Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Oh, do stop. Her hair was mousy brown and straight as a spear. No one with an eye for fashion or beauty would find it appealing.

She tried to ignore the clean, masculine scent of him, which the light floral and herbal soap could not disguise. His face was another enticement, as were the sensual, hard curves of muscle that formed his chest.

When she shifted, his aroused shaft straining against the linen nudged her hip. He was so hard, he would feel glorious sliding into her. Moist heat prickled between her thighs and she squeezed them together.

“Relax,” he murmured, working gentle fingers through the wet strands of her hair. “London society, your da, nor anyone else is here to judge you.”

Her chest tightened and guilt surged through her. “You’re a man. You cannot possibly understand what it is to disgrace yourself before God, your family and your community.”

“’Haps not, but ’tis done. You cannot go back and redo your past.”

“No, but I can behave better in the future.”

“And you will, I’ve no doubt.”

“Now. I must do better now. I must resist the temptation of…” She let out a breath, hardly able to believe the sharp, conflicting feelings within her.

“Of what, m’lady?” His whisper in her ear sent a tingle over her shoulders.

“Of you.” Never had anything or anyone enticed her as much.

A smile played upon his lips. “I’m not a temptation to you.” He stroked a finger down her neck. “I’m but a Highland barbarian, and you a lady of fine breeding.”

She shivered at the sensation his calloused finger wrought. “You are no barbarian. You’re an earl and a chief.”

“Aye, but compared to you, I’m not very impressive.”

How could he be so daft? He was the most impressive man she’d ever met—honorable, trustworthy…tantalizing. “Oh, you don’t know.” Yearning to nuzzle her face against his chest, breathe him in, and taste him, she resolutely covered her face with her hands. She could not believe the liquid desire aching low in her belly. How could she turn into such a brazen wanton in his presence?

“Don’t know what?” His breath, warm, sweet and ginger scented, fanned against her ear.

“How I feel.”

He stroked his mouth and nose against her hair, inhaling her scent. “You smell prettier than a flower, and more delicious than a strawberry.”

“You see? You shouldn’t say things like that.” She lowered her hands and risked a glance at his playful, inviting expression.

“Why not? ’Tis the truth. Would you have me lie?”

“No.”

“Would you have me lie and say I hope to never to kiss you again? Would you have me say I never want you in my bed again? I don’t hunger for the taste of your mouth and your skin. I didn’t spend half the night last night remembering our spellbinding encounter in great detail, wishing you were there with me so we might do it again and again. Do you believe those lies?”

Oh, heaven help me. “You should not, sir.” She tried to pull away and get up, but he placed a strong arm across her lap, his hand cupping her hip, spurring even more instinctive urges.

“Why? What is so terrible about telling the truth and speaking my mind?” The edge of passion and irritation in his voice alarmed her.

In defense, and to still the trembling deep inside, she crossed her arms over her chest. “You want the truth? Here it is—you are a laird. And I’m only a disowned woman my family is ashamed of. The very things you speak of are what make me thus. I admit I have a shocking hunger for sensual pursuits. They are my downfall. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t have been banished.”

“Och. ’Tis only nature, m’lady.” His tone softened. “Your society would say men are different from women in their appetites. That ’tis acceptable for men to feel desire but not for women. But that is a lie. Both men and women have desires and urges. ’Tis the way God created us.”

With his explanation, lovemaking sounded so simple and reasonable. Acceptable. But she still couldn’t convince herself to believe it. Too many years and too many people had drummed a certain way of thinking into her—that women, especially ladies, were supposed to be above those carnal urges and immune to them.

She shook her head. “No, we must resist our human nature.”

“Why must we resist the way God created us? He gave us the ability to feel these desires.”

“No, you don’t know what you’re talking about. What we did yesterday was bad.”

“You must call it what you will. But I won’t call it bad. ’Twas beautiful beyond measure.”

He released her and she sprang from his lap. Indeed, their lovemaking had been beautiful. The most exquisite thing she’d ever experienced.

“I must go now.” He rose, threw the articles of his clothing over his shoulder and moved toward the door.

He was going? It was exactly what she wanted. Yet not.

A few feet from the door, Alasdair stopped and turned. “Would you gift me with a wee goodnight kiss?”

Heaven help me. A kiss? Before she knew what she was doing, she stood before him. I am too eager, she realized too late. Her skin heating, she dropped her gaze to the floor. He took her face between his hands, tilting it upward, and kissed her in a lingering brush of his warm lips and tongue against hers. Oh, she had forgotten how his kiss could seduce her in an instant. She opened to receive his tongue and her own licked against his, with a will of its own. A well-spring of hunger rose up from her chest and spurred her into action. She consumed his delectable mouth as if starved.

