Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

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!”

“Nay, you don’t. You don’t ken what love is. If you feel anything for me, ’tis not love. ’Haps you enjoyed lying with me, but in truth, you have no heart.”

Rage and denial lit within her. “Don’t tell me I don’t have a heart! You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. And you don’t know anything about me.”

“Nay, I don’t ken you at all.”

“I love you, but I cannot be selfish right now.”

“’Haps for you ’tis selfish. But not for me. Is it selfish to want air to breathe? That is what you are to me.”

He ripped her heart from her body with that. She covered her eyes and the tears burst forth. She had never imagined such fierce passion existed. And indeed, she felt the same for him. That’s why it hurt so much. But just as the pelican would sacrifice her own blood to feed her starving chicks, so must Gwyneth sacrifice her heart for her son.

Alasdair stood in silence and did not make a move toward her. Once she had calmed herself, he asked, “Is that your final answer, then?”

She wiped her eyes and nodded. “I’m sorry. Alasdair, please understand.”

“Very well.” Pain glinted in his eyes before a wall of ice went up between them. “Southwick and his cohorts are imprisoned, so you are safe. You are to take Rory and appear before the king tomorrow. I’m sure he will have someone assist you with whatever arrangements you need to make. As for me, I am needed at Kintalon. Fare thee well.” He bowed.

She moved toward him. “I’m sorry, Alasdair. I—”

He held up his hand and backed away. “I’m thinking you’ve said enough.”

Chapter Eighteen

Three weeks later, Alasdair stood in Leitha’s flower garden. The hard stone wall of the castle behind his back was cool and rough. The sunset glowed orange and pink over the rugged Highlands. This was the first time he’d allowed himself to come here since his return to Kintalon. Though this was Leitha’s flower garden, the place brought Gwyneth full into his mind, especially when he smelled the strong scent of roses here in the garden, as he had when he first kissed her.

He’d tried to numb himself against her rejection. But still, the memories mocked him and stabbed at him.

Gwyneth loved England more than she loved him. Nay, she did not love him at all. Only cared for him a wee bit. Such minuscule feelings were without doubt snuffed out by now. If not for his bairn, she likely wouldn’t remember him at all. He prayed each night she did carry his son. ’Twould be his last tie to her. A tie he would never let go. Whether she liked it or not.

Instead of clearing the way for Gwyneth to marry him, all he’d done by helping uncover Maxwell Huntley’s conspiracies was help her attain a grand home in England where she might live. She no longer needed Alasdair. And it was beyond clear she didn’t want him or love him.

He had forced himself to leave London. Great dread of the dire and gloomy future had weighed upon him during the journey north. Once he and his men had arrived back at Kintalon, he had thrown himself into work. He could drown in either work or drink, and he had never been overly fond of the drink. That would show a distinct weakness. He refused to be weak.

Lachlan had remained at court in London, but had promised to return before the first snow.

While they’d been gone, Donald MacIrwin, his oldest son, and several of his men had been arrested and awaited trial in Edinburgh a month hence. Apparently, Donald had gone so far as to murder the messenger who’d brought the subpoena ordering him to appear before the Privy Council. This act had raised his noose several inches higher. Once the lairds who sat on the Privy Council heard of it, they’d thirsted for blood. Several of the MacGraths and MacIrwins were planning to testify against them.

Though Alasdair was glad to be home, this place was not the same without Gwyneth and Rory. If the sun shined, he didn’t know it. He was there for his clan. They needed him. He liked being needed. That was one thing he understood.

If she didn’t love him, he would teach himself not to love her.

***

Gwyneth stood gazing out the tall windows into the evening. Birds flitted across the rain-drenched English moor. The mist rolled, thick and gray, as if it had come down from the Highlands to haunt her. The hilly landscape here reminded her a little of Scotland.

It had been over a month since she had last seen Alasdair. And each day one thing became more and more clear to her—though she had made several mistakes in her past, turning away from Alasdair was the biggest.

He had been right about many things, including the fact that she carried his babe. But this was not the reason she missed him. Indeed, Alasdair had burrowed his way into her soul.

She had thought sacrificing Alasdair’s love for Rory’s sake would sustain her. She had thought she could accept life without truly living. But she’d been wrong. Alasdair occupied her mind, morn ’til dusk. And after, in the darkest night, she would wake from disturbing dreams and wonder if he were near, protecting her from the nightmares. Sometimes he was so vibrant and alive in her dreams that he seduced her and made her yearn for him to make love to her. She swore she could smell his enticing male scent and hear his Gaelic murmurs. How many times had she reached for him in the darkness only to find the bed empty and cold?

