“Gwyneth?” The voice belonged to Alasdair.
She rose, wrapped her arisaid about her and opened the door.
He stood in the corridor, his large frame overpowering the small space. Even in the dimness, the dark circles beneath his eyes told her he probably had not slept last night. “We need to board ship within the hour. Southwick and his party, including Rory, sailed day before yesterday.”
***
Two days later, Gwyneth stood on the threshold of Southwick’s London residence. Alasdair’s presence behind her did little to calm her nerves.
“La—” Gwyneth swallowed past the constriction in her dry throat. “Lady Gwyneth Carswell and Laird Alasdair MacGrath, earl and chief of MacGrath, to see Lord Southwick, if you please.” Not for more than six years had she called herself Lady. And she felt like a fraud doing so now.
The stuffy, gray-haired steward in blue and gold brocade livery gave a curt bow and widened the carved walnut door.
Because Lachlan had several friends and connections in London, he’d soon learned Southwick was at his home and an unidentified boy with him.
The steward ushered them across the pale gray marble floor, opened a door off the main hall and motioned them inside. “Pray, wait here. I will notify his lordship of your presence,” he said in a nasal voice.
Gwyneth stepped into a huge book-lined library, three times the size of Alasdair’s cozy one at Kintalon. With its gilt furnishings, tapestries and dark wood furniture, the room had a regal quality that further increased her jitters. The scent of musty, leather-bound tomes usually calmed her, but this time the smell reminded her she was back in England. Back where she’d made the decision that had forever altered her life.
Wearing his finest blue and black plaid kilt, along with a midnight blue doublet, Alasdair stepped close to her. “I still say we should’ve stolen Rory back.” His eyes gleamed dark and dangerous.
“No. I would not have this lead to bloodshed. We must work this out civilly.”
“As you wish.” His hand rested on the shining silver basket-hilt of his sword at his left side. A sheathed, brass-hilted dirk hung from his belt, and he had a smaller sgian dubh hidden inside his doublet. The tension emanating from his body told her he expected trouble and was ready for it.
“You do not think civility is possible, do you?”
Alasdair lifted a brow and let his gaze wander over the ornate furnishings and along the bookcases. “I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”
After the whirlwind of travel they had engaged in for the last week, the room around them was too still and quiet.
She glanced up and found Alasdair watching her.
“I thank you for coming with me.”
“I wouldn’t want you to arrive here alone. No telling what Southwick will do.”
I must see Rory. Was he terrified? Hungry? Hurt? Her gaze kept darting to the door. She crossed her arms over her queasy stomach. She had been truly sick with worry since they’d left Edinburgh and had not been able to keep a bite down.
“You’re lovely as heather in full bloom,” Alasdair murmured.
His impulsive compliment created a burst of heat in her chest. She caught the longing in his eyes. It too closely matched that in her soul.
“Oh, heavens.” She surveyed the emerald damask skirts and bodice she wore, pilfered from Alasdair’s wife’s trunk. “I thank you.” She should say something to him in return, to let him see a touch of the esteem and admiration she held for him. “And you, sir, look very handsome and noble.”
A half smile tugged at his mouth. His eyes gleamed with amusement and warmth.
What was Alasdair doing flirting with her? Trying to distract her, help her relax? She appreciated his efforts but she wanted this meeting over with. She wanted her son back.
“Good lord, I wish he would hurry.” She paced across the multicolored Turkish carpet and back.
“If we don’t emerge within the hour, Lachlan and the other men will be barging in.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
The paneled oak door opened, and the steward showed in Gwyneth’s father.
She snapped her gaping mouth closed and tried to gather her composure in the face of Lloyd Carswell, earl of Darrow. She had never thought to see him again after he’d disowned her with scathing insults and glowers of pure loathing. His hair had turned a paler gray in her absence, and the bitter lines about his eyes and mouth were deeper.
“A good day to you, Father.” She curtseyed.
