.

  “Faith! Me?”

  The maid placed her hands on her round hips. “Well now, you’re the only Gwyneth Carswell what lives here.”

  Dread rose up within her. “What is his name?”

  The other woman shrugged. “Something Southwick.”

  Gwyneth’s breathing ceased. “The marquess of Southwick? Maxwell Huntley?”

  “Aye, I believe ’twas.” The servant bustled to the other side of the kitchen.

  Rory’s father. “Oh, dear heavens!” What could he possibly want? A thousand questions streamed through her mind.

  Where was Rory? She ran to the back doorway and found him playing in the kitchen garden with other children.

  Alasdair stalked into the kitchen. “Someone, please bring Lord Southwick some food and wine. I won’t have him spreading rumors that we lack manners or hospitality here in the Highlands.” He turned his fierce midnight gaze to Gwyneth and lowered his voice to a murmur. “Why are you doing this kind of physical labor?”

  “What? I’m making bread…the festival.”

  “I would have a word with you in here.” Frowning, he motioned toward one of the pantries.

  She blinked. Her world had just somersaulted and nothing made sense. “In there?”

  “Aye.”

  She preceded him into the small windowless room, and he closed the door. She found it hard to breathe with the dust of flour and scents of spices thickening the air, not to mention the near pitch blackness.

  She wiped her sticky hands on her skirts. “What is Southwick doing here?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “Did he not say?”

  “Nay. Only that he wishes to speak with you.”

  “Oh, heavens! I never thought to see him again. I’m not sure I can face him.” She concentrated on evening out her breathing and calming herself.

  I have survived six years in the harsh Highlands. I can face one whey-faced English lord. He’s a coward who ran from responsibility. Not worthy to be called a man.

  “What if—saints!” Alasdair muttered.

  “What?”

  He yanked her to him and took her mouth in a hard-driving kiss—one that plunged down to her very soul. As if to say to her, you’re mine, and don’t be forgetting it.

  Just as abruptly, he drew back. Gwyneth swayed, trying to regain her equilibrium within the maelstrom of emotions.

  Alasdair steadied her. “Beware the fancy Sassenach. He has the look of a poisonous viper about him.”

  She grasped his sleeve. “Would you come with me?”

  “To talk to him?”

  “Yes.”

  He took her hand and kissed the back. “Aye, I would be honored.” He opened the door, allowing light to flow in. “You might don some of the clothing from the trunk.”

  She glanced down at her bodice and skirts. What a sight she was with flour and dough covering her faded and near threadbare dress. What did she care? She had no more pride. Southwick had striped it from her six years ago, just as he had taken everything else.

  “’Twill increase your courage,” Alasdair said.

  She nodded, taking in his beloved visage and his caring dark eyes. The reverent way he looked at her gave her far more courage than any clothing could. “I thank you.”

  He gave a short bow.

  Though Alasdair wanted nothing more than to spend the afternoon kissing Gwyneth in the pantry, he knew he must deal with Southwick in an appropriate fashion and find out what the devil he wanted. Alasdair would not have allowed Gwyneth to visit with the snake alone, but he was glad she’d asked him to accompany her.

  He watched Gwyneth scurry up the back stairs before he returned to the great hall.

  With a stiff posture, Southwick sat at high table with two of his men. The skinny, weak-looking Sassenach picked at his mutton stew with formal preciseness.

  “How are the food and wine?” Alasdair asked, forcing himself to be hospitable to the loathsome man. He’d finished his own meal with the rest of his Highland guests a half hour past.

  Southwick glanced up with icy gray eyes. “They will suffice.” He smirked and pushed the trencher away. “I did not come here to dine. I am here to see Lady Gwyneth Carswell.”

  Partly fueled by jealousy, Alasdair’s temper ignited like flame to straw, but he held himself in check. “And you will in due time. If you’re finished eating, we can wait for her in the librar
y.”

  Southwick and one of his cohorts rose and followed Alasdair to the smaller, book-lined room.

  “Have a seat.” Alasdair motioned and the two men perched on a long bench.

  He studied Southwick. The frail-looking man’s skin was bright pink, obviously from unaccustomed sun exposure, and he reeked of some sort of flowery, musky perfume.

