Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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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.”

***

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.

“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.”

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?”