My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  Fergus nodded and gave an abbreviated bow.

  Alasdair turned his attention to the rest of the men who packed the great hall. “’Tis possible Donald MacIrwin will think I have followed the Englishman with a large company of men. He will assume he has an advantage for attack here. But he doesn’t. I will only need five to ride with me. The rest of you will stay here. Be vigilant, armed and ready for battle.”

  He glanced at the men in front who had volunteered. “To ride with me, I will need Padraig, Angus, Boyd, Tomas, and Sweeney. As for the rest of you, I’ll need your skills here to defend the clan and Kintalon. I thank all of you for your willingness to help.”

  He stepped off the dais and found Gwyneth descending the stairs from her bedchamber. She had changed back into her old clothing.

  He narrowed his eyes and tugged her toward a corner to talk privately. “You’ll stay here. We will return as soon as we have Rory.”

  “I must go with you.” Steel resolve echoed in her quiet tone. She threw the large sack she carried onto her shoulder. What was that, her clothes?

  “Nay, ’tis too dangerous.”

  “He’s my son. I have to be there.”

  “You’ll slow us down. If there’s a skirmish, ’twill be difficult to protect you.”

  “If that happens, I’ll hide and use my sgain dubh. And I’m a good rider, either sidesaddle or astride. What will you do if Southwick gets all the way to London with him? I am Rory’s mother. I have legal rights to him. You do not.”

  He could see it was no use to argue with her. If he didn’t allow her to go, she’d likely find a way to follow, alone. That would be far more dangerous for her. She had slipped by the guards before.

  “You’re to keep up on your own. ’Tis for your son we do this. If you hinder it, ’twill be your own fault.”

  She stood straighter. “I will not hinder it.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll have one of the grooms saddle a mare. Be ready within the hour.”

  “I thank you, sir.” She curtseyed.

  Alasdair strode away from her to give separate orders to each of the five men and have Fergus convey his apologies to the visiting clan chieftains and other guests for his absence.

  Gwyneth wanted to thank Alasdair a hundred times over. Indeed, she could never show the depth of her gratitude for his willingness to help her to this extent.

  She glanced around at the milling crowd, then a second later, realized she was looking for Rory. The hollow pain in her chest widened. Oh dear God, help me.

  This was her own fault. If she had been with Rory, telling stories, instead of with Alasdair, cavorting in the garden, this wouldn’t have happened. She had been wallowing in the depths of carnal pleasure at the same moment her son was stolen away. I am a horrid mother.

  ***

  We will find Rory.

  In the pre-dawn moonlight the seven of them raced south, over moors and between mountains.

  We will find Rory. Gwyneth ran the words through her mind, silently repeating them, like an incantation or prayer.

  The horses’ hooves, rumbling against the ground like never-ending thunder, combined with the rhythmic movement, threatened to mesmerize her. But the cool, fresh air, along with the scent of horses and leather, kept her grounded in reality.

  Her first instinct was to believe God was punishing her for her sinful behavior. Yes, maybe He was. But her regard for Alasdair was not evil. Her emotions were not evil; they just were. Those same emotions had given rise to her desire for the man riding before her. And that desire had allowed her bright moments of joy such as she had not known possible.

  Joy and love were not evil.

  Love? Do I love him?

  Yes, some jubilant part of her wanted to shout. But she couldn’t allow him to find out, because her love for him would change nothing about their present situation.

  ***

  “Halt!” Maxwell Huntley, Lord Southwick drew up in the darkness before a rushing stream.

  His son, whom the other men had bound and tied across one of the saddles, screamed and yelled. He called for his ma and for Alasdair; he screeched out insults that would scorch the ears of most soldiers. What the devil had Gwyneth been teaching him? If the loud and obnoxious little terror was not his son…he could not think of it. The lad simply had to be his.

  “We don’t have time to stop now, Southwick,” Lord Peterson said. “If we do, the MacGraths may catch up to us.”