  What did he want to talk to Gwyneth about? The dolt couldn’t want to marry her now, six years after the fact. Too late, you bastard. Gwyneth is mine and I won’t be giving her up.

  “Would either of you care for sherry, sack or whisky?”

  “No, thank you,” Southwick answered with a sniff. “So, why did you take Lady Gwyneth hostage?”

  Alasdair forced himself to remain rooted to the spot. “Where did you hear such a lie?”

  Southwick let loose a soft snort and exchanged a look with his friend. “Do you deny it?”

  “Aye. She came here of her own free will. Donald MacIrwin was trying to kill her.”

  “How preposterous! He is her blood relative. He would not want to kill her. And what of her son? Is he here as well?”

  Hellfire and damnation. It wasn’t Gwyneth he wanted, but Rory. She would be thunderstruck. A sick feeling twisted Alasdair’s gut. “And why would you be caring where he’s at?”

  The marquess leveled a superior but menacing look at Alasdair. “He is my son, and I will see him now.”

  “Nay. You will not!”

  Southwick’s mouth firmed and his face mottled. “Dare you tell me no, you—”

  “Cừm do theanga, a mheapain!” Alasdair stepped forward and barely suppressed the urge to fling his newly sharpened sgian dubh at the whoreson’s throat. “You filthy Sassenach. Don’t think to come into my home and order me about! As a marquess, you may be one step ahead of me, but you’re in the Highlands now. And we hold no fondness for the English.”

  Southwick’s face paled, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you—” He cleared his throat. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Nay.” Alasdair couldn’t help that his mouth formed a smirking grin. “Just stating the facts,” he said in his most civil tone, yet he was sure his glower told them something altogether different. He would protect Gwyneth and Rory with his life.

  Southwick clenched his hands together and glanced about. “I will be sure King James hears of this.”

  “’Haps I will scribe a missive and tell him myself.” Keeping the two knaves in his peripheral vision, Alasdair poured himself a dram of sherry and sprawled in the chair behind his desk. Though he wanted nothing more than to slice Southwick limb from limb with his claymore, he held his temper in check and affected nonchalance.

  Perhaps Southwick hadn’t heard tell of the Sassenach lordlings who’d been known to disappear without a trace in the Highlands.

  ***

  With a little help from Tessie, Gwyneth put on an outfit from the trunk that held Alasdair’s wife’s clothing. Gwyneth’s thoughts flew and scattered in all directions. Her fingers trembled so badly she couldn’t manage to tie anything. She only noticed the clothing was green and gold and of fine material. It shouldn’t matter what she wore, but she didn’t want Southwick to know she was indeed penniless. It would put her at a disadvantage.

  “Will you watch Rory?” Gwyneth asked Tessie.

  “Aye, of course.”

  Minutes later, her drumming pulse drowned out all other sounds when she knocked at the library door. Finally, Alasdair opened the door for her. She focused on his familiar form for a moment, tall and dark, clothed in a belted plaid. She hoped he would be her calm within the windstorm. And indeed his presence allowed her a small measure of comfort.

  Two men, dressed in English hunting clothes, rose when she entered. Her gaze locked on the hateful visage of Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick. What struck her immediately was how much he had aged since she’d seen him last. Though his normally pale skin was bright pink, he appeared sickly, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. The malicious gleam in his frigid gray eyes caught her attention. How could she have ever imagined herself in love with this man? Had he changed so much, or had she?

  “Lady Gwyneth, I am pleased to see you.” Southwick stepped forward, took her hand and kissed it.

  Though she wore gloves, her skin chilled. Genteel manners deserting her, she snatched her hand away. His strong, familiar perfume—a blend of musk, rosewater and civet—mixed with his sweat odor, nauseating her. The last time she’d seen him, to tell him she was carrying his child, he had slapped her down and called her a lying whore.

  “Lord Southwick,” she forced herself to say. “Are you well?”

  “Indeed, I am.” He sent her a tight-lipped grin, then gave a deep bow. “And I pray that you are.”

  Nodding, she studied his eyes and the deceit behind his facade.

  “I’m glad you agreed to see me so that we might talk privately.” When no one moved, Southwick cut a brittle glare at Alasdair.

  “Laird MacGrath stays,” she said.

