My Fierce Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  “’Haps Southwick isn’t as upstanding as he appears,” Alasdair said.

  “’Tis rare to find anyone who is. I have acquaintances, contacts here in London. Some in high places…and some not so high. Mayhap Southwick has enemies.”

  “He must, considering how cruel and full of himself he is. A man who ran off to France to avoid marrying the lady carrying his child must have done other dishonorable things.”

  “Aye.” Lachlan looked abashed for a moment. “Hell, I’m as bad as he is.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t marry the lasses who carried my bairns.”

  This was the first time Alasdair had seen his brother in a fit of conscience. “’Tis not legal to marry two women at the same time in this kingdom.”

  Lachlan’s brows lifted. “That’s a right good excuse. ’Twas impossible to choose between them.”

  Alasdair drank a long swallow of the wine. “I wager, one day ’twill come back and bite you on the arse.” Or at least he hoped it would. He’d relish seeing Lachlan lovesick, considering the number of hearts he’d broken.

  “Forsooth.”

  “I hope you don’t have to endure the pain of love lost. ’Tis worse than any battle wound.” Aye, he hoped if Lachlan did find love, he would be happy.

  “Aye. Which is why I’ll never fall in love.”

  Alasdair snorted without humor. “If it happens, you won’t be able to stop it. You don’t get to choose. Either it happens or it doesn’t.”

  Lachlan grimaced. “I don’t care for this subject. And you haven’t yet lost Gwyneth’s love. Now, about Southwick, I shall go visit some friends. Are you with me?”

  “Aye.”

  ***

  Gwyneth trusted Alasdair and believed in his ability to get things done. But what would he do? Would it be legal? Would anyone get hurt? She lay in the huge bed and held Rory’s hand. Her son snored in the darkness but she had not closed her eyes in this malevolent place. She stared through the shadows at the canopy overhead.

  At least she had gotten to tell her son a story this night. And she made sure he ate well and then gave him a hug. Yet, despite this small comfort, she felt emotionally drawn and quartered.

  If she now carried Alasdair’s babe, Southwick would not let her stay with Rory. She would do almost anything to avoid marrying Southwick…except give up Rory.

  She loved Alasdair, but she couldn’t let him know that. That would make it all the harder for them both when she had to let him go.

  Alasdair had not wanted her to stay here the night, but she had insisted. Surprisingly, Southwick had let her. Of course, he’d left four guards stationed in the gallery just outside the door. Several more probably lurked outside the window in the back garden.

  And this way, the knave could harass her for her answer to his proposal first thing.

  Dear lord! What if I have to marry Southwick? What if Alasdair didn’t come through with his miraculous solution?

  Though she was certain she couldn’t sleep, she must have. A banging noise woke her from a nightmare.

  A pistol fired downstairs. Running footsteps and shouts moved toward her. She sprang upright in bed, her pulse thumping in her ears.

  What in heaven’s name?

  Someone burst into the room and slammed the door. Chills covered her body. She pulled her sleeping child close, her gaze darting about. The darkness prevented her from seeing who’d entered. Breathing loudly, the person dragged a heavy piece of furniture in front of the door, the wooden legs screeching over the floor.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  “Is Rory awake?” Southwick’s voice was high-pitched, panic-stricken.

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  Something pounded against the blocked door. “Open up, Southwick! I ken you’re in there!”

  Alasdair?

  “Stay back or I’ll kill Gwyneth!” Southwick shouted.

  Survival instincts kicking in, Gwyneth dragged Rory toward the edge of the mattress, onto the floor and pushed him under the bed.

  “Ma?”

  “Shh, you must be quiet,” she whispered. The dust beneath the large bed irritated her nose as they crawled toward the center. But if Southwick had a pistol, hiding under the bed wouldn’t benefit her or Rory. He surely wouldn’t risk killing his son by shooting at her. She put Rory behind her and lay facing outward.

  All remained quiet out in the gallery. What in heaven’s name was Alasdair doing? Why was Southwick running from him and threatening her life?