  “I must see if this irritating little rascal truly is my own flesh and blood,” he muttered, dismounting. If Gwyneth had lied to him that day six years ago, he would be murderously angry. “Bring the torch here. And take the lad off the horse.” Once his guard had set the boy onto his feet, Southwick yanked the sack from his head.

  The boy’s hair was blondish-brown and straight, much like his own.

  “Take me back to my ma!”

  “Rory. Is that your name?” Southwick asked.

  “Aye.”

  He sounded like a damned Scot, and had a Scots name besides. Southwick ground his teeth. He’d see about changing both.

  “What is your mother’s name?”

  Rory struggled against the guard holding him. “Gwyneth.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Almost six. Let me go, you toad-spotted whoreson!”

  Southwick clasped his hands tightly behind his back. He was sore tempted to slap some sense into the lad, but not in front of his men. “Cease! You will be quiet and mind your manners. Has your mother taught you nothing?”

  Rory merely narrowed his eyes and produced a malicious glare. He would have to whip some respect into the little hellion.

  “When is your birthday?” Southwick demanded.

  “Why are you asking me daft questions? I want to go home.”

  “That’s exactly where we are going—home. Now tell me when your birthday is.”

  “July tenth,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

  That would put his conception at the time when he and Gwyneth had a tryst. The boy looked like Gwyneth for the most part, but he had the narrow, refined Huntley nose and chin which gave him an aristocratic air, just as Southwick had himself. The boy was dirty, with soot and ash on his face and worn clothing.

  “Let me see your hands and feet.”

  “No.” The lad stood sullen.

  Southwick bent to remove a primitive leather shoe himself.

  “No!” Rory kicked Southwick’s shin.

  He grabbed the child’s chin. “Listen to me, Rory. You will show me respect. I am your father.”

  “No, you’re not! My da is dead!”

  “That wasn’t your real da. I am. You may call me Father.”

  “No! I won’t.”

  Rage crawled along Southwick’s nerve endings. And then he realized Rory was acting like a Huntley. Most of the men in his own family were stubborn and determined to get their way. Quick tempered. They hated being taken advantage of.

  Smiling, Southwick drew in a deep breath, calming himself. Indeed, this barbaric wild child was his son. In London, when the boy was cleaned up, Southwick would teach him about manners and respect.

  “Put my son back on the horse. We ride.”

  ***

  A few hours after daybreak, Alasdair, Gwyneth, and their party reached Aviemore. The muddy streets were filled with Scots dressed in their Midsummer finest, plaids of every description. She searched throngs of people for Rory and Southwick. Her anxiety vibrated to a higher pitch with each minute that passed.

  “Did you see a half-dozen Englishmen and a lad ride through this morn?” Alasdair called to a grizzly-faced man in front of the livery stable.

  “Aye, no more than three hours past. They traded for fresh horses.”

  Good lord, a three hour lead! How will we catch up?

  They quickly left Aviemore behind. Gwyneth rode in the middle of the group, beside Padraig. This trip through the countryside reminded her too much of when she’d first arrived in Scotlan
d, alone and terrified, six years ago. The fear was worse now, despite the fact she was no longer a naïve girl.

  Long before they reached Pitlochry, sunset gleamed over the land in bright orange rays. The gently sloping land here was not as majestic or dramatic as the Highlands.

  Alasdair slowed his horse to a walk, and the rest followed suit. He stopped in a secluded spot near a stream and swung down from his bay. “We wouldn’t be able to catch up to them even if we were to ride all night. And ’tis apparent Lady Gwyneth may fall out of the saddle soon.”

  “No, I will not.” She had promised him she would keep up with the men, and she meant to do it—even if it should kill her.

  “The horses need rest as well.”

  She was disheartened that they hadn’t yet spotted Rory or the knaves who had abducted him. How far would they have to ride to catch up to them? All the way to London? She prayed that would not be the case.

  The other men dismounted and started unloading the packhorse to make camp.

  Alasdair approached and stroked her mare’s muzzle. “Are you ready to dismount?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached up to her, placed his hands at her waist and lifted her from the sidesaddle. Her feet ached and prickled once set firmly on the ground. She wiggled her numb toes within her leather slippers.

