Alasdair nodded and took the chair opposite her.
“What if he doesn’t give up on trying to take Rory? Will the law be on his side?” Gwyneth asked, pressing a hand to her nauseated stomach.
“I don’t ken precisely how the English courts work in this situation, but it doesn’t sound like what he wants to do is legal anyway.”
The jaws of a trap sprang shut on Gwyneth. Her mind struggled for an escape. Men held all the power over women and children, no matter the situation. And even if Rory couldn’t legally inherit a title, Southwick could still take her son on a whim. “Dear lord, what am I going to do? He has a vicious temper when he’s angry. When I—” She pressed her lips closed, shame devouring her composure.
“Go on.”
“When I told him I was with child, he slapped me and I fell.”
Alasdair’s face tightened and the warrior in him emerged. “Why did you not tell me this afore? I would’ve bashed in his head on first sight!”
“You cannot do that.” Although she appreciated his protectiveness, she would not have him assaulting people on her behalf. “I also heard he beats his servants and may have killed one, though no one could prove it. I cannot allow him to take my son.”
“God’s wounds!” Alasdair shoved to his feet and paced to his desk and back. “’Haps if you would marry me and become a countess, you would hold more power in the event Southwick tries to take Rory.”
***
Marry Alasdair? Good lord!
Was that the only alternative?
It had been hours since Alasdair had sprung his latest “proposal,” but Gwyneth could think of nothing else—save the nightmarish Southwick situation.
She stood beside Rory in the shadows and gazed out over the bustling activity in the great hall she’d helped decorate with herb and flower garlands. Their sweet, pungent scents blending with all manner of meat, onion, and bread aromas now sickened her.
Alasdair had forbidden her to return to the kitchen or to help with the final preparations of the feast. Her fidgety hands craved something to do. But she was glad for the time to spend with Rory, simply to watch him play with his small friend. Just to make sure he was safe and still here with her.
She would have no life without her son and could never let him go.
But to marry Alasdair in the hopes his position would hold some sway with English courts didn’t seem the answer. Nor would it be fair to him.
She didn’t know how much influence Alasdair had with King James, but everyone knew the king, though Scottish, held no fondness for these wild and rebellious Highlanders. In all likelihood, if she did marry a Highland laird, the king and courts would have even less sympathy for her plight. Since Southwick was English, they would want Rory raised on English soil.
Gwyneth’s gaze shifted to Alasdair, striding across the great hall, clothed in his finest apparel—a newly woven kilt of blue and black tartan, crisp ivory linen shirt and deep blue doublet.
He approached her through the throng of people that milled about between the two long rows of tables weighted down with food.
Please do not let him propose again.
Alasdair stopped before her and Rory. “M’lady.” He bowed, then stroked an affectionate hand over Rory’s head, but his focus remained on Gwyneth. “Would you do me the honor of sitting with me at high table?”
His clean scent with a trace of lavender reached her, teasing her senses. The dampness of his hair told her he had bathed recently. His eyes were dark seduction, even now. She was tempted to say yes to anything he asked.
“I thank you, but I cannot.” Her gaze dropped to her son and the look of wide-eyed hero-worship he cast up at Alasdair. Why couldn’t Alasdair have been Rory’s natural father, instead of Southwick?
Alasdair let out an impatient breath. “You are a noble guest just as the laird and lady of Clan Grant are.”
“No, Laird MacGrath, I am but your temporary housekeeper. I would not care to explain to them why I am given the honor of sitting at the laird’s table.”
“You’re an English lady, daughter of an earl. That’s the only explanation you need. Besides, ’tis not their concern. I am but providing you and your son protection.”
“I’m sorry.” His guests were sure to assume the worst—and the truth—that she and Alasdair had been lovers. She couldn’t bear any more looks or words of censure this day. Southwick’s visit had been more than sufficient to destroy her composure. Aside from that, she would make a silent dinner companion.
“Very well. I proclaim you are no longer my housekeeper. You’re an honored guest, and you are not to lift another finger to help.”
