After Lachlan and his men retreated out the front door, Alasdair returned to the library.
Southwick jumped to his feet. Alasdair almost smiled at the fear that shone on the Englishman’s face.
Aye, you’d best fear me, for I have plans for you. How dare the whoreson treat Gwyneth with such scorn?
When Southwick had mentioned Gwyneth carrying his Scots bastard, he’d wanted to strangle the swine. Aye, most likely she did carry his bairn, but it would not be a bastard. He would marry her before long, of that he was determined.
Gwyneth’s face was pale as blanched linen. Wondering what had been said in his absence, Alasdair strode forward and stood beside her near the fireplace. She darted him a glance of gratitude. He hoped his presence made her feel marginally safer.
Gwyneth crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to see Rory now,” she said in a strong voice. Alasdair was glad she was holding up so well.
“I will have your decision first,” Southwick demanded.
Her decision? Was he back to the ridiculous proposal of marriage? She had already told him she wouldn’t marry him. He prayed she hadn’t said something to give the knave hope she might change her mind. Alasdair’s own helplessness infuriated him. He couldn’t command anyone to do anything, as he was used to. Gwyneth had to make her own decision. And her only consideration was Rory. Not Alasdair.
He hated himself for his selfishness. But he couldn’t make himself stop loving her.
It seemed Gwyneth had been holding her breath when she inhaled deeply. “I will give it to you tomorrow.”
Tomorrow! Damnation, you will tell him “no” tomorrow!
Southwick sighed. “Very well. You can see my son now, but I’m staying in the room.”
Gwyneth glared at Southwick as if she would kill him herself.
Would you like to borrow my dagger, m’lady?
Southwick opened the door and murmured a few words to the steward. Two armed footmen entered, eyeing Alasdair with trepidation, and stood guard. He sent them a snarl-like smile. Southwick then sauntered across the room and poured himself a drink.
“Would either of you care for sherry?” he asked Gwyneth and Alasdair.
They both declined.
But I will be happy to shove the bottle up your arse.
Southwick raised his small crystal glass to them and downed a large swig.
Gwyneth pressed her eyes closed and held her face in her hands as if she had a terrible headache.
“Are you feeling well?” Alasdair murmured to her. Of course she wasn’t, but he wanted her to know he was there for her. Though he could do naught at the moment like he wished to, he understood what she felt.
Her eyes met his. Her raw fear showed through clearly.
“You two stop whispering and making moon eyes at each other. You sicken me!” Southwick said.
“A mhic an uilc,” Alasdair said, wishing he could tell him exactly what he thought in the tongue he understood.
“I allow no swine language spoken in my house.”
“Cac. Bidh ceannach agad air.”
Before Southwick could whine any further about his use of Gaelic, the door creaked open and Rory stuck his head around the door. “Ma!” The wee lad bounded forward and leapt into her arms.
“Oh, Rory, I missed you so.” She caught and held him tightly. Tears glistened on her cheeks.
Fortunately for Southwick, the lad, dressed in English style garments, didn’t look any worse for wear.
“I missed you too, Ma! I want to go home.” Rory then noticed Alasdair. “Laird Alasdair!”
He moved toward the lad.
Rory clamored into his arms, and Alasdair held him like he might his own long lost son. He fought back the tightening of his throat. “How are they treating you, lad?”
“I don’t like it here,” Rory declared in his high-pitched voice. “I want to go home, back to Kintalon.”
That the lad considered Kintalon his home clutched at Alasdair’s heart. “Aye, I know you do.” And I will be taking you, all in due time.
Rory glared at Southwick. “I don’t want him to be my da. I want it to be you, Alasdair.”
“Och.” The tenderness he felt for the lad intensified. Rory liked him that well? This was almost more than he could comprehend.
“Why, you little—” Southwick slammed down his glass and took two steps forward.
Rory tightened his arms around Alasdair’s neck.
“You won’t hurt the lad!” he warned, just wishing the weasel would try it. That would give him a good reason to finish him off now.