She now realized she was the one who’d been selfish. She’d wanted all these material things for Rory. But what benefited Rory also benefited her. Now, they both had far more monetary possessions than she had ever wished for. And it did not complete either of them. Rory’s future was like the dawn of a clear day, brilliant and full of promise, but the present was gloomy as the rain-gray moors outside.

“Do you think Alasdair carved a warrior for the wooden horse?” Rory asked.

Gwyneth turned from the window.

Her son slumped back in the chair before the table covered with books. He asked her that question every day without fail.

“I don’t know,” was always her answer.

“He said he would. And he doesn’t lie.”

“No, he does not.”

And, dear God, the things Alasdair had said to her. Not lies, but truths so beautiful she was almost overcome every time she recalled them. Words of profound love and fierce passion such as she had never imagined. Words she did not deserve. Her eyes burned with regret.

“I want to go see him,” Rory said.

“So do I, sweetheart. But we cannot right now.”

“He said he would be my new da if you would let him.”

Oh, goodness, that again. “Rory…someday you will understand.”

“I don’t like it here!” he snapped. “There’s nobody to play with.”

She sighed. They were wearing each other’s nerves thin. In truth, he could not play with the crusty old steward. And none of the servants brought their children to the house.

“I have to go to Edinburgh at the end of the month to testify against Laird MacIrwin. To tell them about the horrible things he did when he killed Mora and burned our cottage.”

Rory jolted upright, and his eyes flared wide. “Will Alasdair be there?”

“I think he will.”

Rory leapt to his feet and hopped across the floor toward her. “I want to go! I want to go!” He waved the wooden horse about. “Can I go, please? Ma! Please!”

“Yes, you may.”

Rory dashed toward the door. “I’ll go pack my trunk!”

Goodness, the trial wasn’t for three more weeks. Anticipation energized her at the thought of seeing Alasdair again. “I think I’ll start packing, too,” she murmured into the silence and rushed toward her bedchamber.

***

Alasdair sat with Fergus at a small table in the public room of a coaching inn in Edinburgh, the same one they’d stayed at two months before, on Grassmarket. Candles lent the room a dreary atmosphere. The scents of ale and roasting mutton were thick in the air, but he had no appetite for them. His clansmen, scattered about the room, and the inn’s other patrons produced a murmur of conversation around them.

The trial they would testify at tomorrow would lead to the one thing Alasdair had wanted his whole life. Indeed, what his father and grandfather had wanted their whole lives as well. Peace between the MacGraths and the MacIrwins. He and Donald’s second son, Carbry, who was next in line to become chief, had already come to a genuine peace agreement—one he had confidence in, because Carbry was of a completely different nature than his father.

Aye, this was what Alasdair had dreamed of, yet he felt no happiness. No satisfaction. Those things he had not experienced since he’d left Gwyneth in London two months past. Now, each night was too long. And once he slept, the morn and the memories arrived too soon to once again cast bleak clouds over his day.

He’d had his steward send her a missive about when the MacIrwin trial would be. He’d had no response and didn’t expect to see her face again outside England.

The possibility she carried his child was a double-sided coin—one side agony and the other joy. He would see her again; he promised himself that much.

The wide door to the inn opened with a loud squeak, and he glanced up. The vision he saw there was both too beautiful to believe and too painful to look at. Gwyneth. Dressed as he had never seen her, in fine fabrics sewn into the latest fashion. Her hair styled to perfection. The epitome of a stunning English lady. And with her, three servants—a middle-aged maid, a snobbish-looking graying man, and a tall younger maid carrying the sleeping Rory. His gaze locked on Gwyneth, talking to the chamberlain about rooms for her party. She seemed a dream-like illusion. He could not draw breath.

“What is it?” Fergus glanced behind himself toward the door. “Och, good lord.”

Indeed.

Fergus gauged his reaction. “Are you going to go speak to her?”

Speak to her? Hell, he wasn’t even certain he could stand or form a coherent sentence. He stared at the tankard of ale between his hands. “Nay.” He had tried to tell himself he’d only imagined how much her rejection had hurt. But it was not his imagination.

A moment later, rustling silken skirts stopped by the table. Shimmering blue fabric and the scent of fresh flowers. But even those things did not dazzle him. It was Gwyneth’s smile and the vague hint of moisture in her eyes. “Laird MacGrath.” She curtseyed.