Was he serious or teasing her? At times his mysterious eyes were impossible to read.
“Then I will be forced to leave.”
“Humph. You are the most vexing woman I have ever dealt with.” His grumpy proclamation was laced with humor.
She noticed a few guests nearby staring their way and grinning.
“I’m sorry not to be more agreeable, my laird,” she said in a low tone.
“As well you should be.”
Why in heaven’s name was he talking so loud? She focused on Rory’s fine hair, wishing to escape this conversation. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself or more specifically, to Alasdair’s interest in her.
His warm fingers underneath her chin, he tipped her face toward him, and a tiny grin formed on his lips. “I swear I shall have you eating at my table afore the year is out.”
He should not touch her thus, with such boldness and possession, before anyone who watched.
“And if you do not?” she asked.
His smile widened. His eyes took on that look he always had just before he coaxed her into something delicious yet shocking. “I’m said to be most stubborn and determined.”
***
“You lied, MacIrwin!” Southwick shouted, his reedy voice echoing off the rock walls of Irwin Castle’s great hall. “You do not have my son as you claimed in your missive. And MacGrath refuses to release him.”
His muscles tense and his hand on his sword hilt, Donald MacIrwin restrained his bloodlust and surveyed his clansmen. Each of them glared at the English whoreson but held their tongues. He must do the same if he wanted the two-hundred pounds.
“Dare you call me a liar, you stinking Sassanach?” And he did reek. His perfume was enough to knock a strong man flat.
Southwick extended his arms, indicating the great hall around them. “I do not see him here in your possession. And yet, you said in your missive that you held him. That you wished me to pay a monstrous and outrageous ransom for my own son.”
“That’s because the bitch Gwyneth took him and fled. When I get my hands on her I’ll…” kill her. But nay, he couldn’t say that now. First, he had to separate Southwick from his gold and silver.
“I don’t care what you do to Gwyneth. I want my son.” Southwick’s tone reminded Donald of a petulant, spoiled bairn.
“I have a proposition,” Donald offered. “I’ll retrieve the wee lad from MacGrath and you pay me the two hundred pounds.”
Southwick’s eyes narrowed as he considered. “I must have my son in hand first. Completely unharmed and healthy. Yes, you go get him, hand him over to me, and I’ll give you the money.”
Triumphant victory burst through Donald. He would have the money soon. “Very well.” Donald stepped forward and extended his hand. Southwick, wearing brown gloves, finally took his hand and shook. Och, what a weak handshake the Sassanach had. Donald and his men could easily overpower Southwick and his lordly friends, kill them, and take the money, but he did not wish to anger King James.
“Now, me and my men must go make plans for the lad’s rescue. Have supper while you wait,” Donald said.
If Gwyneth or any of the MacGraths got in his way, he would not be so careful of his actions.
***
During the Feill-Sheathain feast at Kintalon Castle, Gwyneth sat at a table toward the
back with Tessie and some of the lower ranking clan members and children. She had nothing to celebrate and no appetite for the fine foods laid out before her—roast beef, mutton, lamb, fine yellow cheese, leeks, parsnips, cabbage, oat cakes—the list went on. Here sat more food than she’d seen during her entire stay in the Highlands, and Alasdair did not deprive even the lowest servant from partaking.
What if Southwick pursued custody of Rory? That was all she could think about, and nausea replaced her appetite.
“Is all well, then?” Tessie asked beside her.
Gwyneth nodded and forced herself to eat.
“What did the fancy Sassenach want?”
Those sitting closest to Gwyneth cast inquiring glances her way.
“Nothing of importance,” she said for all to hear, then lowered her voice for Tessie’s ears only. “I’ll tell you later.” She didn’t want anyone else to know her connection with Southwick, especially Rory.
After dark, music and dancing commenced around two large bonfires outside the barmkin walls on a hill overlooking the loch, the village and the fields. Gwyneth went only to watch Rory as he joined in, dancing and cavorting with the other children.
