My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  A mist of cool, drizzling rain greeted them the next evening as they reached Edinburgh. All was gray and drab in Auld Reekie—the grimy streets, the tall buildings, the sky with its low-hanging clouds. Even Edinburgh Castle on the steep hill above them looked mournful and bleak with its gray stone walls. The foul air of the smoke-filled city and its sewage near turned Alasdair’s stomach. He glanced back at his drenched and bedraggled party. The rain matched everything else on this miserable trip.

  His men thought him a heartless rogue, bent on torturing horses and debauching women. He had done neither. And it irked him like a thistle between his trews and arse that they would believe such of him.

  Angus had been right; they couldn’t reach Edinburgh as quickly as Alasdair had hoped. Which meant, in all likelihood, that Southwick now had an even greater lead.

  Alasdair drew up at a coaching inn on Grassmarket and dismounted.

  Since yesterday morn, Gwyneth had avoided him. She was polite and civil but not receptive to any private conversation or intimacy.

  He’d told Angus he shouldn’t have said anything to Gwyneth about marriage.

  “Someone needed to tell her,” his obstinate cousin had replied. “As much swiving as the two of you are doing, you need to be getting hand-fasted or married. What’ll you do if a bairn results?”

  “Let me handle it. ’Tis not your concern,” he’d said.

  Now, neither Angus nor Gwyneth was very friendly toward him. He would not propose to her again until he was certain she would say yes and until Rory was safe, but if she wanted him in her bed, he would readily comply. Betrothal or not, each time he made love to her, he further tied her to him. Perhaps she didn’t realize that.

  He would prove to her he could straighten things out with Southwick, and recover Rory. Though he didn’t yet know how he would do it, he had to. He refused to let her and the lad down.

  Alasdair approached Gwyneth sitting atop her mare. When he reached up to help her dismount, it was obvious she was trying to avoid looking into his eyes. She didn’t want even that small connection, but he felt her body tremble when he touched her.

  By the saints, I shall have you, Gwyneth, body and heart. Don’t doubt it.

  But he would not tell her that; he would show her. He would prove they were right for each other.

  As he lifted her down, her narrow waist and slight weight within his hands bombarded him with instinctive urges, to hold her close and protect her. Comfort her. To carry her to the nearest bed for a repeat performance of two nights ago. Deep pleasure and devotion. He would show her a love so pure as to be blinding, if only she would let him.

  Instead, he set her to her feet and pulled away to instruct two of the men to take care of the horses.

  Within the inn’s dining room, their party ate decent mutton stew, cheese and bread. The men shoveled the food in as if they had not eaten in weeks. Alasdair noticed, however, that Gwyneth picked at her food. Hating the worried slant of her brows, he vowed to take it away and set everything aright. Vowed to make her smile. Deep down, he prayed her lack of appetite and her bout of sickness early that morn signified something else—that she carried his child.

  A half hour later, after he had handled the business of accommodations for their party and sent two of his men to find Lachlan, Alasdair climbed the narrow, dark stairway and knocked at Gwyneth’s door.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  “’Tis me.”

  She opened the door slowly and stepped back.

  Her vivid blue eyes, wide with caution, provided the only bright color in drab Edinburgh, but he forced himself to look away, toward the newly kindled blaze. He approached the small fireplace, hoping the heat would dry his clothing a wee bit.

  “I’m thinking you would like a bath after being on the road so long, m’lady.” He admitted he was trying to get back into her good graces.

  “That would be lovely.” Gwyneth cleared her throat. “Are you…staying in this room as well?”

  He glanced back at her, for a moment perversely enjoying her discomfort. “I told the proprietor we were married.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Why? Why did you do that?”

  “You’re a woman in the company of six men. ’Tis better this way. No one will question your position.”

  She frowned, apparently mulling that over. He was right, and she knew it. He hated the mockery of pretending to be married to her when he wanted it in truth.

  “You mean to sleep here, then?” she asked.

  He couldn’t tell whether she hoped he would or wouldn’t sleep there. How could she look so innocent, virginal and demure of a sudden, when she had been such a wanton in his arms? Wallowing in every carnal thing he’d done to her.