“Gwyneth,” he said in a sullen tone. His gaze darted over her shoulder to Alasdair.
“How are you? How is Mother…and everyone?”
“Very well.”
The door swung open again and Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick pranced in like a peacock in bright turquoise and yellow. “My most humble apologies for my late arrival.” He gave a flourishing bow.
Gwyneth wanted to leap forward and strangle him, but restrained herself. “Where is Rory? I must see him at once.”
“He is well and fit.” Southwick’s gaze strayed to Alasdair. “I see you have brought your mastiff along.”
“You stole my son!”
Southwick smiled, resembling a blond, pointed-chin weasel. “Ah, my lady, do calm yourself, if you please.”
His disregard for her wishes to see Rory magnified her anger. I’ll kill him!
“You have developed a bitter tongue, Gwyneth,” her father chided.
I have every right to my bitter tongue, Father, she wanted to shout. But doing so would not help her cause. She must play the part of a ‘Lady.’
Her father’s gaze raked her in a disdainful way, then shot to Alasdair. “And you must be MacGrath.”
“Alasdair MacGrath, earl and chief of MacGrath,” he said in a commanding voice. He came forward and shook her father’s hand.
“A Scottish earl?” Her father frowned. “You neglected to tell me this, Southwick.”
Alasdair released Lord Darrow’s hand and stepped back beside Gwyneth.
Southwick blew out a puff of air and flung his hand upward. “It is of no import. As you can see by his apparel, he’s a Highland barbarian.”
“He is no barbarian,” Gwyneth said with an intentional bite to her genteel tone. “He is a far more civilized gentleman than you.”
“Well, I’m sure you know how very civilized he is.” Southwick sniffed.
She glanced aside and found Alasdair’s fierce gaze stabbing toward the smaller man. She sensed the tightening of Alasdair’s muscles, as if he were barely restrained from launching himself at Southwick, blades flying.
“Let’s get to the point,” her father interrupted. “I must be on my way. Shall we sit down, Southwick?”
“By all means.” With much drama, he waved them all toward a sitting area. His strong, perfumed sweat odor wafted to her, and she wanted to hold her breath.
Alasdair claimed the high-backed bench with Gwyneth. The other two men occupied individual leather cushioned chairs.
Gwyneth’s father glared at her. “Against my sound advice, Southwick wishes to claim and support your bastard.”
She fought back the flush of mortification that crept up from her chest. She would not let her father’s judgmental disdain affect her. “I know that, and I have nothing against Rory inheriting if you wish to give him property, but he is too young to leave me now. I propose that I raise him until he is at least twelve, then he can go to boarding school.”
“Twelve? Good lord.” Southwick snorted. “That would be much too late to begin his training. He is no longer a babe. And indeed he has shocking and ghastly manners and speaks like a barbaric Scot. He requires a proper education if he is to live up to my expectations.”
His expectations? As if his expectations were the only ones that mattered. What about her expectations of him, which he’d miserably failed in, abandoning her to poverty like the coward he was.
“I’m providing Rory with an excellent education. When he is
old enough, he will be prepared for university.”
Southwick smirked. “That is simply not enough. He requires proper clothing and such.”
“I have provided for him for almost six years. And as you can see, he’s in fine shape. I can continue to provide for him until he is older. I have full legal rights to keep him until he is at least seven.”
“A future English marquess should be raised in England, to learn the English way of life. He cannot learn that in Scotland.”
What could she say to that? She wanted Rory to be raised in England, but not by Southwick. How could she extract herself from this pit?
Gwyneth’s father snorted. “Southwick, I daresay you will have a devil of a time convincing King James to accept your bastard as your heir.”
“Do not worry over that, Darrow. Rest assured I have the king’s ear.” Southwick turned to Gwyneth. “I understand you are a widow now. Did your husband leave you any money or property?”
She almost gave a bitter laugh at that ridiculous notion. “No. The point is not what material possessions I can give my son, but the love and care I can give him. Which you cannot.”
