Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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Chapter Four

“Rory!” God, help me, I must get to him.

Gwyneth’s vision grew fuzzy. How could she free herself from this rider without getting herself killed? She gasped for air that refused to enter her lungs.

The ground beneath the horse hurtled past at dizzying speed. She fought to escape, tried to grab her captor’s sword or dagger.

The kilted Scot—probably one of her own clansmen—shoved a strong hand against the back of her neck, restricting her movements. She couldn’t reach her own dirk either. Her throat tightened and tears streamed from her eyes.

Where was Rory? He still screeched nearby, though she couldn’t tell where with all the jostling. If one of these brutes hurt him, she’d take her dirk to the blackguard and damn the consequences.

The bare, hairy leg of the Scot flexed in front of her face. She could bite him. But this would only anger him, and he might toss her from the galloping horse.

More hooves pounded close-by, and eerie war cries resounded. Her captor yelled in Gaelic. The ding of clashing metal rang out.

What’s going on? The MacIrwin men wouldn’t fight amongst themselves. Were the MacGraths challenging them? Had she and Rory made it to MacGrath land? A ray of hope lit the thick blackness that had near smothered her.

Gwyneth turned her head and, upside down, watched the men slashing at each other in the misty dawn light. The pop of a pistol shot echoed. Her captor jerked and growled a curse.

He slowed the horse and unsheathed his sword. Steel blades clanged over and behind her. The man’s body tensed. The muscles of his legs under her bunched and flexed hard as iron as he engaged in swordplay with someone she couldn’t see.

The horse beneath them danced about, reared. Gwyneth’s head spun in the turmoil of movement.

Her captor shrieked. His body convulsed. The horse reared again. She slid with the man, but tried to grab onto the saddle. Her hands clasped air. With a scream, she tumbled over the animal’s hindquarters and hit the ground.

The hard impact jarred Gwyneth’s teeth and every bone in her body. Pain radiated from her left side. At least the man had broken her fall a bit.

The horse fled. She scrambled away from her captor—one of her distant cousins with red hair, a bushy beard and a grimace such as she’d never seen. He grabbed at his neck where blood gushed.

Glad to be free, but at the same time, hating to see anyone die, she rose and stumbled further away from him.

Pausing a short distance from the main skirmish, she frantically scanned the turmoil for Rory. The meager light revealed less than a dozen men on horseback and some on foot. They cut and jabbed at one another.

A man on foot, a good friend of Donald’s, spotted her and stalked her way. He wielded a claymore, bloodlust gleaming in his eyes.

Panic spurred her into a full run.

Where is Rory? Where is Rory?

A horse approached, chasing her. God protect me.

Yet again, a rider grasped her belt and yanked her off her feet. She screamed. Her new captor slammed her across his saddle. Pain throbbed in her abdomen.

She struggled to draw breaths. Her black-speckled vision cleared by slow degrees. This man’s kilt was of an unfamiliar tartan. She prayed he was a MacGrath.

Her strength drained away. Her whole body trembled with weakness.

I must find Rory.

The Scot urged his horse up an incline. They were not traveling toward Donald’s holdings. This territory was foreign to her.

“Ma! Ma!”

“Rory!” she yelled. Thanks be to God, he was alive. She glanced about upside down, but couldn’t see him.

At the top of the hill, the man slowed his horse. Other men surrounded them.

She squirmed, attempting to escape. “Let me down!”

“What do you have there, Fergus?”

“He’s gone out and captured himself a bonny bride.”

Masculine laughter erupted around her.

Her captor grasped her belt and dragged her backward. “Hold her.”

She slid toward the ground, flailed about, but strong hands caught her arms.

The blood rushed from her head. Dark spots obscured her vision, and she grew lightheaded. She swayed and jerked against the hands that held her. They tightened like ropes.

“Ma!” Rory called yet again.

Her vision cleared, and she glanced around in the pale dawn light. The man who’d snatched Rory handed him down to another.