  An image came to him, of her on top, riding him into the mattress, her eyes closed, head thrown back. Almost as she had done in the garden, but this time she’d be naked. Her creamy skin lit by the sun and her long, unbound hair tickling his legs. Her expression naught but pure rapture. He hardened instantly, wanting the image to be true so badly, sharp desire trapped his breath.

  “’Haps I will sleep here. ’Tis not as if we haven’t shared a bed afore.”

  A pink flush crept over her face and her jaw hardened. “I owe you more than I can ever repay, so if you want me to…warm your bed in exchange for getting Rory back, I will comply.”

  How could she think him so low? He had asked her to marry him twice. What more did she require to know he was honorable?

  “What are you blathering on about? You saved my life, m’lady! I’m the one who’s owing you, and repaying you. And even if I didn’t, I would still help you recover Rory. Aside from that, you won’t be warming my bed in exchange for anything, except the mutual pleasure between us.”

  Damnation, he’d let his anger get the better of him. His tone and glare had surely been harsher than he’d intended. Drawing in a deep breath, he tried to swallow his irritation.

  “Well, I have no money,” she said. “I cannot even pay for this room and—”

  He stepped before her and tilted up her face, stroking his fingertips over her blushing cheeks. “Listen to me, Gwyneth,” he said in a rough whisper. “I would give you anything I have. Can you not see that?”

  Beyond a trace of tears, the blue flame of her eyes burned into his. Her small hand fisted in his doublet, tugging him closer. He lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers. Slowly he tasted her lips, and between. Such female temptation she was. Luscious torment. He wanted to lick her head to toe, devour her in a few hungry bites. Hands at her waist, he pressed her close, against his hard shaft. He could not overcome his obsession to have her. In every way.

  Loud pounding on the door startled them. Gwyneth jumped back and pressed a hand to her lips, her darkened eyes filled with guilt.

  “Muire Mhàthair,” Alasdair muttered, turned his back to her and sucked in a deep breath. He tried to shut down his arousal and think of something unappealing. Damnation. Nothing was coming to him.

  The knock sounded again.

  Thankful his doublet was long enough over his trews to hide his erection, he wrested the door open.

  Lachlan stood there, grinning like a mouse in a loaf.

  “Ciamar a tha sibh, mo bhràthar?” Alasdair clasped his hand.

  “Glé mhath.” Lachlan came in and bowed to Gwyneth. “Lady Gwyneth. Don’t be worrying your pretty little head about Rory. We’ll be getting him back afore long. Aye, brother?”

  “That we will.” Alasdair wondered at the way Lachlan addressed Gwyneth. Their clansmen must have filled him in on all the latest, including her appropriate title. And, no doubt, that Alasdair had spent a night in her tent. He dreaded the teasing Lachlan was sure to have in store for him.

  “Have you any inkling where the scoundrel is what snatched him up?”

  “We haven’t seen a sign of Southwick or Rory since we left Kintalon. All we ken for a certainty is that they passed through Aviemore three hours before we did. Aft
er that, they must have ridden like the devil. They may be here in town, or proceeded on to England.”

  “They may have taken a ship to London. ’Twould be the fastest.”

  “Aye, and ’haps we should as well.”

  “We’ll go arrange it.” Lachlan faced Gwyneth. “You’ll be happy to know I’ve found you a governess position here in Edinburgh.”

  Nay! The feeling of a large stone smashing into Alasdair’s stomach near knocked him flat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gwyneth’s face brightened. “Surely you jest, sir. A position for me? Here in Edinburgh?”

  “Aye. Just outside the city.” Lachlan said. “Alasdair, you remember George MacAvoy, Baron Lunsford. He’s on the Privy Council now. He and his wife have three small lads and they’re wanting someone to tutor them.”

  Alasdair wanted to punch Lachlan in his smiling mouth.

  “They’re right good people, and I’m thinking ’twould be perfect—” Lachlan frowned at Alasdair. “What’s wrong?”