  Sunset lit the depths of Alasdair’s eyes to rich brown. “Are you well, then, m’lady?” His low, intimate tone turned her insides to sweet plum pudding.

  “Yes, are you?”

  “Aye.”

  Awareness of him threatened to fluster her. “I thank you for doing this favor for me. ’Tis a grand service, indeed.”

  “You have done more than this for me.” He cupped her neck and stroked a thumb over her ear. “You risked your life to save mine when you dragged me off that battlefield.”

  Alasdair’s eyes grew too intense, and she dropped her gaze to that vulnerable, sensual hollow at the base of his throat. Had she ever kissed him there? No, she didn’t think so, but she wanted to.

  Nonsense. I must not kiss him anywhere, ever again. She glanced aside. I must think only of Rory and getting him back.

  She had to believe he was safe. Surely Southwick would not injure his son, though he might not treat him well. He might hit him or starve him as punishment. Rory was a little warrior and he might anger Southwick with attempts to escape or fight back. Southwick probably had him tied up and thrown across a saddle. Her sweet child was likely terrified beyond reason.

  She wanted to take her dagger to Southwick.

  ***

  Later that night, Alasdair lay in his bedroll looking up at the stars, thankful it was not raining. Except for Boyd, who took his turn at watch, the other men snored nearby—as well they should. It had been hours since they’d all gone to bed.

  Rory and Gwyneth disturbed Alasdair’s thoughts. He prayed the lad was unhurt. No matter what it took, he would return him to his mother.

  And Gwyneth…by the saints, at some point, she had become as important to him as his next heartbeat. It had nothing to do with her saving his life over a month ago, and everything to do with the way she’d burrowed into his soul.

  In truth, he was the greatest imbecile for letting her steal his heart away. He’d never wanted to feel such depth of emotion for a woman again. When Leitha died, he’d almost died with her. A long time passed before he’d felt alive again. Maybe he hadn’t truly reclaimed his life until Gwyneth saved it.

  To look at her was to want her in every way—in his bed, in his life, in his heart. Though he knew he was foolish for wanting her love, that was the thing he craved most.

  “Alasdair,” Gwyneth whispered in the darkness, almost as if conjured by his thoughts.

  He sat up. The dim light of the dying fire revealed her standing in the opening of her tent, not twenty feet away. She wore a glowing-white smock with her arisaid draped over her shoulders. She looked like a dream come to life.

  “Aye. What is it?”

  “I cannot sleep.”

  “Nor can I.”

  She shivered and rubbed her arms. What was on her mind? Did she want to talk? Or something else?

  “Come. Cover up here.” Alasdair lifted the edge of his woolen blanket.

  He would welcome her into his bed by any means, fair or foul. He craved the softness of her skin and the whisper of her words.

  She glanced at the men lying closer to the fire.

  “They’re asleep.” Alasdair darted a look toward Boyd where he stood watch on the far side of the small clearing. His back was to the fire, and none of them moved.

  Now that the tempting idea of her sharing his bed had invaded his consciousness, Alasdair had to fulfill it, whether she wanted innocent sleep or something deliciously naughty.

  Gwyneth crept toward him and slid beneath his plaid. Happiness and arousal flowed through him with the warmth of fine whisky. She snuggled up against him, pressed her face to his chest…and burst into tears.

  Damnation.

  Alasdair wrapped her in his arms. “Och, Gwyneth, I ken how hard this is on you.”

  “Yes.”

  After a few moments, she wiped her eyes and nose on a handkerchief she’d brought with her and apparently tried to calm herself with deep breaths—warm breaths that fanned against his bare chest and teased him.

  He didn’t know whether he was relieved or irritated that he now wore trews. ’Twas more convenient if he had to rise in a hurry. But not convenient for spontaneous lovemaking.

  Gwyneth was an emotional woman needing comfort and reassurance that her son would be safe. But he was an aroused man wanting the woman he cared deeply for—nay, indeed, the woman he loved.

  “’Twill be all right.” He stroked a hand over her back and up into the silkiness of her loosened hair. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  “We must get Rory back. He’s all I have.”

