Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Well, that didn’t surprise him. Lachlan was usually in the bed of one wench or another. Alasdair rapped on Gwyneth’s door. It inched open, revealing the wee lad standing there, big-eyed.

“Good morrow, Rory. How’s your ma?”

“She’s sick,” he said in a small voice.

Leaning on his cane, Alasdair limped forward to the bed. Gwyneth shivered beneath the covers.

“Not feeling well, m’lady?” As gently as he could, he touched her face. By the saints, she was burning up. He’d seen more than one person die of a fever, and he did not want to consider such a fate for his bonny Sassenach angel.

“No,” she whispered on an uneven, intake of breath. “Would you have Tessie bring me willow bark steeped in hot water?”

“Aye, that I will.” Thanks be to God, she was well enough to ask for whatever medicine she needed. He instructed MacDade to fetch Tessie along with the willow bark tea. Something could be done to help her and she would be well soon. Alasdair willed it to be so.

Rory stood by, squirming. His wide blue gaze darted back and forth. The appearance of the tiny boy, so silent and alone reminded Alasdair of how he’d felt as a child when his own mother had been deathly ill.

“Come here, lad.” If he couldn’t do anything right away to help Gwyneth, he’d do what he could for her son.

Rory hung his head and crept forward.

Alasdair bent, picked him up and held him on one arm. The lad weighed no more than a full-grown squirrel.

“Don’t fash about your ma. She will be well soon.”

Rory nodded and buried his face against Alasdair’s neck. He hoped to God the lad wouldn’t cry. He didn’t think he could abide it with a dry eye.

Lachlan sent him a curious, lifted-brow look, along with a tiny grin.

“Rory and I have been friends since I awoke mangled up in the cattle byre, have we not?”

The child nodded and lifted his head to peer around with watery eyes. Saints, the lad near broke his heart.

“Rory, this is my younger brother, Lachlan. He’s a right nice sort of fellow most of the time. But sometimes he’s a pain in the rump.”

“Och. My thanks to you, dear brother,” Lachlan retorted.

Rory allowed a tiny grin.

“A pleasure to meet you, Rory.” Lachlan shook his hand.

The lad averted his gaze, then glanced at the bed where his ma lay, worry again paling his face.

“Lachlan knows a fair bit about swords, daggers, claymores and such, do you not, Lachlan?” Alasdair asked.

“Aye.”

“’Haps you could show Rory your collection.”

Lachlan frowned.

“Rory has a fondness for such things.” He gave his brother a meaningful look.

“Ah, very well then.”

Alasdair set Rory on his feet. Lachlan took his hand and led him from the room. Lachlan looked right at home, leading the lad around. He had two sons of his own he carted about on occasion, when he brought them up from the village. Bastards to be sure, but Lachlan claimed them as his own and loved them.

Alasdair turned back to the bed at the same time Tessie rushed into the room with the willow bark in hot water.

“Good, I’m glad you’re here.”

“M’laird.” Tessie gave a brief curtsy.

“This will help her recover, I’m certain,” he said with the strongest conviction he could muster.

The girl turned wide eyes on him. She looked no older than a child, herself. “I pray it will.”

He nodded and forced himself to rebuild the fire when all he wanted to do was touch Gwyneth, hold her hand.

“Here, Gwyneth, drink this,” Tessie whispered behind him.

He prayed that another woman he was getting used to having around wouldn’t desert him.

Chapter Six

Gwyneth awoke with a start and a clear mind. Her sweat-dampened clothing clung to her skin. Overheated as if she lay in an oven, she shoved the covers down. Claws of soreness sank into every muscle of her body. She stilled, praying the pain would go away. Her gaze landed on the sole light in the room, the fire in the hearth. The faint but bitter scent of peat and wood smoke filled the room. Heavy rain blew against a glass window.

Where am I?

The glow from the flames revealed the carved bed draped in velvet. Alasdair’s guest room.

She glanced aside and found him sitting in a chair by the bed. Good heavens! What was he doing here? All her muscles tensed with shooting needles of pain. Then she noticed his eyes were closed, and his head rested against the back of the chair. It reminded her of the eve she’d found him injured on the battlefield, passed out. Somehow, she’d known then he was an unusual man. A leader who craved peace had to be a caring man. She could never grow tired of looking at him. Long dark hair framed a ruggedly appealing face. His jaw clenched hard, and she thought she heard his teeth grinding together.