God’s teeth, man, say something.

“M’lady.” He gave a mock bow but remained seated. He did not trust himself to stand without overturning the chair or some other such blunder.

“It is good to see you again,” she said with extreme politeness.

“Likewise.” Though in truth, this was not good for his heart since it now refused to beat properly. And his soul shriveled into a tight ball against the torture of looking at her.

“Could I speak with you?”

Though he was determined not to have a conversation with her, curiosity won. “Aye. Here?”

She darted her gaze about the crowded room. “In private.”

Hell and the devil! What is she up to? He could not tolerate much more of her torment.

“Come.” He rose from his chair, and without waiting for her, proceeded up the narrow stairs. One part of him prayed she wouldn’t follow, that she’d find him crudely insulting and scurry the other way. Another part of him waited, breath suspended, as if it would suffocate without her presence.

Along the dimly lit corridor, he opened the door to his chamber, stood back and waited for her to enter.

She swept past him. Her wide skirts brushed silk against his legs. Refusing to think or feel anything, he followed her inside and closed the door.

Her French perfume overcame his senses. And yet she did not smell like his Gwyneth of smoke and sex, making love to the glow of a balefire. She was a different Gwyneth. English Gwyneth. The woman she was meant to be from birth. A woman who knew how to wear privilege and wealth like the finest clothing.

It was easier to think of her as a stranger. Perhaps then the abyss that always yawned before him would be a little further away. But she spoke.

“I missed you so.” This was his Gwyneth’s voice, the Gwyneth he knew in the Highlands. The one who saved his life and made his bed. Before he took her upon it. And her eyes, vivid blue as a clear spring day when the snow melts, they were his Gwyneth’s eyes.

He looked away. “Indeed?”

“Yes. I’ve come to say how sorry I am.”

Sorry. Aye, he kenned it well.

“And I wanted to tell you—” She wrung her hands and then crossed her arms over her breasts. “Goodness, this is harder than I’d thought.”

He was in no mood to wait upon the delicate sensibilities of a woman. Especially one who had hacked his heart from his chest with an ax.

“Just say it.” So we can both go about our lives again.

“Well, Alasdair…”

Good lord, she was getting intimate with his name. Perhaps his glare had not been cold enough.

“You were right about everything.”

What the devil was she talking about? He watched her carefully. Her gaze darted about.

“And I realized I was afraid to take what I wanted…which was you.” Her eyes softened upon him. Her lips lifted a wee fraction.

A twinge of warning shot through him.

“From the moment I saw you lying on that battlefield with a peace treaty, I knew you were something else. Something I had never encountered before. I feared to hope for anything. I never—” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “I never believed a man like you could love me,” she whispered. “I didn’t believe love existed. It was more a fairytale than those stories I tell Rory. And yet, you are real.” She took his hand, lifted it to her face, and kissed his palm. Her warm tears wet his thumb.

His ears would not listen to her words. He was afraid he might misunderstand them. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you, Alasdair MacGrath. And the love I have for you is not bland or mediocre. It is a love so grand it consumes every part of me. I have not lived for the past two months. I have existed in a world of gray mist and nightmares, with nothing but the memory of your face to sustain me.”

Was it really him she was talking to? “Forsooth. Am I dreaming?” Maybe he missed her so bad, he’d lost his grip on reality.

She smiled, and yet tears streamed unchecked from her eyes. “Can you still love me? Will you marry me?”

He took her face between his hands, stepped close and ran his fingers over her brows, her nose, her chin. He had to assure himself she was real. “You don’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do.” She cupped his face in her hands in a like manner. “I love you, Alasdair. I’m asking you to marry me. I want to live with you forever at Kintalon and have your bairns.”

His throat tightened. “Gwyneth, don’t toy with me this way! Tell me, in truth.”

She tugged his head downward toward hers and pressed her lips to his. It seemed in that moment his cracked heart shattered and fell into a thousand pieces. Yet that was only a shell around his real heart—born anew and pounding like a war drum.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips. “I want to be with you.”

“But what of England and safety? What of Rory and his title?”

“Donald and his men are arrested. And Rory’s title means nothing if we do not have you. I thought I would be happy with Rory safe and his future so bright with promise. I thought I could sacrifice my heart, my love for you. I knew it would be painful, but I thought I could withstand it. I was wrong. Rory and I were both happiest at Kintalon, with you and your clan. That was home to us both. As for living in England, it doesn’t matter if Rory behaves like an English lord fifteen years hence, if he is so miserable now he cannot drag himself off the chair.”