Rory kicked, punched and screamed like a wildcat.

“Rory!” she warned, not wanting the man to hit him. With a trained eye, she searched his body for blood or wounds and thankfully found none.

Her son stilled, looking about wide-eyed.

“Shh,” she said when his gaze met hers. She turned her attention to the men around her. “Are you MacGraths?”

“Aye.”

She almost collapsed with relief and gratitude, but she still didn’t know what kind of reception she’d get.

Her rescuer, the one they’d called Fergus, dismounted and faced her. “Are you MacIrwin?”

His appearance startled her for an instant. He held a strong resemblance to the man whose life she’d saved days ago. His long dark hair reached his shoulders. He had a clean-shaven face and a square jaw, but his eyes were of a different shape and light color.

“I’m Gwyneth Carswell, and this is my son, Rory. The MacIrwins are trying to kill us. We seek refuge.”

“And why would they be wanting to kill you, Sassenach?” he asked in a derisive, disbelieving tone.

“They learned that I helped save the life of one of your clansmen, Angus MacGrath.”

Fergus frowned and glanced at another man. “Angus, do you ken this woman?”

She scanned the men standing about, expecting to see the man whose life she’d saved. Where was he? And why had he not stepped forward?

“Nay.”

She didn’t recognize the man who spoke. While he had the same dark hair as most of his other clansmen, he was fully-bearded and a decade older than the man she’d helped. She felt disoriented. He wasn’t Angus, unless there were two men named Angus in their clan, a definite possibility. “No, not him.”

“I’m thinking she means Alasdair,” another man said.

“What were his injuries?” Fergus asked her.

“A large knot on his head, a broken toe, and several cuts. Did he make it back safely?”

“Aye, by the skin of his teeth. That would be Chief MacGrath you’re speaking of. And grateful we are that you helped him.” Fergus gave a brief bow.

“But he said….” As she’d suspected, he’d lied to her about who he was. Indeed, he hadn’t trusted her. But could she blame him?

Six horses charged over the crest of the hill. Five riders sat in saddles and the sixth lay strung over his horse’s back.

The men around her rushed forward to meet them, and the one who’d held her captive released her.

“Campbell didn’t make it through the skirmish.” A bearded man in trews swung down from his saddle.

“Nay!” Angus yelled and pulled the dead man from the horse.

Gwyneth saw then that Campbell was very young, perhaps not yet twenty. Big, tough Angus held the young man’s body and sobbed.

“His eldest son.” The burly man who still held Rory glared at her.

“Oh, no,” Gwyneth whispered. Because of her, someone else had lost their life. A boy who had not yet had time to live his life.

She rushed forward. “Are you certain he’s dead? I’m a healer. Let me examine him.”

“He was stabbed through the heart.” A grim, middle-aged man snarled. “Do you think we don’t ken when someone is dead? All you Sassenachs think we Scots are daft.”

His words struck her like stones. “Pray pardon.” She stepped back a respectful distance.

Watching Angus grieve the death of his son was horrible enough. But when she imagined losing Rory in a like manner, she pressed a fist to her mouth to quell the agony. This was why they had to leave the Highlands. She did not want to be in Angus’s shoes ten years hence, grieving the loss of her son in some skirmish.

Rory broke away from the man restraining him and ran to her. She knelt and hugged him tight. It could just as easily have been her or Rory who had died at the MacIrwins’ hand. Campbell had given his life for theirs.

“Take her to the tower and see if the laird kens who she is. If he doesn’t, cut her throat,” bellowed the grim man who had spoken last.

***

Gwyneth waited in the quiet, dreary great hall with Rory in front of her. She prayed Alasdair was the true name of the man she’d helped days ago. If not, she and Rory had no hope. One of the men who’d marshaled her and Rory to Kintalon Castle still stood behind them, a sword in his hand. The other man had disappeared up the spiral stone steps to find his laird.