  “I would have a word with you downstairs,” Alasdair growled.

  “I thank you, Lachlan, for your help,” Gwyneth said.

  Lachlan bowed and opened the door.

  Alasdair followed him, then turned back. “I will have a hot bath sent up for you. Other than that, don’t open the door for anyone.”

  “I thank you.” She smiled—devil take it—because of Lachlan and the position.

  Alasdair slammed the door closed behind him.

  After speaking to a chamberlain about the bath, he followed his brother to a dim corner of the inn’s sparsely populated public room. Lachlan ordered two tankards of ale for them.

  “I ken what you’re snarling about,” Lachlan said. “But let me explain. As I told you afore, ’tis safest for everyone—Gwyneth, Rory, and the entire MacGrath clan—if she leaves the Highlands.”

  “You shouldn’t have gotten involved in this,” Alasdair snapped. “I’m having a hard enough time as it is, and you go and make it worse.”

  “’Twas because of her the MacIrwins burned the village.”

  “She saved your son’s life.” Alasdair wanted to smash his fist onto the thick planks of the oak table but restrained himself.

  “Aye, and now I’m showing her my appreciation by helping her get something she wants. ’Twas what she asked of me in repayment.”

  Alasdair shook his head and stared into his ale. Hellfire, now what was he going to do? Even if he did recover Rory, Gwyneth would likely never marry him. Damn his lack-witted brother.

  “I ken you have seduced her, but you can find another lass to warm your bed. A less dangerous one.”

  “You have no inkling what you’re talking about!” All Lachlan knew of women was bedding them. Beyond the physical, he’d never had any feelings for one.

  “Sweeney and Boyd told me you stayed in her tent one night.” Lachlan sent him a devilish grin.

  “If you were not my brother, I would kick your daft arse all the way back to Kintalon and beyond. Hell, I might anyway.”

  Lachlan studied him with narrowed eyes. Then shook his head. “You’ve gone soft-pated over her.”

  His muscles tense with restraint, Alasdair hoped his glare would burn a hole through his brother. Lachlan wouldn’t be so damned cheerful if he’d just lost the person who brought his life into sharp, colorful focus and provided fuel to his soul.

  “She’s a bonny lass, to be sure. And if not for Donald MacIrwin, I’d want you to bring her back to Kintalon with you. Once Donald is arrested—if that ever happens—then you could come to Edinburgh and ask her to marry you.”

  “You’re naught but a lunatic. If she gets settled in Edinburgh with a family, she’ll not be interested in me anymore.”

  “Then you’re better off without her. If you must marry, you want a woman who is completely devoted to you.”

  “You ken muckle about marriage, so don’t be giving me advice on it.”

  Lachlan shrugged. “Very well.”

  Alasdair shoved his anger away for the moment and focused on another important issue. “Did you get an audience with the Privy Council yet?”

  “Aye.” Lachlan kept his voice low. “They are sending someone out with a message telling Donald MacIrwin and his son to appear before them here a fortnight hence.”

  “Good. I must schedule time to give my testimony as well.”

  “’Twould strengthen the case against them.”

  “As will the testimonies of other members of the clan.”

  Alasdair caught Lachlan up on the happenings at Kintalon since he had left, and they discussed the MacIrwin situation for the better part of an hour.

  “More ale,” Lachlan called out to the tapster, then turned his attention back to Alasdair. “I’m sorry about the predicament with Gwyneth. ’Haps ’twill work out in the end.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “If you keep sending her hot baths, flowers, comfits and such, I’m sure she’ll change her mind.” Lachlan smirked. “You have the sensibilities of a gentleman-husband.”

  “She got very wet and muddy in the rain. I wouldn’t want her to catch an ague.”

  Lachlan chuckled and raised his tankard. “Since most people think baths cause agues, ’tis a flimsy excuse to have a woman in your debt.”

  Alasdair sent his brother a hard stare.

  “Aye, I can see you’re calf-eyed over her.”

  “I cannot wait for the day you meet a lass who ties you up in so many knots you’ll never be free again.”