But this was no romantic interlude. Danger and treachery lurked about everywhere, in her clan as well as this one. Someone here had tried to kill her after all. Ignoring the soreness, she sat up and glanced about. Rory wasn’t in bed beside her. Where was he? Maybe Tessie was watching after him. She slid toward the edge of the bed to find out.

At her motion, the bed creaked.

Alasdair awoke and straightened. “M’lady?” His gaze searched her face, then dropped to her arm. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” She gently touched her injured arm. “But still sore. Where’s Rory?”

“My cousin’s wife is caring for him. No need to worry. She’s very trustworthy.”

“Good. I thank you.” A bit of relief eased her tense muscles.

Leaning forward, he examined her closely in the dimness. “The fever is gone, then?”

“Yes.” Tugging the coverlet up again in modesty, she realized she needed to change out of her sweat-drenched smock.

Before she knew what he was about, he reached out and placed his hand on her forehead. He skimmed warm, raspy fingertips down to her cheek while his sharp, observant gaze searched her face. His frown remained in place a long moment.

She forgot to breathe beneath the caring, yet seemingly desperate, ministrations of his hand.

“Thanks be to God.” He shoved himself out of the chair and grabbed his cane. “Are you hungry?”

Before she could answer, he wrenched open the door and bellowed a command to someone in the corridor. “Have Tessie bring porridge and milk.” He eased the door closed and sent Gwyneth a sheepish glance.

Milk? What was she, a child? And his order had made the food sound like a life or death necessity. She hid a smile behind the coverlet and her drawn-up knees. She had never encountered a man such as Alasdair.

He poked at the fire and added a bit of peat. Long moments passed while he stared at the flames, the only noise the popping of the sparks. Finally, her curiosity overcame her.

“What are you doing in here?” Without doubt the clan would gossip about their chief’s highly unusual activity of caring for a sick woman of the enemy clan.

He cast a dubious look over his shoulder. “Making sure you were recovering. Did you do any less for me?”

She shook her head, remembering the night she’d lain in the byre beside him when he’d had a fever. Surely it wasn’t the same. She was a healer; he wasn’t. Had he applied a cool cloth to her hot forehead? She could not imagine it.

He seemed intent on coaxing the fire into throwing off more heat, though the room was sweltering.

“What of the two women in the dungeon?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t done something drastic.

“They remain imprisoned,” he said in a hard tone. “I held off deciding their fates until I knew you lived.”

A knock sounded at the door. When Alasdair opened it, Tessie entered with a tray of food.

“I’ll be next door if you should need anything,” he said.

She didn’t know whether she was glad or disappointed that he’d suddenly decided to take his leave.

“I thank you,” she told him before he disappeared. “And I thank you as well, Tessie. You are a blessing.”

“You’re welcome. I’m pleased to see you feeling better.” She set the wooden tray laden with food on Gwyneth’s lap. The delightful smells made her stomach grumble.

“I’m sorry you’ve had to fetch me so many things.”

“Nonsense. I would do naught less for a friend such as you are.”

Gwyneth took a spoonful of the warm oat porridge. The slight sweet flavor surprised her. “Did you put honey in this?”

“Aye. ’Tis the way the MacGrath eats his porridge. Do you like it?” Tessie plopped her thin frame down onto the chair by the bed.

“It’s delicious.”

The girl grinned.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Since early this morn when I gave you the willow bark. ’Tis now close to midnight. More than eighteen hours, you slept.” After glancing at the door, Tessie leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The MacGrath refused to leave your side, except for a few minutes at a time. He is fair taken with you.”

Another type of fever washed over Gwyneth. She cleared her throat and stared into the cup of milk. “You must be mistaken.”

Tessie giggled. “Nay. I’ve worked here in the castle for more than four years. He’s shown no interest in women since his wife. And believe me, more than one lass has tried to catch his eye.”

Goodness. He’d said his wife had died two years ago, hadn’t he? He must have indeed loved his lady a great amount.

“Please, tell me about her…his wife.”