Fear constricted Gwyneth’s throat. Please let him be the MacGrath I know.

The delicious scents of bacon and freshly baked oat bannocks drifted up from the ground floor kitchen, making her empty stomach rumble and ache, but she would willingly go hungry if only Rory could have some food.

Sunrise gleamed through the small windows cut high into the thick stone walls. No fire yet burned in the fireplace—so massive a person could stand upright within. Only a few worn and faded tapestries depicting battle scenes served to decorate the austere walls. Instead of filthy rushes on the floor, clean rush-mats lay here and there. While they waited, servants and clan members entered to set up trestle tables for breakfast, casting a few curious glances her way.

Many tense moments later, a man limped down the steps on a regal-looking cane, his kilt hastily pleated. With her first glimpse of his familiar face, she whispered a prayer of thanks and gripped Rory’s shoulders. She dared not even draw breath for several seconds.

Laird MacGrath moved closer and gazed down into her eyes with solemn concern. “Are you well then, m’lady?”

“Yes. I thank you.” She couldn’t help the unevenness of her voice that betrayed the rush of relief flooding through her.

He glanced at the men behind her. “Aye, this is the woman who saved my life. Tell the others she and her son have safe haven here.”

So overwhelmed was she by his words, she could not hear the other men’s response for the blood pounding in her ears. She wanted to throw her arms around him in gratitude, press her face to his chest and cry her eyes out. But she would never demonstrate such a loss of control, no matter how drawn to him she was or how thankful for his compassion.

She swallowed against the constricting emotion. “So, in truth, you are Laird MacGrath?”

“Aye. But you may call me Alasdair. I found it necessary to lie to protect myself. I didn’t ken whether I could trust you or not.”

“And you’re still not sure, are you?”

A slight smile lit his eyes. “Nay. But I’m hoping I can.”

His friendliness conspired to put her at ease, but she still had to be sure of his intentions. “You will not turn me over to Donald’s men, will you?”

“Nay.” He frowned. “You didn’t turn me over to them. Why would I be doing anything less?”

She gave a curtsey. “I thank you, my laird.”

“I’m glad you and your son are here. I was hoping to see you again…to thank you once more for saving my life.” His intense midnight gaze held her. He’d looked at her thus before, days ago. Though he exuded male interest, there was naught insulting in it. Instead, she sensed deep-seated fascination, as if he were loath to glance away from her.

Rory stood silent before her, staring up wide-eyed at Alasdair. She understood her son’s fascination and hero worship for she felt the same, though with a woman’s appreciation.

“You are welcome, of course. I’m very sorry about Angus’s son,” she said.

“As am I. I must go see to them. In the meantime, break your fast.” He motioned toward the trestle tables with benches where women were assembling food and wooden tableware.

She curtseyed again. “I thank you.”

He bowed. “Later, I’ll be wanting the whole story of how you came to be here.”

Before he left, he spoke quietly to one of the women servants. She stared at Gwyneth and nodded.

Seeming much too solemn for her satisfaction, Alasdair sent her one last glance and limped out on his cane.

One of the youths of his clan had lost his life. Would he blame her for it?

***

After breakfast, Rory played with the other children, while Gwyneth busied herself by assisting the servants clearing away the meal and working in the kitchen. Sunlight shining through two narrow windows near the vaulted stone ceiling and the lingering fragrance of oat bannocks helped calm her nerves. The plentiful food she’d eaten soothed her stomach.

Though her eyes were scratchy with exhaustion and her muscles sore, she was too tense to sleep. Besides, no one had offered her a bed. Thankfully, they had allowed her to wash herself up a bit before breakfast and loaned her clean clothes. Her own had been covered in black mud from the moor.

Making herself useful to the household was the only way to keep her worries, as well as her grief over losing Mora, at bay. But even washing the wooden bowls reminded her of her dear friend, because they had often shared this task.