  “Ah.” Southwick lifted his thin blond brows as if reading something lurid into their association. “Well, if you insist, my lady.” Southwick’s gaze trailed down over her as if she were a woman of ill repute. He stroked his pointed, thinning goatee. “I’ve come to talk to you about my son.”

  His son?

  “I want to make you a deal,” Southwick continued. “You have taken care of him these last few years alone and with little funds. Now, I would propose to take him off your hands for the duration.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The walls of the library shrank in on Gwyneth. She could not comprehend the meaning of Southwick’s words. I would propose to take him off your hands for the duration.

  He would take Rory away?

  She felt as if someone had struck her chest with a hammer. Alasdair grabbed onto her before she realized she’d swayed.

  She pulled away from him and steadied herself, called upon some reserve of strength deep within. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Hardly.” Southwick lifted a brow. “He is my son, is he not?”

  She shook her head, denying he had any right to call Rory his son. Denying Southwick could touch him. Denying….

  “I am offering him his heritage. He will one day be the seventh marquess of Southwick and he requires a proper education.”

  “But he is illegitimate. He cannot inherit—”

  “That is but a formality.” His sharp tone gave her pause.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, desperate to make sense of it all. “Have you not married?”

  “I did marry—the duke of Pembley’s daughter, but she died six months ago, barren.” His expression remained impassive.

  “So marry someone else!”

  “I think I’ve had enough of marriage. And since I already have a son, I don’t need to marry again. I don’t intend to take him away from you. You may visit him anytime you wish.”

  Visit him. Visit? “No!”

  “You cannot deny me my son.”

  Desperate, Gwyneth grasped at the threads of control. “He is not your son. I visited with another man a few nights after our…meeting.”

  “You lying whore!”

  “Southwick, you forget yourself,” Alasdair growled and stepped forward. “You will show respect to Lady Gwyneth in my home or you can leave now. Because of your actions, she lost everything.”

  Southwick glared at Alasdair. “Pray pardon.”

  As if those two insincere words could undo all the damage he had wrecked on her life. And continued to wreck.

  “I’m merely trying to get her to see reason,” Southwick continued in a milder tone, but malice still gleamed in his eyes. “If only her small mind can comprehend—”

  “’Tis time you were leaving,” Alasdair said in his laird and commander voice. He stood over the two Englishmen and pointed toward the door.

  “I will give you money,” Southwick said to Gwyneth.

  “How dare you try to
buy my son? You are the lowest—”

  “Southwick, you are overstaying your welcome.” Alasdair’s voice held an Arctic chill. “Here in the Highlands we don’t take insult lightly.”

  Southwick’s face turned crimson, but he remained silent and exited with his cohort.

  “I will return.” Alasdair followed them out.

  Her trembling legs no longer able to hold her up, she slumped onto a chair in the silent, empty room.

  Dear heavens, what am I going to do?

  What was Southwick scheming? She would be glad for Rory to be the next marquess of Southwick, but an illegitimate child could not inherit his natural father’s English title. Clearly he had something illegal and nefarious in mind. Either that or he’d turned lunatic.

  In any case, she would not hand her son over to the abusive knave at such a young age. Rory was her son, and she would be the one to raise him. She would not want to jeopardize his future, but she couldn’t let him go now. She loved him more than her next breath and must always see that he was safe and happy. Education was not the issue. She was already seeing to that, and he was too young to be sent away to school.

  Alasdair returned and slammed the heavy door. “What a vile whoreson he is. I told the guards to keep them off MacGrath land.”

  “He’s come to finish destroying my life.” Gwyneth sprang to her feet. “I cannot believe after he’s cast us aside for six years, he now wants Rory when it’s convenient for him. Rory cannot legally inherit his title, can he?”

  “Nay. Unless Southwick’s title is Scottish and you marry him.”

  “His title is English and I would never marry him.”

  “Or he might petition the king. How many people in London know for certain of Rory’s existence?”

  “My family.” Suddenly too exhausted from the tension to stand, she dropped to the chair near the hearth. “Father didn’t want word of my disgrace getting out so he sent me away. Because he had three other unmarried daughters at the time, he didn’t want the family name sullied. Since Southwick and I both disappeared, I’m certain people surmised the worst.”