  “Gwyneth,” Southwick muttered through his teeth in the darkness. Something thumped. “Oomph. Devil take it!” He hopped across the floor.

  Weak light from a freshly lit candle illuminated sections of the wooden floor and Turkish carpets in her narrow range of vision.

  “Where are you, wanton whore?”

  A crash exploded at the door, as if it had been knocked from its hinges. She jumped, her heart rate accelerating. The large piece of furniture slid aside, tipped over and slammed onto the floor.

  Be careful, Alasdair.

  “Scots swine!” Southwick shouted.

  “Where is she?” Alasdair strode across the floor.

  Blades clashed with deafening clangs.

  Rory clamored from behind her. “That’s Alasdair. He came to get me. I knew he would.”

  “Shhh.” She grabbed Rory and pulled him into her arms. They watched the feet of the two men in the throes of swordplay. Dancing back and forth, advancing, retreating. They hurled insults at each other in both English and Gaelic. She covered Rory’s ears, lest he hear more curses and insults he might use.

  Another piece of furniture smashed against the floor. Metal objects from it clanged and slid across the room. Glass shattered.

  “Coward! What did you do with Gwyneth, a mhican uilc?” Alasdair yelled out the window. “Iosa is Muire Mhàthair,” he muttered. “Go after him while I look for Gwyneth and Rory.”

  “Aye!” Two of his men, whom she had not noticed standing near the door, ran into the gallery.

  Alasdair strode across the room and threw open the dressing room door. “Gwyneth? Rory?”

  Loosening her paralyzed limbs, she scooted to the edge of the bed and found Alasdair alone in the room. “We’re here.”

  “Thanks be to God!” He sheathed his sword and pulled her to her feet with a strong grip that bit into her arms.

  “What is happening?”

  “You and Rory are free.” He grinned in triumph. “I told you I would find a solution. With plenty of help from Lachlan, of course.”

  She could scarcely breathe, fearing this was a dream. “But—how?”

  “That mongrel Southwick is at the center of a conspiracy to assassinate the marquess of Buckingham, George Villiers.” Alasdair laughed as if this were the best news in the world. “When we informed the king of it, he sent his best guards to bring Southwick in. And Southwick ran because he’s guilty, of course. I don’t ken what else King James will do, but ’twill not be pleasant, considering Buckingham is the king’s favorite courtier. I expect Southwick will be hanged or beheaded for a traitor if he’s caught.”

  “Oh.” Shock and disbelief froze her to the spot. Gwyneth could not even imagine the ramifications. Would Rory lose his opportunity to inherit a title or property? Had he ever had the opportunity to begin with or had that all been Southwick’s grand delusion? Either way, thank heavens, they were safe from Southwick and she would not have to marry the viper. “I thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Alasdair surprised her by kissing her. Though the kiss was brief, it was warm, potent and delicious. It made her recall with vivid clarity all the things she loved about him. He then picked Rory up. “Are you all right, lad?”

  “Aye.” Rory grinned ear to ear. “I wanted to see you in a real sword fight, but Ma wouldn’t let me.”

  “She had to keep you safe. Come, let’s go.” He headed toward the door.

  “Wait! I must dress.” Wearing only a
smock, Gwyneth grabbed her armload of clothing and ran behind a screen. “Where will we go?”

  “Back to the inn until Southwick is captured. You and Rory are not safe until he is. In the morn, Lachlan and I shall meet with the king.”

  ***

  Gwyneth was in the midst of telling her son a story when a fist pounded on her door at the inn in London the next day. Maybe Alasdair and Lachlan were back from Whitehall Palace.

  Though the meeting with the king concerned Rory’s future, Alasdair had not allowed her to attend. It was common knowledge King James did not look favorably upon women, especially ones of questionable morals and character which, though she hated to admit it, described her reputation.

  She rushed to the door but didn’t open it. “Who is it?”

  “There is someone here to see you, m’lady,” Angus called from the passage. Alasdair had left the five clansmen to guard her and Rory until Southwick, Maxwell Huntley, could be captured.

  Well, who was it? She unlocked the heavy door and yanked it open.