“What’s taking you so long, Sassenach?” the housekeeper, Mistress Weems, bellowed.

Gwyneth glanced up at the rotund, middle-aged woman with her snarling face. Though no longer above the other woman’s social station, Gwyneth refused to be intimidated and met her gaze squarely. Weems glared for a moment, snorted, then barreled toward the other side of the kitchen.

“Pay her no mind,” the girl beside her said. “She’s a right auld hag.”

Gwyneth smiled at the girl. A kerch held her red hair back, but small locks curled about her face.

“I’m Tessie.” She appeared to be three or four years younger than Gwyneth’s twenty-three years, and the kerch indicated her married state.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Gwyneth.”

“I ken it. Everyone’s talking of you.”

Uneasiness crept in on Gwyneth. “What are they saying?”

Tessie cast her a nervous glance. “That you’re English and an enemy MacIrwin.”

“I am English, true, but not an enemy.” She couldn’t deny her distant blood link to the MacIrwins, but she could refuse to accept them as true family. “Anything else?”

Tessie studied the bowl she was drying. “Well, some are saying if not for you traipsing onto MacGrath land, Campbell might yet live.”

Gwyneth had feared as much. And indeed she carried a heavy weight of guilt for the boy’s death. “I wish he had never ridden into the skirmish. He was too young. I had no other choice but to come here. It was either flee to MacGrath holdings or be murdered by my own second cousin. I had to protect my son.”

Tessie nodded. “I understand, mistress.”

“Please, call me Gwyneth.”

“As you wish.” Tessie’s smile disappeared when she glanced over Gwyneth’s shoulder. Heavens, what could be behind her?

She turned to find Alasdair limping across the suddenly quiet kitchen. Goodness! What did he want? Given the servants’ reaction, she suspected he didn’t visit the kitchen very often, and his imposing form seemed out of place.

His penetrating gaze touched upon her with much familiarity and connection. “I would have a word with you upstairs, Mistress Carswell,” he said in a formal but kind tone.

“Very well.” She wiped her hands on her skirts and preceded him toward the spiral staircase. She felt all eyes boring into her, speculating what their laird wished to speak to her about in private. She prayed that whispered rumors would not start. The last thing she wanted was another scandal.

“We shall talk in the library.” His voice echoed when they entered the empty great hall. His cane pecked along the stone floor as he kept pace beside her.

Alone? In a private room? It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. She did. But there could be much speculation from the clan.

How singular and strange this seemed, to be strolling along with such a handsome laird. She must remember her manners. “How are your toe, your head and your other injuries, Laird MacGrath?”

“Please, I would have you call me Alasdair. My foot is mending by the day, and the lump on my head no longer causes me dizziness. As for the cuts, they no longer bleed.”

“I’m glad.”

“’Tis to your credit I’ve healed so quickly.”

She started to argue, but they entered the library through an impressive carved oak door, and he closed it behind them. She glanced about in wonder at the book-lined room. The MacGrath clan must’ve indeed been more fortunate and prosperous than most. The musty scent of books reminded her of the small library in the manor house where she’d grown up. A moment of nostalgia transported her back to a time and place where she’d laughed with her sisters and read stories.

Oh, if only she could read some of these books to Rory. She wanted to pull one from the shelf and leaf through it, but restrained herself.

“What a lovely library,” she whispered.

“My thanks. Do you read?”

“Eh, yes.” Although she was revealing to him her former social station—because usually only the wealthy or the titled read—it could not be helped. Her mother had educated her and her sisters.

“You may use it whenever you like.”

“I thank you. I am teaching Rory to read.” She was also grateful he didn’t ask more questions about her past because they always led to the scandal. And that, he could not find out about.

This room was smaller than the great hall here at Kintalon, and clearly a newer addition, with a lower ceiling and chairs and benches in groupings. Her toes itched, wanting to dig into the rich plushness of the Turkish carpet spread across the center of the floor. A small fire crackled in the fireplace, topped by a carved walnut mantel. She had not seen such luxury since she’d left England. This was a fitting place for a noble laird such as he was, certainly better than a byre.