“Or you’ll what?”
“He’ll run you through! You English whoreson!” the lad said.
“Rory!” Gwyneth gasped.
Southwick’s face turned purple. “I see what the fine Scot is teaching him!”
Alasdair bit back a grin at the lad’s courage. “Nay, he taught me that one.”
Rory smiled at Alasdair and the first ray of happiness he’d felt that day shined through him.
He mussed Rory’s hair. “He’s a good lad. The best I’ve ever seen.”
“Put my son down,” Southwick commanded, but Alasdair ignored him.
“He does not know you,” Gwyneth said.
“Well, I intend to get to know him. That’s why I’ll have custody. To teach him some manners. And teach him how to be English.”
“He has manners. But you’ve scared him. You haven’t treated him with kindness, as Laird MacGrath has.”
“We are good swordsmen, are we not, Rory?” Alasdair asked.
“Aye.” The lad beamed at him. “Cho luath ri seabhag.”
As fast as a hawk, indeed. Alasdair grinned.
“I will not have my son talking like a filthy, heathen Highlander!” The words exploded from Southwick’s mouth.
Rory jumped, his wide eyes focusing on the marquess.
And you are a dung-covered mongrel, Alasdair wanted to retort, along with several other worse insults, but ’twas best to hold his tongue in front of the lad.
“I will have your answer to my marriage proposal in the morn. Come, Rory.” Southwick held out his hand. “And why the hell did you give him such a name as Rory?”
Gwyneth narrowed her eyes at the man. “I was banished to the Highlands, and I wanted my son to fit in.”
Alasdair set Rory on his feet, but the lad clung to him, then hid behind his leg. “I don’t want to go with you. I want to stay with Ma and Alasdair.”
“Rory, do not make me angry.” His face red and jaw clenched, Southwick gave a false smile.
“Come, we will take you to the room you’ve been using. Show us the way.” Gwyneth held out her hand to Rory.
He refused to release Alasdair’s hand and the two led him from the room and across the foyer. They climbed a wide oak stairway to the second floor.
Alasdair felt he had a family of his own—Gwyneth his wife and Rory his son. He couldn’t let Southwick steal them away from him when he’d only now realized they were a family.
“I slept here last night.” Rory released their hands and opened a wide door. The bedchamber was so large it would stretch half the length of the library they had been in. And the monstrous four-poster bed was sure to swallow the lad.
“’Tis a fine room, Rory.” Alasdair tried to sound happier than he felt.
“I don’t like it. There’s naught to play with and I can’t go outside.”
That reminded Alasdair…he dug into his sporran and pulled out a small wooden horse. “I carved this for you.”
Rory beamed and took the animal. “Oh, I thank you, Alasdair.” He bounced on his toes, then knelt and galloped the wee horse across the floor.
Gwyneth glanced back at Alasdair, affection and raw emotion in her eyes.
He shrugged. He’d needed something with which to occupy his time the last few nights, when all he’d wanted to do was sneak into her bed. As well, he had worried about the lad and how he was faring.
“I’m
going to name him Tasgall,” Rory said.
Gwyneth faced forward again, and Alasdair clasped her shoulders in his hands. He had yearned to touch her for two days but had refrained. Now, his hands savored the delicate feel of her. She was too thin, her shoulder muscles too tense. Gently, he dug his fingertips into them. A quiet sigh escaped her and she dropped her head forward. That she allowed him access, silently asking for more, made him feel even more possessive. You are mine, Gwyneth, whether you acknowledge it or not. He caressed the sides of her slender neck, wishing he could kiss her there instead. Her skin was smooth as finest ivory silk…beyond tantalizing.
“Can you carve a warrior to ride on Tasgall’s back? Holding a sword?” Rory’s words jolted Alasdair from his reverie.
He stilled his hands but left them lying on Gwyneth’s shoulders. He could not yet bear to break the contact. “Aye, that I will, lad.”
Rory stood before them, his innocent yet wise gaze darting between Alasdair and Gwyneth. “You like my ma, do you not?”