  Her gaze fell upon her mother’s face. Heaven help me! Gwyneth clutched at the door for support, her vision blurring with tears.

  “Mother?” she whispered, almost afraid the dear woman was an illusion.

  “Gwyneth.” Her mother smiled, came forward and tugged her into an embrace. “Oh, child, how I have missed you.”

  Gwyneth squeezed her mother, though not enough to hurt her fragile frame. For six years she had feared she would never see her mother again. “Thanks be to God for this blessing.”

  Her mother pulled back and placed a palm against Gwyneth’s cheek. “Indeed. I’m so glad you have come home.”

  “You are?” Gwyneth’s throat tightened when she noticed her mother’s hair had turned gray and wrinkles creased her face.

  “Of course. I never wanted you to leave.”

  “None of us did,” another female voice said.

  Gwyneth glanced over her mother’s shoulder and found three of her sisters standing in the passage, smiling.

  “Margaret, Elizabeth, Katherine!” She hugged each of them in turn.

  Two small boys ran past Gwyneth, almost tripping over her skirts.

  “Boys!” Margaret scolded.

  “It’s fine. Come in.” Gwyneth backed up and allowed them all to enter. Angus entered also, obviously still guarding, and closed the door.

  “This is my son, Rory.” Please God, let them accept him and love him as I do.

  Gwyneth’s mother knelt and touched Rory’s hair. “Hello, Rory. You are such a handsome young man. He favors you, Gwyneth.”

  A ray of hope shone through her fear. “Rory, this is your grandmother.”

  He frowned at her and she realized he didn’t know what a grandmother was.

  Gwyneth swallowed back the constriction in her throat. “She’s my mother and that makes her your grandmother.”

  “Oh.” He smiled and hugged her. Gwyneth introduced everyone else, and each of her sisters complimented Rory and seemed sincere in their acceptance of him.

  “Your father is an imbecile and we have shown him the error of his ways,” her mother said. “We’ve made him promise to beg your forgiveness.”

  Father will never do such a thing.

  “And we heard Maxwell Huntley, Lord Southwick has been arrested,” Katherine said.

  “He has?” A spurt of gladness shot through her.

  Her sisters nodded. Another knock sounded on the door. Angus opened it. Alasdair waited in the corridor. His gaze flew past his cousin and scanned the people in her room.

  “Laird MacGrath, please meet some members of my family,” Gwyneth said.

  He entered and she introduced everyone. Alasdair employed his most genteel manners in greeting them.

  “We have heard Southwick was captured,” Gwyneth said.

  “Aye, not three hours past. Pray pardon, m’ladies.” He bowed. “I’m needing to speak with Lady Gwyneth about a matter of much import.”

  She turned to her family. “Will you watch Rory for me? I’ll return forthwith.”

  They nodded, their wide eyes curious.

  Alasdair left Padraig and Angus guarding Rory.

  Once inside his room, Alasdair turned to her. “’Tis a surprise to see your mother and sisters here.”

  Gwyneth smiled. “A very pleasant surprise. I never thought I would see them again.”

  “I have news. Indeed, Maxwell Huntley has been arrested as a traitor to the crown and his titles and property stripped from him. Therefore, he is no longer marquess of Southwick and the title is forfeit. As a reward to us for uncovering the conspiracy, King James is creating a new title for Rory, that of Viscount Mackem, and granting him the former Southwick’s estate in the north of England.”

  Gwyneth felt suspended, as if the floor had disappeared from beneath her feet. “Surely you jest.”

  “Nay. ’Tis true.” Alasdair grinned. “His Majesty was feeling rather generous and created another lesser title for me as well, for my future heir.”

  “In faith! Are you saying this estate in the north is Rory’s now?”

  “Aye, though His Majesty will watch over it until Rory is old enough to manage it himself. It is a working estate with a steward and full staff to run it. And income.”

  “I cannot believe it.” Chills coursed over her skin. “So, if I choose, Rory and I can live on the estate?”