“Have a seat, if you please.” His voice was but a murmur in the cozy room.

She chose a wooden chair and sat, focusing her attention on the business at hand. “How is Angus?” Her heart ached for the poor man.

“Bearing up. ’Tis no easy task to lose a son.” Alasdair sat across from her.

“No, of course not.” Guilt gnawed at her vitals. “I cannot tell you how awful I feel about it. I suppose if I hadn’t come, Campbell would still be alive. It was my fault, I know, and your clan is right to blame me.” She simply prayed he could forgive her.

“What?” He frowned. “This was not your fault, m’lady. And the clan doesn’t blame you.”

She kept her mouth sealed tight, wishing that was the case but….

“Do they?” he asked, his gaze sharpening.

“I’m not certain. But if they do, I can see why. In truth, I had no other choice but to flee and come here. Donald and his men must have discovered that Mora and I had helped you. When I came back from gathering herbs, the day after you left, I found them burning our cottage.” Gwyneth’s throat closed up and her vision blurred, but she swallowed and continued, determined that everyone know how evil Donald was. “They stabbed Mora in the back and left her lying in the yard.”

“By the saints. What a barbarian he is!” Alasdair blew out a long breath. “I am sorry.”

His response gratified her and, she had to admit, surprised her. She could count on one hand the number of times a man had come to her defense. “I knew if any of them saw Rory or me, they’d kill us both.”

“Of course. M’lady, I’m thankful you and Rory made it here safe and sound. Don’t blame yourself for Campbell’s death. ’Twas his choice to ride into the skirmish. He had trained for many years, since he was a wee lad, and was as prepared as he could be, for his age. Lives are oft lost in such situations. He was a warrior, and defending the clan his job.”

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she agreed.

“In fact, I must blame myself for the trouble you’ve had.” His expression contrite, Alasdair studied the carved wooden handle of his cane, shaped like a falcon. “As I was crossing from MacIrwin land to MacGrath, they near caught me. I’d knocked out one of their men and borrowed a horse and sword. We had a wee skirmish. After that, I feared they’d backtrack me to your cottage.” His gaze locked onto hers. “I ken ’tis my fault Mora was killed, and I’m deeply sorry.”

Gwyneth’s throat ached and tears stung her eyes, both because Mora was dead and because Alasdair seemed truly remorseful for any indirect part he’d played in Mora’s death. Never had she known a man who felt remorse for anything.

“I must take part of the blame as well,” Gwyneth said. “When you were hurt, I was determined to help you, even though she cautioned me against it.”

Why hung in the air for a few seconds as he gave her a dark searching look laced with some emotion she could not identify. She hoped he wouldn’t ask. The peace treaty—that was the reason she would give.

“M’lady, that wouldn’t put the blame on you, but on me once again.” His voice softened. “’Twas my life that was saved, and hers that was lost.”

Renewed outrage rushed through her over Mora’s death. “No. ’Tis Donald’s fault. All of it. He is the very devil!” Never had she wanted to strike him down so badly. And she had never been a violent person.

“Aye, I won’t argue about that.” Alasdair leaned back in his chair and laid the cane across his lap.

The kilt ended at his knees, leaving a goodly portion of his legs bare. She had been in the Highlands long enough to grow used to seeing that much naked, male skin, but she took more notice than was prudent of Alasdair’s golden skin, with its sprinkling of dark hairs, and his pleasantly muscled calves. She knew his thighs to be just as thick with muscle from when she’d examined his injured body.

He had succeeded in distracting her. The heat of her anger had turned into a different kind of heat, shameful and inappropriate at a time like this, when lives had been lost and her own likely still in danger. But Alasdair’s vitality embodied life and passion. She could not look at him without seeing this. Everything about him, his masculine beauty, his physical power, shouted I’m alive. And sometimes she thought if she could only touch him, he would imbue that same strength of life in her as well.