  “Och! How can you place such a curse upon me?” Lachlan’s expression was one of exaggerated insult and shock.

  “’Tis only a matter of time, I wager.”

  “Never mind that. There is something I’ve been wondering about. This knave who took Rory, am I to understand that he is Rory’s natural father?”

  “Aye.”

  “What of Baigh Shaw?”

  “Gwyneth married him after the fact, to give her son a name.”

  Lachlan raised his brows. “Ah. ’Tis not a terrible situation, then, is it? He may gift Rory with property one day.”

  “Aye, but ’tis likely Southwick will mistreat and abuse Rory. He slapped Gwyneth down once. I’m tempted to strangle him for that. She also said she has heard of him beating his servants and ’haps even killing one, but no one could prove it.”

  “Hell, you’re right then. The lad shouldn’t be with him, especially since he’s so young.”

  “I cannot let her down.”

  “You would do anything to make her happy, aye?”

  “I’ll do what I can. Southwick is a vile serpent. In truth, I cannot stand for him to take custody of wee Rory. I was tempted to sever Southwick’s limbs from his body when first I met him.”

  Lachlan snorted. “Mayhap you will get your chance. In the meantime, I will ride to the Newhaven docks and talk with some people I know to see if Southwick and his party have boarded a ship of late.”

  “I’ll go with you. How far is it?”

  “About two miles north. But what of the lady in her hot bath? Do you not want to check on her?” Lachlan winked.

  “Nay.” Alasdair stared into his ale, remembering the last bath of hers he had intruded on. She was temptation itself, her skin warm and damp, scented like flowers. Again, he would need to taste her essence, sweeter than honey, drugging like lotus. Och! He was daft, in truth.

  He wouldn’t impose upon her, mentally or physically, anymore.

  “And why not?” Lachlan asked.

  “All she will be thinking of is the damned tutoring position you’ve found for her.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve made your task harder, but I’m thinking you’re up for the challenge. A good swiving does soften up the lasses and make them look at you with dreamy eyes.”

  “You’re a goat.”

  Lachlan laughed and rose. “We should be on our way—if you’re certain you’d rather visit Newhaven than the room above stairs.”

  ***<
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  In her room, Gwyneth savored the warm bath water and the soothing fragrance of the chamomile, bog myrtle and wild thyme soap she’d brought with her. A thrill trailed along her nerves. Lachlan had found her a tutoring position. Thanks be to God. Now they had only to recover Rory, and she would have what she wanted.

  They would get him back. There was no other alternative.

  She imagined herself teaching three small boys, along with Rory, at a beautiful country estate just outside Edinburgh. It would be a good life.

  But Alasdair’s absence would linger like a great, dark cloud in her bright day. She would miss him. She would have to lock her heart away in a chunk of ice. But she must, for Rory’s sake.

  She lathered her hair. What other man would have sent her up a bath? None.

  He was willing to risk life and limb to help her recover Rory, even willing to pay for this trip, their lodgings and food. If they took a ship to London, that would be another cost. Perhaps it was nothing to him, being an earl. But she cringed, thinking of the money he was spending on her account. She felt an obligation to repay him the money, and she would once she earned wages.

  Unlike Donald, Baigh, or her father, Alasdair supported her emotionally. He did not wish to strip away her strength, but reinforced it with his own. This was something completely foreign to her. And because of it, her gratitude ran so deep it hurt her not to be able to give him everything he asked of her—and she would, if it were in her power. But it wasn’t. Her responsibility to Rory superseded everything, even her own heartbreak.

  After her bath, she dried her hair before the hearth, recalling the night she had sat on Alasdair’s lap while he combed his fingers through the snarled strands.

  How tempting he was.

  How I love him.

  Tears dripped onto her cheeks. She wished he would knock on her door.

  She waited what seemed like hours, her hair long since dry, then finally crawled beneath the covers of the bed. She was alone. It was no more than she’d asked for. She didn’t have Rory nor Alasdair to hold. Her throat ached, and her tears soaked into the pillow.

  When next she became aware, knocking sounded on her door. Dawn light filtered through the small window.