A ray of hope shined into the bleakness of his soul. “Rory missed me?” For some reason, it was easier to believe Rory had missed him. Maybe because he’d convinced himself Gwyneth hated him.

“Yes, but not as much as I did.” She stroked his face, his chin, with gentle fingers. “Do you believe me?”

“Aye. But you must understand you ripped my heart out by the roots.”

Tears filled her eyes again. “Pray, forgive me. I will make it up to you, I swear, even if it should take years to prove to you how much I love you.”

“You’ll never abandon me again?”

She shook her head. “I won’t. I promise.”

With his thumb, he swiped the tears from beneath her eyes. “I believe you.” Indeed he did, though it might take time for it to sink in. He still felt this was all a dream. “And I love you,” he said on faith that she would never smash his world again.

She took his hand and drew it down to stroke over the silken fabric covering her flat belly. “I carry a part of you within me.”

Elation filled him like a warm summer breeze. “Och! I knew it! Did I not tell you?”

She chuckled. “Yes, you were right.”

He dropped to his knees before her and pressed his face to her belly, as if he might feel his child within. She felt so good in his arms, he wanted to absorb her into himself.

“Thanks be to God. And I thank you, Gwyneth, for coming back to me. I was not sure I could exist another day without you.”

Gwyneth sank to the floor beside Alasdair, and they clung to each other. Exultation whirled through her with such intensity, she laughed and wept at the same time. Oh, how delightful and stirring his big, hard body felt against hers. “Thank you for giving me another chance. I was so afraid you would hate me forever.”

“Nay, I couldn’t stop loving you. Hell, I admit I tried.” He shook his head. “But I couldn’t.” Bending closer, he placed cherishing kisses over her face. His lips tickled her skin and felt like paradise on earth—soft, warm summer rain.

Rising, he lifted her into his arms, carried her to the bed and lay her down upon it. His dark gaze, solemn and fathomless, trailed over her face and delved into her eyes with such intensity, as if he still searched for the truth. As if he still needed reassurance that she loved him.

“You have not given me your answer,” she said.

“Aye, I will marry you. Will you marry me as well, Gwyneth?”

“Aye, that I will, lad,” she mimicked his Scottish burr and laughed, joy infusing her, head to toe, as it never had in her lifetime.

He chuckled. Then kissed her fierce and deep. The way he kissed her in memories and dreams. A kiss that possessed her mouth as his body would possess hers, with sensual power and driving force.

***

Donald MacIrwin couldn’t believe his and his clansmen’s cell door had just swung open, with a soft but ominous screech, in the middle of the night. It could not be morn for he had slept none, and only a few hours had passed. He arose from the filthy, damp, packed-earth floor. Were they to be hanged tonight? Icy fear washed over him, and his empty stomach ached. He turned and glanced through the dimness at his eldest son, in his mid-twenties, young, strong and fit. Donald was proud of the fearsome young man, cut from the same fabric as his da. If he couldn’t escape the hangman’s noose, he hoped John could. Though Donald had other sons, John was his favorite and would make the strongest leader for the clan.

“MacIrwins, come,” the guard whispered, holding a lantern aloft.

“What’s happening?” Donald asked. And why would the guard whisper?

“’Tis your lucky night. Someone has paid for your freedom. Keep your mouths shut,” he warned. “Or ’twill be declared a prison break, and you’ll be killed on sight.”

Someone paid their way out? How and who? Someone must have bribed the guards with a goodly amount of coin. Well, he wasn’t going to turn down such a generous offer.

“Come,” Donald whispered to his men, then crept from the cell. His clansmen silently followed him along the dank prison passageways and down stone steps. Finally, they arrived at a metal gate with bars. Another guard swung it open, and the MacIrwins stepped out into the cloudy night. A mist of rain hissed through the air, but the cool air smelled of freedom. He could barely contain his joy.

Southwick—or rather, the dispossessed Maxwell Huntley—stood nearby, holding a lantern.

“I thought you were in the tower, in London,” Donald said, approaching him. The Englishman did not appear as arrogant and flamboyant as he had on their first meeting. Now, his clothing was little more than grimy rags.

“Indeed, but my good friends helped me escape, just as they’ve helped you. In case you didn’t know, money will buy anything.”

Donald grunted. “Well, I must thank you for saving our lives.”

“Not yet. You are to earn it. I want my son back.”

Was the man a complete lunatic? “Why? You have no title or property.”