“Tell me what happened after I left. I’m wanting all the details,” he said.

Gwyneth recounted everything she and Rory had seen and experienced, from spending the night in the woods, eating roots and berries, then crossing the treacherous moor at dawn. Alasdair listened intently, nodding from time to time and making comments.

“You must be near exhausted, m’lady. You should’ve been sleeping, not working in the kitchen.”

His concern was a novelty that caressed her like soothing fingers. “I thank you, but I couldn’t sleep.”

A knock sounded at the door, then it opened and a tall man stuck his head in. He grinned.

“Lachlan, come on in, then.” Alasdair motioned the kilted man forward. “M’lady, I would like for you to meet my brother, Lachlan.

”The man’s tawny, golden-brown hair was long as a pagan’s and hung halfway down his chest. His amber-brown eyes, several shades lighter than Alasdair’s, held her own in a startling, direct manner. Waves of magnetism emanated from Lachlan. She suspected no lass he set his sights on would retain her virtue for long.

“Mistress Carswell is the MacIrwin fairy I told you about who saved my life.”

Both men grinned at her—a devastating picture, to be sure, with their virile good looks.

Gwyneth’s face heated with the ridiculous comment. Fairy, indeed.

She stood and curtsied. “’Tis a pleasure, sir.”

“I assure you, m’lady, the pleasure is all mine.” He bowed. Coming forward, he grasped her hand and pulled her upright. “Alasdair, I believe your words were ‘bonny MacIrwin fairy,’ and I must agree with you. Ne’er have I seen such lovely blue eyes.” Lachlan kissed her fingers.

Good heavens! What silver-tongued charmers these MacGraths were. Heat rushed over her.

Alasdair cleared his throat, and Lachlan released her.

Gwyneth’s gaze locked with Alasdair’s, which harbored a glare, and his brother stepped away to stand at the mantel. Something unspoken had passed between the two men. And something possessive in the way Alasdair watched her now held her captive.

Oh dear.

Her knees going slightly weak, she reclaimed her seat.

“I’m forever in your gratitude for saving the life of my beloved brother,” Lachlan said over his shoulder. She glimpsed a hint of a smile and wondered the reason for it, though she thought she knew.

“I assure you, it was the least I could do,” she said.

“’Twas a brave thing to defy your laird in such a way.”

“I’m no longer loyal to my second cousin in any way. He is a brute.”

“Donald MacIrwin is your cousin, then?” Lachlan turned and studied her. “I was thinking you’d married into the clan.”

“I was married to Donald’s friend, Baigh Shaw.”

A moment of tense silence stretched out in which Lachlan’s expression turned hostile. “Baigh Shaw?” he growled, then darted a glower to his brother. “You knew of this.”

“Wait for me outside, if you would please,” Alasdair returned calmly, but with a hard look that brooked no argument.

Lachlan clenched his jaw, flicked another brief glare her way and stalked out.

Shock and icy fear rushed through her. “What was that all about? What did Baigh do?” she asked.

Alasdair rose and limped across the room on his cane. “’Tis of nay importance now. The man is dead.”

Gwyneth sprang from her chair and followed him. “It’s important to me. I want to know. Your brother had the same reaction you did when you learned my late husband’s name.”

“I don’t wish to speak of it now,” Alasdair said firmly, his back to her.

“When will you tell me? I have the right to know. I’m being judged for something my husband did.”

Alasdair turned and cast her a dangerous look with ten times the potency of his brother’s. Gwyneth backed away. She’d learned in recent years what pain angry men were capable of inflicting.

“Do you ken what meadow saffron is, m’lady?” he asked in a soft but deadly voice.

She blinked for a moment, trying to comprehend his unexpected change in subject matter. “A poisonous plant.”