Now what was he about? Playing the wee matchmaker? “Of course, I like her.” Indeed, I love her.
“You could be my new da, could you not?” The lad’s tone of voice, hopeful yet so vulnerable pricked at Alasdair’s heart.
“Rory, I would be honored to call you my son, but ’tis up to your mother.”
Within his grasp, her shoulders shook, and she pressed her hands to her face. Perhaps what he’d said wasn’t fair, considering how Southwick had her suspended over an abyss. If she would but give Alasdair the word, he would take command of this situation and Southwick would regret having ever come up with the idea of stealing Rory away.
“Don’t cry, Ma.” Rory stopped in front of her. “You like Alasdair. And you could let him be my da, ’cause I never had a real one that I can remember.”
God’s teeth. If the lad didn’t close his mouth they would all be blubbering into their sleeves.
Gwyneth sniffed. “It isn’t that simple, Rory. I’m sorry.”
Rory hung his head.
Gwyneth knelt. “How has Southwick treated you? Has he struck you?”
The lad shook his head. “I don’t like him.”
“Why?”
“He talks mean and yells,” he said on a sullen tone.
“Did he give you enough to eat?”
Rory nodded. “But I didn’t like it.”
A footstep sounded outside the door, and Alasdair glanced around. One of the marquess’s men stood out in the gallery, guarding Rory from the background.
“I must talk with you alone,” Alasdair told Gwyneth.
“Rory, we will be in the gallery having a discussion,” she said. “Leave the door open, and I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Very well.” He knelt and resumed playing with the wooden horse.
Once in the gallery, Alasdair discovered that Southwick had sent three guards this time—armed footmen of short stature. He could take them all if he wanted.
He guided Gwyneth away from the men, then stopped her before a tall, stained glass window. Afternoon sunlight blazed through. The colored glow lit the shimmering, golden-brown highlights in her hair and lent unnatural azure tones to her pale skin. Anguish shadowed her eyes.
“You cannot marry Southwick,” Alasdair whispered.
“I do not want to!” she said in a low but firm tone. “But if he won’t release Rory into my custody, what are my choices? I have no means. I have nothing. Only Rory.”
“Gwyneth—” He shook his head. How could he make her see?
“My own father won’t help me,” she whispered, her eyes pleading with him to understand. “I have no pull with anyone else. Except you. And I hate to say it, Alasdair, but we both know King James does not hold Highlanders in high esteem.”
Indeed, he did not, but Alasdair’s family and the whole MacGrath clan had always been on decent terms with the Stuarts. And there was something Gwyneth had forgotten—Highlanders were resourceful, tenacious survivors. One did not thrive in the rough Highlands without being so.
“This is a very delicate situation,” Gwyneth said. “I would not want to ruin Rory’s chances of possibly inheriting property or even a title, but I cannot leave him alone in the care of that snake.”
Aye, Rory’s future, that was the stumbling stone. Otherwise, Alasdair could steal him back and be off to Scotland. Since the situation was so complicated, he would have to think on it more and come up with a strategy. He would engage the help of Lachlan and the other men. Surely together they could find a way to free Rory and Gwyneth from Southwick’s filthy talons.
Regardless, Alasdair had to make Gwyneth understand some things. “There are two reasons you cannot marry him.”
She looked startled and perplexed. “What are they?”
“He doesn’t love you like I do. And I won’t allow the bairn you carry—my son—to be raised by a Sassenach bastard.”
Chapter Seventeen
Gwyneth’s mouth dropped open, and her lips worked as if she had forgotten how to speak. “Good heavens. Have you lost your mind?” she whispered. “I’m not carrying—” Her words came to a strangled halt, and her face turned the color of Highland snow.
“Aye, you are with child. I ken the signs.” One part of him rejoiced, while another part stood frozen with fear. Fear that she would reject him and refuse to see reason. Or that she’d ignore his help and let Southwick dictate her future. “The past few days you’ve been sick more often than not.”
“Because I was so worried.” Her words rushed out. “And…and seasick.”