“I don’t give a damn. He is my son, and I will have him back.”

“You’re an outlaw, just as we are.”

“I want revenge.” Huntley said through clenched teeth. “I want that whorish Gwyneth dead, and her damned lover, Alasdair MacGrath. They have destroyed my life.”

“I’m in agreement on that.” Rage seethed through Donald’s veins when he thought of the two of them. “Revenge would be sweet right now.” Because of MacGrath, Donald had lost everything, and soon stood to lose his life, as did his oldest son.

“I know which inn they are staying at,” Huntley said. “We’ll slip in, kill them, grab the boy and leave. I’ll take you all to the continent with me. I have friends there who will help us.”

Sounded like a right pleasant alternative to being hanged in the morn. “Very well, my good man. Point the way.”

***

Gwyneth lay wrapped in Alasdair’s arms, dreaming of fairytales and happily-ever-after when something woke her. A sound that prodded her to full alert. The candle on the bedside table flickered low. She tried to sit up but Alasdair’s heavy arm prevented it.

“What was that?” she asked.

He shifted. “What?”

“I’m sure I heard something. Rory.” Icy fear poured down from her head to her ankles. “Rory called my name!” She struggled naked toward the edge of the bed and shoved her arms into her smock.

Alasdair yanked on a pair of trews. Bare-chested, he unsheathed his sword and strode toward the door. Hands trembling, Gwyneth snatched the sgain dubh from her corset lying on the floor and followed. Oh dear heaven, please let Rory be well. She never should’ve left him with the maid in a room down the hall.

“Stay behind me,” Alasdair whispered.

“Yes. Hurry.”

A pistol fired and a section of door around the lock splintered. They jerked back. The surge of fear near chocked her.

“Get down!” Alasdair urged her backward. “Stay in the corner.”

Who was that, and what was going on? With her back against the wall, she gripped the knife, her pulse roaring in her ears.

The door swung back. Her distant cousin John MacIrwin stood in the opening, sword raised. Good lord, he’s escaped! He was supposed to go on trial tomorrow, along with Donald—his father—and several other clan members. Where was Donald? Please God, don’t let him hurt Rory.

John’s wild blue gaze lit on Gwyneth. “Da! The whore is in here!”

Alasdair darted forward and knocked the broadsword from John’s hand, then bashed his hilt against John’s head. He crashed against the wall and slid to the floor. Another kilted MacIrwin leapt into the room and engaged Alasdair in swordplay. Steal clashed and tinged, deafening in the close space.

Alasdair faked out his opponent and stabbed his blade into the MacIrwin clansmen’s gut. “Omach!” The man doubled forward, and pitched to the floor, howling.

John finally recovered his sword, pushed to his feet and launched an attack against Alasdair. The whacking blades smashed into each other by the second as the two men thrust and blocked.

John’s blade nicked Alasdair’s forearm and blood ran forth. Clearly, it was more than a nick.

No! God, I beg of You, protect Alasdair. Near frozen in place, Gwyneth bit into her fist.

John’s foot bumped into his dying comrade on the floor and he wavered, almost losing his balance. Alasdair took advantage of this weakness and sliced his blade across John’s throat. Gwyneth closed her eyes against the spurting blood.

Swords clanged out in the corridor, amid a din of shouting, cursing and crashes.

“Stay here!” Alasdair leapt over the two dying men and charged into the corridor.

Had he gone mad? Rory needed her. She jumped over the MacIrwins lying in pools of their own blood and chased after Alasdair.

“Ma!” Her son’s cry sounded as if it came from the same room where she’d left him with the maid earlier. She prayed no one had gotten to him.

“Rory?” She tried to dash past Alasdair.

He flung his arm out and held her back. “Wait!” He darted a quick glare of warning her way, then faced the enemies again.

In the dim corridor before them, lit only by two near burned-out candles in wall sconces, Padraig fought a MacIrwin she’d seen but didn’t know. Further along, Angus rained a flurry of sword strikes against Donald’s blade.

She had to move past them to reach Rory.

“MacIrwin!” Alasdair yelled in a dangerous tone of challenge.

The enemy closest to them faltered and cast a glower at Alasdair. In that instant of distraction, Padraig’s blade struck the man’s chest. Blood spread through the white linen of his shirt.

Cursing, he attempted to block Padraig’s next blow, but the move was useless. Padraig’s sword shoved through muscle and ribs with the sickening sound of bone breaking. The man screamed out and slid to the floor.