“Iosa is Muire Mhàthair,” Alasdair growled and pulled her tightly to him as if control had slipped from his fingers.

Desire possessed her, shut down her decorum. Her arms closed around his naked lower back, and she stroked her hands down to his waist. The linen cloth fell away, and his trim hips were bare beneath her hands. She knew she shouldn’t touch him, but she did. She remembered squeezing the powerful flexing muscles of his buttocks when he’d made love to her yesterday.

He moaned, his bare erection prodding her belly. Wetness tickled between her thighs.

His clothing slid from his shoulder. He coaxed her dressing gown from her, then gathered up her smock around her waist, even as he kissed her throat and breathed his hot breath on her. He lifted the garment farther, drawing it off over her head, and took her nipple into his mouth.

Sparkles of delight shimmered through her. “Oh.”

“Mmmm.” He suckled her other nipple. “I have craved these.”

He walked her backward a few steps. Her thighs bumped into the bed, and he gently pushed her down upon it.

“By the saints, Gwyneth, you tempt me to near lunacy.”

She squirmed, restless on the bed. Guilt ambushed her and she squeezed her eyes shut. She should fight this, resist her own desires.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

She did, but seeing him in all his naked glory was a pleasure near too keen to bear. Her gaze dropped, tracing the line of hair down his flat hard belly that led to that most fascinating and masculine part of him. The act of simply observing him filled her with hunger.

She realized she had never been fully naked in the candlelight before a man and tried to yank the linen coverlet over herself. He would surely find her lacking.

“Nay.” Alasdair stayed her hand, and his gaze stroked over her like a physical caress. “You cannot hide from me, Gwyneth. You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.”

She believed him—his sincere, lust-filled eyes couldn’t lie. He didn’t seem to mind that her breasts weren’t large and full like those women deemed most attractive. Her figure was too slim to be called voluptuous. Yet the way he looked at her, with hunger and yearning, made her feel as if she were the most desirable woman on earth.

He lifted her foot and kissed her ankle. With a sigh, she let her eyes drift closed. His lips and beard stubble tickled and scratched, sending a thrill up her leg. He trailed kisses up her calf and flicked his tongue at the back of her knee.

He pushed her legs apart, but she resisted and clenched them tightly together. He shouldn’t look at her there!

“Gwyneth,” he breathed against her bent knees. “Open for me.”

She opened her eyes and found him hovering there, so gorgeous and scandalous, the stubble of his chin rasping and stimulating the sensitive skin of her knees.

“I meant…open your thighs,” he said.

She burned from the inside out, embarrassed more by her own curiosity and a desire to comply than the request itself. “Oh, you are shameless.”

“That I am.” He grinned as if proud of that fact.

And she was shameless too, for her gaze dropped again to his shaft. She studied the thick, erotic shape and sleek, velvety texture of him.

“If you will but open your legs, I shall show you something you’ll never forget.”

“You already have.” Certainly she would never forget how he’d made love to her yesterday.

“I wish to give you another pleasure.” He straightened her legs and laid them flat on the bed. Determined to hold onto a speck of decency, she kept them pressed together.

He kissed her abdomen, her stomach, flicked his tongue into her navel. Tingles spread outward and the heat intensified in her lower belly. He moved in that direction, trailing his lips even into her hair.

“Oh, you cannot,” she gasped and covered her face with her hands.

“I’m wanting to taste you, m’lady. ’Twould be a great pleasure for me.”

He pressed open-mouthed kisses to her mound and upper thighs. Good lord, he did not mean—

When he nudged her thighs apart, she allowed it. Keeping her eyes closed, she felt him crawl between her legs.

The stimulation on her most sensitive flesh was not anything she knew. She opened her eyes and found his head between her legs. In truth, he was licking her. Good heavens! She attempted to close her thighs but this merely locked his head in place. He moaned. Oh, he had no modesty.

And neither did she, for she could not pull away. Could not make him stop.

“You are sweeter and more delicious than pure honey,” he whispered.

His tongue stroked flames of pleasure, such as she’d never imagined, over her, throughout her entire body. She could not break away from the sinful, divine burning, nor did she want to.