Must she always deny the truth? “Can you be certain of that?”
“Well—” She frowned and pressed a fist to her mouth.
“What if I’m right? You cannot marry Southwick if you carry my bairn. Not only will I not let it happen, Southwick won’t marry you if he kens of it. We must find another way to fight him. Will you agree to it?”
“If I cause Rory to lose his inheritance, I will never forgive myself. That’s his future. He would never have to go hungry in winter. Or be cold. He would have incredible freedoms and anything he wants, his whole life. And he wouldn’t have to ask anyone for it. It would be his alone. He could easily provide for a family of his own one day.”
Certainly Alasdair understood that. He would not want to part with his title and lands, either. Not because he was greedy but because his possessions gave him power over his own destiny, as she said.
The situation was murky. But his feelings for her were clear as a summer’s day. “M’lady, I’m wanting to hear how you feel about me.”
She pressed her eyes closed. “Please do not pressure me any more than Southwick is. I cannot consider more than one thing at a time.”
“Well, you must, because there’s more than one thing at stake here. When we made love, a new life was created. We both knew it could happen. And I hoped it would, because I want you for my wife. I love you, Gwyneth. He doesn’t.”
“I cannot leave Rory alone with him!”
Alasdair pulled her into his arms. “I’m not planning to.”
She gazed up at him. “What will you do?”
***
A seething rage possessed Alasdair at his own helplessness. And yet he couldn’t let his men see his desperation and vulnerability.
Lachlan followed him into his room at the inn. Alasdair slammed the door. “Mo Dia! I cannot believe she’s spending the night with that whoreson!”
“She’s staying to be with Rory, not Southwick.”
Something about Lachlan as the voice of reason didn’t fit, but Alasdair didn’t let that stop his diatribe. “She’s considering marrying the pile of cac!”
“What?” Lachlan frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
Alasdair lowered his voice marginally. “I don’t want the men to ken of it. Southwick is forcing her to marry him if she wants to be with her son.”
“God’s teeth, man, you cannot mean it.”
“Aye. Never should
I have imagined a future with her. Hell, she should marry him—the father of her child. She’s English like he is. ’Tis where she belongs!”
Lachlan gave him a long, skeptical stare.
Alasdair turned away. Something fierce and rebellious tore through him. “But I cannot let it be so! She will be miserable with him. He will beat her and mistreat her. The son of a bitch! He is a coward of the first order.”
“Muire Mhàthair! For a wee bit there, brother, I thought you’d gone daft. Glad I am that you’re not giving up.”
“Why do you care?” Alasdair growled. “You found her employment. Either way she isn’t with me.”
“Marrying this hell-hated Southwick is far worse than her becoming a governess in Edinburgh, because you might be able to marry her one day, if Donald is imprisoned or hanged.”
“It matters not. She can marry a murderer like Baigh Shaw and ’haps even the cowardly bastard Southwick. But I’m not good enough. I’m but a fool.” How could he have let a woman delve so deeply under his skin? Even into his very bones. He had lost control…of everything.
“We must think this over rationally, brother,” Lachlan said in a calm voice. “Southwick is forcing her to marry him. ’Tis not her choice. If she had a choice, I wager she would marry you.”
“She wouldn’t when I asked her at Kintalon, before Rory was stolen away. She wishes him to grow up in England or the Lowlands, far away from the Highlands and the feuding. And me.”
“Damnation.”
“Another thing I haven’t told you, I think Gwyneth is carrying my bairn. And if she is, I won’t allow her to marry anyone but me. Southwick already suspects it, and has said if she is, he won’t marry her and will not let her see Rory.”
“What a gnarled mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
Alasdair glared at his brother. “Are you thinking I don’t ken that?”
Lachlan lifted his brows. “Well, ’tis not over yet. We will think of something.” He poured wine into a pewter goblet. “Sack?”
“’Twill suffice, but I would prefer whisky.”
“Aye, but we must think clearly.” Lachlan handed him the wine, then took a chair by the cold hearth.
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