“My lady,” he said in a condescending tone and flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “I have enough money to hire ten governesses to care for him if that is what’s required. You would have him grow into a tender mama’s boy.”
“No, he is strong and brave. Laird MacGrath has provided him with swordplay lessons.” Though she’d hated the lesson she’d interrupted, she felt at liberty to use it now to plead her case.
“Of the barbarous Highland variety, no doubt. That will not serve him well when he is marquess of Southwick. He must learn the skills and manners of an English nobleman.”
She clenched her fists on her lap. No argument she had was sufficient for them to see her side. “Rory is illegitimate. Therefore you have no say over him! You didn’t claim him when he was conceived, and now it is six years too late.”
“Well.” Southwick lifted his pale brows and smoothed his slim fingers over the turquoise silk taffeta of his sleeve. “You could marry me.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Marry you?” Gwyneth couldn’t believe what her ears heard coming out of Southwick’s mouth.
“Have you lost your senses, Southwick?” Lord Darrow demanded.
Her father hated her. He believed her such a horrible person that he would question the marquess’s sanity for wanting to marry her. She couldn’t stand to look at her own father a moment longer, and switched her gaze to Alasdair.
He had turned to a statue of marble beside her, and yet through his eyes she saw a destructive storm rampaging inside him. She feared he might slay Southwick where he sat.
“My wife died six months ago,” Southwick said, eyeing Alasdair with a bit of concern. “I don’t feel like marrying a flighty young chit. Gwyneth, you are my son’s mother. It is only right.”
“Why did you not do this six years ago when I told you I was with child?” She could not comprehend how different her life would have been. Not better, but different.
He shrugged. “It did not suit me at the time.”
Such was the marquess’s good fortune in life. He did not even feel compelled to come up with a decent excuse for his cowardice.
“You were greedy, wanting a duke’s daughter instead.”
Southwick sent her a smirking half-smile. “Yes.”
“Marrying me now will not make Rory legitimate.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Of course she wouldn’t marry the snake. But what would he do about Rory if she refused him?
Gwyneth slid another glance toward Alasdair where he sat in silence. This time his gaze locked upon her. The full impact of how he felt was clear on his face. He had asked her to marry him. In his native tongue, he had told her he loved her. She loved him, as well.
Of course, she had never loved Southwick. That had been a stupid, childish infatuation. But the emotion Alasdair stirred up inside her had a life of its own. He loved her in truth. Not just in the heat of passion.
“It will do you no good to look to your lover for his approval. He will not want to share you, I don’t imagine.”
Alasdair turned his cutting glare toward Southwick. “The lady is capable of making her own decisions.”
“I thought you worked for him,” her father bellowed, his glare filled with disdain.
Whether she was Alasdair’s paramour or his servant, she knew it was all the same in her father’s eyes. She could sink no lower.
“I did. I was his temporary housekeeper. And I’m grateful to him for allowing me to earn my keep.”
He grunted with disgust. “You should’ve stayed put at the MacIrwin’s holdings. He is your blood kin, and that’s where you belong.”
Dare she say she didn’t belong anywhere in the Highlands? She belonged here in England with her family. But no, that was her fault. Everything was. “Your illustrious cousin Donald wanted to kill me, and Laird MacGrath provided me protection.”
“Why should MacIrwin want to kill you? I’m paying him for your upkeep.”
“I knew it!” Why else would her barbaric cousin allow her to live on his lands? He would do anything for coin. The money was likely from her dowry.
“And you’re showing precious little gratitude for it,” her father grumbled.
Gratitude? Why should she be thankful for being outcast and exiled to the remote and barbaric Highlands, never to be seen again…at least she was certain he’d hoped never to see her again. She was equally certain he’d hoped she would die from the elements or starvation and her bastard with her.
“What did you do to enrage MacIrwin?” her father asked.
“I saved the life of his mortal enemy, Laird MacGrath. After Donald and his men left him for dead.”