  Studying her for a long moment, Alasdair stiffened, his expression darkening. “Aye, if you so choose.” He paused. “But you need not if you don’t wish it. They will be his even if you both come back to Kintalon with me.”

  Oh, good lord! Now the terrible choice confronted her. She had only thought she was in a quandary when faced with the possibility of having to marry Southwick. Now she had to choose between what she’d wanted most for six years, to take Rory from the Highlands…or to marry a man like no other. A man she had fallen in love with so effortlessly and deeply, she’d had no defense against it.

  Guilt assailed her when she realized how selfish her love for him was. If she chose him, surely she would be punished for her greed, for wallowing in the sensual pleasures of him. She must not think of herself. She must do the right thing—what was best for Rory.

  Her sacrifice would rip her heart out. “Alasdair.” She swallowed hard, then forced the words to form on her tongue. “I pray you will forgive me. Since Rory was born, I wished to take him out of the violent Highlands, and you have allowed me to do that. I can never thank you enough.”

  “You wish to stay in England?” His tone deepened, just shy of a growl.

  “I don’t want to; I have to. Rory will be much safer here.”

  He regarded her as if she were his worst enemy. Though Alasdair had never struck her, other men had. She backed up a step, then two.

  “For Rory. Not for myself. You have allowed him to have everything I could’ve ever hoped for and more. I never dreamed he would have property. And now all this—a title, an estate. It all astounds me. But to be an English lord one day, he will need to live here, in England. My family has been kind enough to welcome me back. And your clan could never be safe from Donald if I were there. He might burn the village again, or worse, in an effort to retaliate against me.”

  “Don’t worry about Donald. He will be taken care of in due time.” More controlled anger seeped into Alasdair’s tone. Her words had caused him to transform into the fierce warrior she had only glimpsed on a few occasions. “Gwyneth, I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you one more time—I love you. And I wish to marry you. You are most likely carrying my bairn. Possibly my heir! Are you thinking I’ll just go back to Kintalon and forget about all that?”

  She could not look him in the eye when he glared with such rage. It was almost impossible to believe he was the same man who had looked at her with kind regard in the past. “No. I don’t know. I must think of Rory right now. Do you think I like making this decision? No. You and I…we are adults. We must learn to deal with the sa
crifices.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I ken all about sacrifices, m’lady! But I won’t allow my heir to grow up in England.”

  “If I am with child, which has not been proven yet, it could be a girl. And if that is the case, she would not be your heir. Unless you imagine a female can be chief of your clan.”

  “I don’t care if the bairn is a lad or a lass. I won’t have him or her grow up in godforsaken England!”

  “You are the same as Southwick!”

  “Nay! How can you speak thus? I would never abandon you.”

  “You would take our child away from me. Or force me to marry you in order to stay with him or her.”

  “But there is one major difference.” He pointed a threatening finger at her. “I love you. And I was thinking you might feel the same, but ’tis evident you don’t give a damn about me.”

  “Alasdair, yes, I do care for you but—”

  “Hold your tongue. I don’t want to hear how you care for me. I care for everyone in my clan, but I don’t want to bed them or marry them. You have deceived yourself. You think Rory and his future prevents you from being with me. ’Tis not true, so stop blaming him.”

  “He will be an English lord! And for him to be well-respected, he must learn the English way of life.”

  “Because the Highland way of life is inferior and barbaric, aye?”

  “No. Just different. Violent.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I ken well what you’re thinking. You’re like the rest of these damned Sassenachs. All you care about are luxuries and respect. You must impress the other lords and ladies. The murdering fiend, Baigh Shaw was good enough for you to marry, but I am not. Tell me, m’lady, what is wrong with me?”

  She shook her head, tears flooding her eyes. He was perfection to her. When she looked at him, no other man existed in the world. God, why must I make this decision?

  “Alasdair, you are a far, far better man than Baigh was. You must know I realize that. As for marrying him, I did what I had to do to survive. It was not my choice. Please believe me when I say I do care about you.”

  “Nay! I don’t want to hear of your bland, mediocre regard for me,” he said with disgust.

  “Oh, dear God, Alasdair, it is not bland! I love you!”