With heavy-lidded eyes, he glanced up at her just before he slid his tongue inside her. Blissful agony twisted through her as her yearning for him magnified. His moan vibrated against her. She couldn’t believe what he was doing…and apparently enjoying it as much as she was. He then flicked his tongue briskly against an especially sensitive spot, where the tingles focused and flowed from.

That breathless, impending something she had experienced for the first time yesterday seized her again. She grasped onto the bed linens and cried out when the overwhelming sensation claimed her. Her body was not her own at that moment, but possessed by Alasdair and some instinctive rapture that frightened her. Yet at the same time, the spasm of delight was one she wanted again and again.

When she opened her eyes, Alasdair rose onto his knees between her legs, wiped his lips and gave her mischievous smile. “Did you enjoy that?”

Though somewhat shocked at herself, she nodded. Happiness germinated and flourished inside her. In that moment, all she needed for completion was his smile, his gaze, his touch. His lovemaking.

“’Twas one of the most enjoyable things I’ve ever done.” He moved closer, positioning himself, and an eager thrill spiraled through her. He paused, searching her gaze. “Are you ready for more?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Mmm.” An impassioned frown crossed his features. When he nudged into her, his jutting erection felt hard as sun-warmed marble. A wild need for him rose up, and she thrust her hips toward him. He lifted her feet to his shoulders and pulled her closer. Slid deeper. She hungered for the long, thick shape of him.

The fluid, slick rocking motion of his body into hers and away was the most captivating sensation on earth. Even better than the ecstasy that had crashed over her. She knew she was making wanton noises, moans and little cries, but could not quiet herself. He overwhelmed her.

He licked her ankle, first one, then the other, his mouth, teeth and beard stubble grazing her skin. His magnetic black gaze penetrated her defenses, reached into her soul and made love to it. His eyes said he knew her, accepted her, wanted her.

His gliding movements accelerated and the excitement that swept through her was something she could not get enough of.

After placing her feet on the bed, he lowered himself over her and whispered in her ear. “How does that feel?”

He expected her to describe it? There were no words. “Wondrous.” It was the only word that came to mind.

“Aye.” He took her mouth in a devouring kiss that touched her deepest level. She feared he would taste and feel her adoration—something she wished she could hide. But he lured it from her so effortlessly.

He pounded himself into her with primal male power, his wet hair brushing her face. His chest hair rasped her nipples, stimulating them to hard pebbles. His harsh breathing and rough Gaelic murmurs in her ear were an arousing accompaniment. She reveled in each moment, each second his body worshiped hers.

With a growl, he slowed and lifted up slightly. She was surprised when he slipped his hand between their bodies and stroked her. Sparks seemed to jump from his fingertips, igniting that obsessed fire within her. It flamed higher and again consumed her. He took her mouth in a deep kiss before she could cry out at the burst of pleasure.

Finally, her breathing resumed and she opened her eyes. His were closed, seemingly in bliss. He hardened his jaw, drove to the hilt and, with a loud groan, shot his seed deep within her.

Watching him, experiencing him, sent joy bubbling up inside her. Never had she met or imagined a man such as him.

“By the saints,” Alasdair gasped and drew in a chest-full of much-needed air after his explosive and maddening climax. Gwyneth’s soft, wet woman’s body astounded him. The power she held over him—damnation! He might well give his soul to lie with her every night.

He collapsed beside her, let his breathing calm and cradled her against his chest. She slipped an arm around his waist and caressed his back with her fingertips. Mmm, she fit into his arms perfectly, and felt just right. He had not experienced such satisfaction or contentment in many a year. Her presence soothed him, made him feel peace and happiness might be attainable. When he found his release with her, it seemed he released all the worrisome, painful things inside him as well.

“Gwyneth, I don’t think I can get enough of you,” he said, already craving her again.

“I know I shouldn’t say so, but I feel the same,” she confessed in a whisper.

He smiled, gratified and elated. He loved it when she told the truth. It was so much more refreshing than the lies she told herself and him when trying to be good and ignore what she truly wanted.

She threw herself onto her back away from him. “Oh, what am I doing? I should not have done that.”

In a rare moment, he let dangerous, vulnerable emotion wash over him. “To appease your conscience, there is but one solution, then.” His heartbeat thumped like a drum.

“What?”

“Marry me.” There, he’d said it. He grinned.

She jerked back and stared at him with a wide-eyed frown, as if he’d suggested she kill him.

“Or we could hand-fast in the Highland way if you prefer,” he rushed to say. Though he had no idea why he’d thought in that moment of madness hand-fasting would be more appealing. A legal marriage was far more secure.