Smoke from the wood and peat fires burned her lungs when the wind shifted. She coughed and moved further away.
Small blazes, like torches, in the fields and pastures below caught her attention. Outsiders. Dear lord, was Southwick returning? Donald invading? Strangely, the torches were not moving in their direction but around toward the right in large circles.
“’Tis to bless the crops and cattle, for a fruitful harvest and many calves,” Alasdair said close behind her.
She spun to face him. “In truth? Do you believe that?”
He shrugged. “Aye, why not? Our clan has been prosperous for two hundred years. You cannot argue with success. But I’m not a heathen if that’s what you’re thinking.” His wicked grin and wink had the disturbing effect of negating his words and raising her awareness of him.
What had he meant, anyway? He wasn’t a heathen, yet he believed the heathen rituals worked? In most other ways he appeared to be a Protestant, but the Highlanders held to their superstitions. Besides, something more urgent worried her.
“Are we safe out here?”
“I have posted armed guards all around, very close together. Don’t worry about it. Remember, this is a celebration.” He bowed. “Would you give me the honor of this dance, Lady Gwyneth?”
Heat rushed over her face. “It has been ages since I’ve danced. I’m sure I would make a mess of it.”
“That matters not. Come, m’lady. ’Twill be fun.” Brows lifted with an expectant look, he held out his hand. “You do remember what fun is, aye?”
No, she scarce remembered it at all.
“If not, I’d like to remind you.”
She took his hand. “Oh, very well. But if I tread on your injured toe, you must not blame me.”
“My toe is full recovered and can withstand your wee foot upon it.” He led her toward the other couples already dancing. When they joined in, she was glad to see he had not lied about his toe and seemed light on his feet.
Gwyneth made a misstep and almost toppled sideways. Alasdair caught her and chuckled. Her own laughter surprised her. How long had it been since she’d laughed and danced? More than seven years?
“I have forgotten how to dance,” she confessed.
“Nay. Merely out of practice, I’m thinking. But I ken well how to remedy that.”
A prickle of worry returned. Where was Rory?
She glanced aside and saw him jumping around with the other children, ashes from the bonfire smeared on all their foreheads. She smiled and returned her attention to Alasdair. “Someone has rubbed ash on Rory’s forehead.”
“Aye, ’tis for blessings as well.”
More superstition. Well, what could it hurt?
“’Haps you would like me to smear ashes upon your forehead, m’lady.”
She laughed. “I think I prefer a clean face.”
“You are a lovely lass, but a hundred times more beautiful when you smile and laugh as you are now.”
Such outrageous compliments. And the way he looked at her, with rapt attention. Her face felt as if it glowed fiery red, and not just from the heat of the bonfire.
“Promise me, every day from now on, you will smile at least once, and I must be witness to this action. Laughter is required five times a week.”
Gwyneth snickered. “I can make no such promises. You are naught but a charmer.”
“I have never been accused of such.” His smile was indulgent, full and without restraint, reflecting her own feelings—happiness such as she had not felt during the whole of her life.
In truth, he was a charmer, and how would she resist him this night?
***
After two dances, Gwyneth was both relieved and disappointed when Alasdair bowed, kissed her hand and went to talk with his guests—the other chiefs and their families.
When he led one of the young, unmarried ladies out to dance, jealousy swooped in on Gwyneth.
She focused her attention on Rory and was surprised to find him twirling in circles with a small girl in fine clothing. After a couple of minutes, Rory’s hands slipped off hers. She tumbled onto her rump and turned a backward flip.
“Good heavens!” Gwyneth strode forward. “Rory, you will hurt the little lady. Now, help her up.”
“Pray pardon,” Rory said, reaching his hand down to her.
“My, what a mannerly young sir he is,” said one of the ladies as she dusted off the girl’s skirts. “You are fine, are you not, Millie?”
She nodded emphatically and dragged Rory out for more dancing and horseplay.