Alasdair’s gaze skewered her to the spot as if he didn’t care for her answer. “Do you recognize the name Callum MacGrath?”

“No.” She could scarce breathe as she waited for his meaning to become clear.

“Are you certain Shaw didn’t mention the name to you?”

“Yes. Why should he? He told me naught of what he did or who he had dealings with.”

Alasdair paused, scrutinizing her in a foreboding manner. She had been subjected to such by her father over six years ago—the cutting gaze judging her as a lower life form, an animal with no morals.

“Callum MacGrath was my father. And Shaw murdered him.”

“What?” She stiffened.

“Aye. ’Twas the meadow saffron he used. I was away at the time, but Lachlan was here. Donald MacIrwin, Shaw and some others from your clan came here for the signing of a peace treaty and a meal. Shaw was seated to my father’s right during the meal. Though we have nary a drop of proof, one of the servants said she might’ve caught a glimpse of Shaw slipping the powdered herb into Da’s drink. Needless to say, Da died the next day. I was on my way back from Edinburgh, and barely arrived in time for the funeral.”

Gwyneth stood frozen. Baigh had murdered this man’s father? Her mind reeled, unable to comprehend…. Maybe Alasdair was mistaken. Though Baigh had not been a pleasant man, would he have murdered someone in cold blood? A man who’d welcomed him into his home for a meal. Such treachery, breaking the Highland code of hospitality.

Or was she simply the most naive person on earth?

“When did this happen?” she asked.

“Six years ago this October.”

That was around the time she’d married Baigh.

“I ken you were married to him at the time. Rory told me he’d be six next month.”

Gwyneth opened her mouth to disagree, but she couldn’t without revealing she’d had a child out of wedlock. Alasdair didn’t know yet, and she wouldn’t be able to bear the judgmental look of censure he was sure to cast her way—as everyone did.

A memory came back to her. When she still lived in Donald’s home, an ancient crumbling castle, one night she’d overheard Donald and Baigh talking about some kind of bargain in which Donald would allow Baigh to marry her if Baigh came through with his part. The two had left and returned two days later. A short while after that, she had married Baigh. At the time, he’d seemed benign enough. Later she’d found how wrong she’d been.

What if murdering Alasdair’s father had been Baigh’s half of the bargain? Had she been payment for services rendered?

“You were going to say something?” Alasdair’s words brought her immediately to the present.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” was all she could choke out.

His gaze turned piercing. “You ken all about herbs.”

Was Alasdair accusing her of helping Baigh kill his father? Prickles chased over her skin.

“Not at that time. I only learned about herbs after I moved in with Mora, three years ago. After Baigh died.”

Alasdair eyed her in silence.

“Do you truly think I helped them kill your father?” She tried to keep the anger from sharpening her voice. Men were forever judging her as less than nothing. She was not trustworthy, not an honorable person. They saw her as a whore…and now a murderess.

Bastard.

She turned and strode toward the door, but before reaching it, she whipped around to face Alasdair again. “If you would be so kind as to have someone escort Rory and me to Aviemore, I will not impose upon you any further, Laird MacGrath.”

“Nay, you will stay here, Mistress Carswell.” His words were a gentle but firm command.

“I cannot stay in the household of a man who thinks I poisoned his father. I helped save your life—risking the life of my son, causing my only friend to be killed—and now you think I’m a murderess? You are like all other men in this godforsaken kingdom! You think women are less than human and have no honor or nobility. No morals or intelligence.”

Alasdair limped forward. “I didn’t say that.”

Unable to bear the betrayal she would see on his face, she refused to look at him. She’d thought him a good man, the only one she’d ever met. But it wasn’t so. He was like Baigh—appeared benign at first, and then his true nature emerged.

She stared at the floor. “You didn’t have to say it. ’Tis very clear to me how you feel. You think I provided the meadow saffron. No matter that I wouldn’t have known what it was six years ago.”

“M’lady,” he said in a soft, desperate voice, almost like an endearment.