She leapt from the bed, found her smock and yanked it on.

He sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“It is cruel to jest with me so.”

“’Tis no jest. I wish to marry you, Lady Gwyneth. Would you do me the honor of becoming my bride?” She would say no, he knew, somehow. Despite the impending disappointment, he could not help but make his wishes known.

Her eyes searched his. “Alasdair, you cannot mean it. You’re a laird, an earl for heaven’s sake, and I’m…” She covered her mouth.

“A lovely, sweet lady who happens to be a widow and mother. This would be a good arrangement, I’m thinking. ’Tis beyond clear we enjoy each other in bed. I would provide you with anything you should want or need, including protection. You would provide me with an heir. You’ve already admitted to being an earl’s daughter, which means we are of the same social station.”

She pressed her eyes closed. “I cannot.”

“Why?” He wanted to shout the word, but managed to restrain himself.

She opened her eyes and observed him with a stricken look. “What about Rory?”

“I would treat him as mine own.”

She shook her head vehemently. “You said yourself, you make sure all the lads are trained for battle. I cannot allow Rory to be trained to such barbaric violence. I must take him from the Highlands to some place safe where he’ll never have a chance to fight and get killed.”

Had she gone daft? He frowned. “That’s your reason for refusing me?”

Her hands turned to fists. “It’s important to me. Rory is the most precious person in my life. When I had nothing else, I had him. He was all I had to live for. And if he were to die…” Tears sparkling in her eyes, she pressed a fist to her mouth.

“Och, I would protect Rory with my life, as I would you. How can you doubt it?” Did she have absolutely no confidence in him?

“That’s not going to stop him from fighting alongside your men one day,” she said. “You know how he is drawn to the sword.”

“If that is the case, it won’t matter where you take him. When he’s old enough, he will join the king’s army.”

“He will not!” She looked determined enough to take on the king’s army herself.

Alasdair wanted to seal her mouth and make her understand. “M’lady—”

“No, I will not hear it. I could not live with myself if he rode out and got himself killed like that young boy, Campbell, when first I arrived. What a waste of precious life. He had not even begun to live. I cannot withstand that nightmare.”

Trying his best to reason with her, he softened his voice. “Gwyneth, at the very least you must realize I’ve compromised you. And that you may be already carrying my bairn.”

Her face reddened. She touched a hand to her flat belly, and he wanted to do the same, for he hoped it was so. More than anything, he yearned for her to have his child.

“But I may not be.” Her look of defiance raised his ire.

He shoved himself from the bed. “Very well then. Do what you must.” Damnable woman. He snatched up his long shirt, yanked it on and flung his plaid and belt over his shoulder. “But if you’re carrying my bairn, you won’t be leaving!” He stalked out, slamming the door in his wake.

Chapter Eleven

Dear God in Heaven, what had Alasdair meant? Gwyneth trod a path from the bed to the door and back again. He wouldn’t let her leave if she was already carrying his child. She would be trapped again. Because of her thoughtless, wanton actions she would again have a man telling her where she could or could not go.

“I’m a widow, free to do as I wish,” she muttered. “I do not have to stay here and be ordered about by him. If I but had a position….” Could I find one myself? Maybe she wouldn’t need Alasdair’s nor any man’s help in becoming a governess.

She would swallow her fears and write to her eldest sister. Margaret might be persuaded to inquire in Cornwall, near her and her husband’s summer estate.

I’ll be an embarrassment to her.

Especially if Gwyneth now carried Alasdair’s babe. If that was the case, she’d raise it on her own, the way she had Rory. It would be possible if she could move to an area which was both peaceful and no one knew her, save her sister. None of them need know how long she’d been a widow. She would earn wages and support her child or children that way. They wouldn’t have much, but they could survive as they had for the last six years.

If she could leave soon, Alasdair would never learn whether she carried his child or not. Unless he searched her out. Then he’d surely take the babe from her.

Goodness, why am I thinking this way? I am not with child.

Disheartened, she slumped onto the chair. Months would pass before she’d receive a response from Margaret, if at all. If she did carry Alasdair’s child, he’d find out by then. Perhaps Lachlan would return with good news sooner.

But what would she do in the meantime?

***

The next evening, Gwyneth dragged herself up the stone steps leading to her bedchamber. With all the preparations for the upcoming Midsummer celebration, and guests arriving, she had not seen Alasdair all day. She and the women had gathered herbs and flowers, created colorful, scented garlands to decorate the great hall, and cooked special dishes in the kitchen.