“Well, he’s already popular with the lasses.” The short, round woman laughed. “I’m Alice Balfour, Lady Grant.”
“’Tis an honor to meet you, my lady. I am Gwyneth Carswell.”
“Oh, you’re English. ’Tis clear in your speech.”
“Yes.”
“And how did you come to be all the way here, in the Highlands?”
“I was married to a Highlander but am widowed now. At the moment, I am the MacGrath’s housekeeper but I hope to find a position as governess or tutor and go south before winter.”
“Indeed? The long winter nights and deep snows of the Highlands were the hardest thing for me to grow used to. I was born in the Lowlands, you see, some miles from Dunbar.”
Could this be an opportunity? “Would you know anyone in that area who is searching for a governess?”
“My brother just hired someone new for his eldest son, but they have five more, all under seven, one set of twins. I told him to give his poor wife a wee break.” She chuckled. “You’re serious about this, then?”
“Yes, very. Does he live in a peaceful area?”
“Indeed.”
“Laird MacGrath has promised to provide me with a reference.”
“His word is gold. I will send a missive to my brother upon my return home. If you have a letter of reference from Laird MacGrath, I will include that as well.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“The MacGrath’s first wife was my distant cousin, and he is well respected and liked in our family.”
Gwyneth felt like an interloper, even though she herself had asked him if his late wife’s family might be in need of someone.
“Clearly you’re well educated. Are you of noble birth, then?” Alice asked.
Gwyneth usually felt it best not to mention her background, but in this case it might prove helpful. “My father is an English earl.”
Alice’s eyes flew wide. “In truth?”
“Yes, and he provided all of us, including my five sisters and one brother, with proper educations.”
“Goodness, I wish we were in need of a governess. You impress me greatly. Millie is our youngest, and Paula, our eldest.” She smiled toward the twirling couples. “Dancing with the MacGrath as we speak. Oh, wouldn
’t they make a lovely pair?” She sighed. “I would give my eye-teeth to have him for a son-in-law.”
Though she did not wish to, Gwyneth turned to follow her gaze. The young Paula, of no more than eighteen years, beamed up at Alasdair. Her long, dark hair flowed down her back. They matched in coloring and her tall height complimented his. He focused on her, to the exclusion of all else, and laughed at something she said.
“I’m thinking he’ll become smitten with her. What do you think?” Alice whispered eagerly. “Look at how he smiles at her.”
“’Tis possible.” Gwyneth looked away. The sight of them hurt her eyes. And her heart. “I thank you for inquiring with your brother. I shall ask Laird MacGrath to write the reference missive before the morrow. Pray pardon me and enjoy the rest of the celebration.”
Lady Alice bid her good evening, and Gwyneth moved toward the shadows to try and soothe her aching heart. Good lord, why had her reaction to seeing Alasdair dancing with the pretty lass struck her so?
Gwyneth couldn’t marry him, so she should want him to find a suitable wife. But some part of her deep inside couldn’t understand the logic of that.
Was it possible that a woman and man could love each other equally and forever? Or was it a fable? The love she’d thought she felt for Southwick years ago was but delusion. Upon much reflection, she’d come to the conclusion that her parents didn’t share love, nor much warmth or fondness.
Of course, Gwyneth had never loved Baigh Shaw. She had come to believe love between a man and a woman didn’t truly exist. Was it a fantasy some poet had dreamed up to mislead people into thinking such lofty love and passion were possible?
The only love that she knew existed between people was that of a parent for a child, and vice versa, along with love between siblings and friends.
But the wondrous emotions that grew and expanded within her for Alasdair were unlike anything she had ever experienced. They near took her breath and her reasoning. She did not trust herself, nor her feelings—which were not warm and comforting, but hot and disturbing. Mayhap the Gaelic words he’d whispered in her ear during their lovemaking had been an incantation that had drawn her under his control. Or mayhap real love could exist between a man and a woman and that’s what she felt for him.
My Fierce Highlander Page 20