Her father’s glare shifted to Alasdair.
“Ah. How sweet,” Southwick mocked. “They’ve saved each other’s lives. I do believe they are in love.”
Gwyneth dropped her gaze to Alasdair’s fist, clenched by his leg, and tried to fight down the embarrassment that both her father and Southwick knew the true nature of Gwyneth’s association with Alasdair.
“’Tis not your concern,” Alasdair seethed.
“It is my concern if my future wife now carries a Scots bastard. And she better hope she does not, or she will never see Rory again.”
How dare Southwick say such? “I do not! I am not with child!” Gwyneth said.
Alasdair’s fury became palpable, his muscles tense and his breathing faster. She was thankful for his control but feared he might lose it at any moment.
“Good.” Southwick’s speculative gaze darted back and forth between her and Alasdair. “If you want to be with Rory, you will marry me,” he said nonchalantly. “I will be petitioning the king to claim Rory as my heir and to obtain full legal custody. You had best cooperate because you do not have a leg to stand on, my lady.”
“You cannot mean it!” Even her arms and legs ached with the emotion and denial. “He is my son alone! You disowned us both. You would have nothing to do with us. Not until it’s convenient for you. You destroyed my life, and now you want to take the last thing I have left! The only thing that matters to me.”
Southwick steepled his fingers before him and observed her with urbane coolness. “I do not think Rory is the only thing that matters to you. If he was, you would be falling on your knees at my feet, thanking me for proposing.”
“What have I ever done to cause you to hate me so? I refuse to marry you because you have treated me lower than gutter trash. You cast me aside when I needed you most.”
He released a long-suffering sigh. “Such is the lot of women.”
Alasdair shoved to his feet. “’Tis time to go!” he growled and stomped across the floor.
Rooted to her chair and feeling torn, Gwyneth shook her head. “I cannot leave Rory.”
His back to them, Alasdair halted and clenched his fists at his sides. �
�M’lady, if we don’t leave now, I won’t be responsible for my actions!” His accent thickened.
A knock sounded at the door, and the steward poked his head in. “My lord, pray pardon. We have more visitors. Scotsmen to be sure.”
Alasdair strode into the entry hall, the steward scuttling out of his way.
Oh, please don’t leave me with these wolves, Alasdair.
“What a ruffian,” Southwick muttered with a grimace. “The choice is yours, Gwyneth. If I see fit, I can provide for you beyond your wildest imaginings. You would never want for anything. Perhaps we could even have a few more children.”
She quaked with revulsion. If he saw fit? He would like as not send her to Bedlam to get her out of the way.
“Humph,” her father said. “Everyone knows you cannot sire any more children since your illness.”
Southwick glared at Darrow. “How dare you, old man?”
“Oh, I dare. I dare! You wretched little peacock.”
“Upon my faith! That’s why you want Rory.” Gwyneth leapt to her feet, but the arguing men ignored her. Rory was Southwick’s last chance for an heir of his own loins. And she knew his pride demanded nothing less.
“You two deserve each other.” Her father shoved himself to his feet. “The whore and the unmanned peacock. Perfect!” He strode from the room.
Red-faced, Southwick flicked his hand. “What of it? I don’t need the crusty old earl’s backing. King James is right fond of me.”
***
In the foyer, the earl of Darrow strode past Alasdair and his men without so much as a glance. The crotchety buffoon disappeared out the door.
“That bastard is Gwyneth’s father,” Alasdair muttered to Lachlan in Gaelic. “But Southwick is a thousand times worse. I swear, I want to kill him. He is naught but sheep caochan.”
Never had he been so possessed of a killing fury and yet unable to act upon it. If he said or did the wrong thing, he could ruin Gwyneth’s chances of getting Rory back legally. He was willing to restrain himself for her alone.
“You must remain calm,” Lachlan said.
“Aye.” Alasdair tried to shake off his anger. “I must go back in there. We will be out in a short while.”
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