Along the dimly lit corridor, she passed the open doorway to Alasdair’s chamber. He was likely in the library talking and drinking sack with the loyal neighboring clan chieftains who had arrived that day.

“M’lady.”

She jerked back and glared at the darkness of the doorway.

The lone sconce further down the corridor provided little illumination. Alasdair stuck his head out, glanced about, then locked his gaze on her. “I’ve something I’m wanting to give you.”

Surely he did not mean a kiss. She felt giddy and flushed of a sudden.

Stepping into the hallway, he presented her with a parcel wrapped in a deep burgundy silk handkerchief and tied with a ribbon. The richness of the wrappings surprised her. “No, I cannot accept—”

“You don’t yet ken what it is. Open it.”

She couldn’t decipher his expression, but he seemed hopeful, his anger from the night before not in evidence.

Gwyneth glanced behind herself to make sure no one watched, then tugged gently at the bow. She parted the silk and found a tortoiseshell comb within the folds. “Goodness, I cannot possibly take such an expensive—”

“Aye, you can. I didn’t buy it. It used to be my mother’s, and now ’tis yours. You need it…for your hair.”

His mother’s? That made it an even more extravagant and sentimental gift than if he’d bought it new. How could he part with such an item?

The fact that he didn’t ply her with false and flattering compliments shattered her defenses. Last night burst into her consciousness—he had combed her hair with his fingers.

No one had given her a gift such as this in many years. His thoughtfulness overwhelmed her to the point of near tears. “I thank you, my laird.”

“You’re most welcome. And I pray you will pardon my harshness of last night. Can you forgive me, m’lady?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Of course.”

“I’m glad.”

Though his gift meant more than she could express, she knew it was a courtship gift, just like the rose he’d tucked behind her ear…and which she’d pressed into a book so she might keep it forever.

Obviously, he had hatched up a new plan to draw her under his power and trap her and Rory in the Highlands. Fool that she was, she was sore tempted.

Wishing to escape before Alasdair could cast his spell upon her and seduce her yet again, she curtseyed. “I thank you and I bid you good evening, sir.” She hastened to her room.

Once inside, she closed the door and glanced toward the bed where Rory slept. Cradling Alasdair’s gift in her hands, she seated herself before the small fire in the hearth and examined the brown tortoiseshell comb more closely in the light.

How she wished things could be different, wished Alasdair was not a Highland laird and enemy of Donald MacIrwin. Wished clan warfare did not rule the Highlands.

***

“We have a visitor,” one of the maids announced, entering the busy kitchen the next day just after midday meal. “Some fancy Sassenach lord. He and his men will be needing trenchers.”

Turning from her task of kneading bread dough, Gwyneth dabbed a sleeve to her sweaty forehead. The heat of the ovens and huge arched fireplace was getting to her. She wondered whether Edward Murray had returned so quickly, perhaps for the Midsummer’s Day feast. No, probably another of Alasdair’s old schoolmates.

A second servant trotted down the steps and into the kitchen. “The Sassenach’s asking for Lady Gwyneth Carswell, he is,” she said in a dramatic whisper, and her round eyes lit on Gwyneth.

“Faith! Me?”

The maid placed her hands on her round hips. “Well now, you’re the only Gwyneth Carswell what lives here.”

Dread rose up within her. “What is his name?”

The other woman shrugged. “Something Southwick.”

Gwyneth’s breathing ceased. “The marquess of Southwick? Maxwell Huntley?”

“Aye, I believe ’twas.” The servant bustled to the other side of the kitchen.

Rory’s father. “Oh, dear heavens!” What could he possibly want? A thousand questions streamed through her mind.

Where was Rory? She ran to the back doorway and found him playing in the kitchen garden with other children.

Alasdair stalked into the kitchen. “Someone, please bring Lord Southwick some food and wine. I won’t have him spreading rumors that we lack manners or hospitality here in the Highlands.” He turned his fierce midnight gaze to Gwyneth and lowered his voice to a murmur. “Why are you doing this kind of physical labor?”

“What? I’m making bread…the festival.”

“I would have a word with you in here.” Frowning, he motioned toward one of the pantries.

She blinked. Her world had just somersaulted and nothing made sense. “In there?”

“Aye.”

She preceded him into the small windowless room, and he closed the door. She found it hard to breathe with the dust of flour and scents of spices thickening the air, not to mention the near pitch blackness.

She wiped her sticky hands on her skirts. “What is Southwick doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

“Did he not say?”