Gwyneth covered her ears, hating violence as much as she always had. “I must get to Rory!” she told Alasdair. “Will you help me?”

“Out of our way, MacIrwin.” Alasdair advanced.

“Go to hell! And take that traitorous whore with you!”

Alasdair raised his sword and drew a small but threatening circle in the air. Donald’s eyes widened when he realized he was blocked, with Angus behind him and Alasdair in front.

“’Tis not a good time to be insulting my future wife. Would you rather hang tomorrow or die by the sword tonight?”

Madness entered Donald’s eyes. He rushed Alasdair, shoving his sword upward and knocking Alasdair’s blade aside at the last moment, though he retained his grip on it.

Gwyneth flattened herself against the wall. Donald lumbered past her. Alasdair switched places with her, and faced Donald again.

Seeing her chance, she darted along the passage. “I’m going to Rory.”

“Let me finish him, lad.” Angus stalked forward. “I’ve wanted to do this for your father since the day the MacIrwins murdered him. And I owe this pile of cac for the death of my son.”

“Aye, me, too,” Padraig seethed, his arm and chest bleeding.

“See that you do the job well.” Alasdair’s footsteps thumped behind Gwyneth as she dashed along the corridor.

Rory’s shrill cry sounded behind the door where she’d left him earlier with the maid watching over him. Terrified of what she’d find inside, Gwyneth paused outside the door and grasped the knob.

Alasdair nudged Gwyneth aside and, shielding her with his body, flung the door open.

A dagger’s blade glinted at her son’s throat. And Maxwell Huntley, the former marquess of Southwick, held it there in a gloved hand. How could he? That was his son.

Paralysis gripped her, forcing all the breath from her lungs. Darkness threatened.

Alasdair grabbed onto her and brought her to her senses.

Rory is not hurt yet. I must get him away from that devil.

“Ma! He killed Anna!” Rory pointed toward the bed in the far corner and the still form covered in a blanket.

Their maid. “God help us,” Gwyneth whispered.

“What do you want?” Alasdair demanded of the knave.

“Your black heart on a golden platter,” Huntley sneered.

“Let the wee lad go and I’ll fight you, man to man.”

“First, I want her dead.” He sent a poison glare at Gwyneth. “You steal everything I have and give it to her.”

“Nay, the king gave the estate to your son, as you wanted.”

“It is not what I wanted now! Fifty years down the road, yes. He’s still a sniveling child. Besides, my title that I wanted him to have is forfeit. And her… What a whore you are, my lady.”

“Unhand Rory this instant! He’s an innocent child.”

“But you are not—innocent, that is. You have just come from swiving the filthy Scot.”

Rory slammed his foot hard against Huntley’s toes.

“Ouch! You little shit!”

Alasdair rushed forward. He grabbed Huntley’s knife hand and shoved him against the wall.

Rory tumbled forward into Gwyneth’s arms. Oh, thank God. She dragged him away.

Alasdair’s sword clattered to the floor as the two men fell.

She glanced up to find them rolling on the floor, grappling for the dagger in Huntley’s hand.

“Heavens!” She pushed Rory into the corner beside a chest. “Stay there.”

Refusing to let Huntley have the upper hand, and with Alasdair’s arm injured besides, she gripped her sgain dubh and moved Alasdair’s sword from her pathway. She had saved his life once; she would do it again.

Rolling on top, Huntley squalled and sliced his dagger at Alasdair’s throat. Alasdair held him off. Their hands on the knife bobbed in the air.

Gwyneth leapt onto Huntley’s back and sliced her knife across his arm. “Turn him loose!”

With an elbow, he flung her off him. “Bitch! I’ll kill you for that!”

She stumbled backward, realizing her knife wasn’t big enough. She threw it down and picked up Alasdair’s basket-hilted, bloodied broadsword. Heaven help me. Can I use one of these? It was heavier than she’d expected.

Alasdair shoved his knee upward and threw Huntley off. At the last moment, he dragged his blade across Alasdair’s bare chest. Blood poured from the fresh cut. Alasdair kicked the knife from his hand.

Huntley pulled a pistol from his doublet. No! Gwyneth charged him with the sword. The blade pierced through Huntley’s belly and drove into the wall behind him.

He screamed.

Alasdair snatched the pistol from Huntley’s hand before he could use it.

Gwyneth released the sword and backed away. What have I done? I have killed a man.

Huntley crumpled to the floor cursing, writhing and trying to pull the blade from his belly. Blood gushed from his wound and his hands.