  “Aye, and we will. You’re needing a wee bit of faith.” Though he was certain Rory meant more to her than anyone or anything, he wasn’t all she had. Can you not see that you have me as well? If you would but open your eyes.

  “What if we don’t? Southwick is a powerful man. The courts will always side with the man.”

  “But Rory’s illegitimate. ’Haps that will give you the advantage.” Alasdair hoped what he said was true. Regardless, he needed to reassure Gwyneth and take away some of her worries.

  “Why can Southwick not simply marry someone else and have legitimate children?”

  “’Twould be the best solution. But mayhap there is a reason he didn’t tell us.”

  “He doesn’t even know or love Rory. I’ve raised him almost single-handedly. He’s my son. The reason I push forward every day.” Her whisper held the fierceness of a tigress protecting her cub.

  “You’re a good mother,” Alasdair murmured. Aye, why could you not be the mother of my own children?

  “I wager you’re the only one who thinks so.”

  He kissed her forehead. “It doesn’t matter what other people think. We both ken the truth. You’re the most devoted mother I’ve ever seen.” He stroked his fingertips over her cheek and chin, relishing the feel of her velvety skin. “Aside from that, you’re a healer. You oft ignore your own needs to care for others. Even strangers, like me, when you saved my life. You didn’t ken whether I would be friend or enemy when I awoke, but you didn’t let that scare you. You’re a strong woman, Gwyneth. The bravest I ever met.”

  “You had a peace treaty, so I knew you would be kind. I had a feeling, even before you awoke, that you were a good man.”

  “Och, I’m not that good.” If he were such an angel, he wouldn’t be thinking of ravishing her right here and now, outside on the ground with several other men within speaking distance.

  His body tightened and yearned for her, but alas he must fight his urges.

  Through her thin smock, her breasts pressed against his bare chest, near stripping away his sanity.

  She kissed the base
of his throat, and pleasure flowed through him like melted butter mixed with honey.

  “You’re warm,” she whispered.

  Either he was daft or that was an invitation. “And you’re soft.” He stroked his palm up from her waist and over her breast through the material. Her nipple hardened. “Except right here,” he murmured and rolled her nipple beneath his thumb.

  She gasped. In the abandon he loved, she thrust her breast into his hand. When she lost control, he couldn’t help himself. He moved down and licked her nipple through the fabric, plucked it between his lips. The earthy scent of woman with a hint of green herbs filled his senses. Lust washed over him. She lay flat on her back and buried her hands in his hair, embracing him close.

  He glanced around and found that none of the men had moved.

  “Hold onto my shoulders.” He lifted her as he rose and carried her to the tent. Inside, he lowered her to her bedroll and woolen blanket.

  Once he’d covered them again, he kissed her, deep and thorough, relishing the wet, hot feel of her mouth and her unique taste. He loved the way she followed his mouth and sucked at his tongue.

  What a rogue he was for taking advantage of her vulnerable emotions. But he wanted her. Forever. And he would use any means to tie her to him. He wanted his bairn growing in her belly. Not just because he needed an heir, but more, he never wanted her to leave him. He would have an excuse to make her stay. That probably made him a desperate bastard and a barbarian, but he didn’t care. His clan, his lands, his title—those were his duty. But Gwyneth was his delight. His reason to smile.

  He kissed a trail down her neck and plucked at her nipple through the material again. She whimpered and arched her back. He would have this wretched garment off her.

  Stroking a hand up her thigh, he pushed the linen upward to expose her hips. She lifted her upper body, and he pulled the smock over her head.

  So much silky, bare skin. The allure near made him dizzy. He didn’t know where he wanted to touch her first, so he touched her everywhere, smoothing his palms along her feminine curves. She purred against his lips. When he grazed his fingertips between her legs, he found her wet. She moaned, and he ached to plunge to her depths.

  She was the most eager lover he’d ever had. Surely, she craved him as much as he craved her, by simple touch or look. After he unfastened his trews and pushed them off, he parted her legs and rolled between them.