“Nay. Only that he wishes to speak with you.”

“Oh, heavens! I never thought to see him again. I’m not sure I can face him.” She concentrated on evening out her breathing and calming herself.

I have survived six years in the harsh Highlands. I can face one whey-faced English lord. He’s a coward who ran from responsibility. Not worthy to be called a man.

“What if—saints!” Alasdair muttered.

“What?”

He yanked her to him and took her mouth in a hard-driving kiss—one that plunged down to her very soul. As if to say to her, you’re mine, and don’t be forgetting it.

Just as abruptly, he drew back. Gwyneth swayed, trying to regain her equilibrium within the maelstrom of emotions.

Alasdair steadied her. “Beware the fancy Sassenach. He has the look of a poisonous viper about him.”

She grasped his sleeve. “Would you come with me?”

“To talk to him?”

“Yes.”

He took her hand and kissed the back. “Aye, I would be honored.” He opened the door, allowing light to flow in. “You might don some of the clothing from the trunk.”

She glanced down at her bodice and skirts. What a sight she was with flour and dough covering her faded and near threadbare dress. What did she care? She had no more pride. Southwick had striped it from her six years ago, just as he had taken everything else.

“’Twill increase your courage,” Alasdair said.

She nodded, taking in his beloved visage and his caring dark eyes. The reverent way he looked at her gave her far more courage than any clothing could. “I thank you.”

He gave a short bow.

Though Alasdair wanted nothing more than to spend the afternoon kissing Gwyneth in the pantry, he knew he must deal with Southwick in an appropriate fashion and find out what the devil he wanted. Alasdair would not have allowed Gwyneth to visit with the snake alone, but he was glad she’d asked him to accompany her.

He watched Gwyneth scurry up the back stairs before he returned to the great hall.

With a stiff posture, Southwick sat at high table with two of his men. The skinny, weak-looking Sassenach picked at his mutton stew with formal preciseness.

“How are the food and wine?” Alasdair asked, forcing himself to be hospitable to the loathsome man. He’d finished his own meal with the rest of his Highland guests a half hour past.

Southwick glanced up with icy gray eyes. “They will suffice.” He smirked and pushed the trencher away. “I did not come here to dine. I am here to see Lady Gwyneth Carswell.”

Partly fueled by jealousy, Alasdair’s temper ignited like flame to straw, but he held himself in check. “And you will in due time. If you’re finished eating, we can wait for her in the library.”

Southwick and one of his cohorts rose and followed Alasdair to the smaller, book-lined room.

“Have a seat.” Alasdair motioned and the two men perched on a long bench.

He studied Southwick. The frail-looking man’s skin was bright pink, obviously from unaccustomed sun exposure, and he reeked of some sort of flowery, musky perfume.

What did he want to talk to Gwyneth about? The dolt couldn’t want to marry her now, six years after the fact. Too late, you bastard. Gwyneth is mine and I won’t be giving her up.

“Would either of you care for sherry, sack or whisky?”

“No, thank you,” Southwick answered with a sniff. “So, why did you take Lady Gwyneth hostage?”

Alasdair forced himself to remain rooted to the spot. “Where did you hear such a lie?”

Southwick let loose a soft snort and exchanged a look with his friend. “Do you deny it?”

“Aye. She came here of her own free will. Donald MacIrwin was trying to kill her.”

“How preposterous! He is her blood relative. He would not want to kill her. And what of her son? Is he here as well?”

Hellfire and damnation. It wasn’t Gwyneth he wanted, but Rory. She would be thunderstruck. A sick feeling twisted Alasdair’s gut. “And why would you be caring where he’s at?”

The marquess leveled a superior but menacing look at Alasdair. “He is my son, and I will see him now.”

“Nay. You will not!”

Southwick’s mouth firmed and his face mottled. “Dare you tell me no, you—”

“Cừm do theanga, a mheapain!” Alasdair stepped forward and barely suppressed the urge to fling his newly sharpened sgian dubh at the whoreson’s throat. “You filthy Sassenach. Don’t think to come into my home and order me about! As a marquess, you may be one step ahead of me, but you’re in the Highlands now. And we hold no fondness for the English.”

Southwick’s face paled, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you—” He cleared his throat. “Are you threatening me?”

“Nay.” Alasdair couldn’t help that his mouth formed a smirking grin. “Just stating the facts,” he said in his most civil tone, yet he was sure his glower told them something altogether different. He would protect Gwyneth and Rory with his life.