“Leitha was a right sweet lady with red hair and green eyes—a Lowlander. ’Twas a love match, you see. It near killed him when she died of the childbed fever.”

Gwyneth’s heart ached when she envisioned such a scene. “How awful. Did the babe survive?”

“Nay, the poor wee laddie.”

“A tragedy. I’m so sorry to hear of it.” She couldn’t imagine what she would’ve done if she’d lost Rory during the birthing.

“The MacGrath held up well afore the clan, but afterward he kept to himself much of the time. I’ve a feeling ’twas far harder on him than anyone kens.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Alasdair gave the impression of strength much like a mountain of stone. But he seemed to have a caring heart. “I’ve noticed how kind he is. Tell me, is he typical of the men in this clan?”

Tessie shrugged. “Some people are kind and others are cruel, in this clan as in others. My own Robbie is kind as well.”

“I’m glad. ’Tis clear you have a love match.”

She blushed and grinned. “Indeed. What of Rory’s father?”

Gwyneth shook her head, thinking of two men—Rory’s natural father and Baigh Shaw. “He was a beast. I have not known any kind men in my lifetime.”

“How sad. If anyone deserves kindness, ’tis you. And glad I am that Laird MacGrath is taking to you like honey bees to heather.”

Gwyneth almost choked on the sip of milk she’d taken. She sputtered but finally swallowed. “I’m sure you’re overestimating his concern.”

***

“We have to get Gwyneth Carswell back, along with her bastard,” Donald MacIrwin told Smitty, his sword bearer, as they leaned over the small table near the fireplace in the dim great hall of Irwin Castle. He kept his voice down, not knowing which of his clan might betray him. Donald thirsted for a mug of ale, but dared not consume too much, else they’d run out. The clan needed funds badly.

“Aye, m’laird.” Smitty’s dark eyes gleamed like bits of coal.

“Once Lord Darrow finds out his daughter is nay longer here, he’ll stop sending the payments. But I have a plan.”

Months ago, a Sassanach lord named Southwick had sent him a missive telling him to send Gwyneth’s son Rory to him in London. Donald had ignored the demand, of course. He didn’t take orders from the damned English and besides, Lord Darrow’s money was useful to him. If the lad was nay longer here, Darrow might send less money for Gwyneth’s upkeep.

But now maybe Donald could strike a bargain with Southwick. He could retrieve Rory himself…for a price. A very large price. Enough silver to support Donald and the clan for a few years at least. He didn’t care why Southwick wanted the lad, but he suspected the man was the lad’s natural father.

“How will we get Gwyneth and her son back?” Smitty asked.

Donald darted a glance around the great hall, making sure none of the busy-body maids were close by and lowered his voice. “A surprise attack. I want as many of the MacGrath clan dead as possible. An utter sacking, I tell you. Take all their cattle and sheep, along with Gwyneth and Rory. I want them unhurt, mind you. But we will torch the rest of them. Find the clerk and the messenger for me.”

“Aye, m’laird.” Smitty headed across the great hall.

Donald would have the clerk scribe a fancy missive to Southwick. The Englishman would be on his way here by the time they snatched the lad from MacGrath’s talons.

***

Guilt tormented Alasdair though he sat in a peaceful place. Leitha’s flower garden was a walled, private spot to the side of the castle, with a gate, herbs and shrubs. The scent of roses surrounded him, reminding him of his late wife. But another woman, very much alive, occupied his thoughts.

He’d tried to avoid Gwyneth for the last few days, but he knew she was healing. He’d noticed she had started using her arm.

His carnal attraction to Gwyneth gnawed at his conscience, and was the reason he steered clear of her. When he was in her presence, he sometimes forgot about Leitha. Forgot he was supposed to be grieving her loss. “I’m sorry, Leitha,” he murmured. “I’m the worst sort of rogue.”

An appealing scent caught his attention—the lemon balm plant that his leg was brushing against. He snapped a leaf from it and chewed it. Would it ease his grief as was rumored? At least the tangy citrus flavor was pleasant and refreshing.

A soft summer breeze, like a gentle hand, touched his face and blew his hair back. After a time, a sense of peace settled in his chest.

“Oh!” a feminine voice said behind him.

Turning on the stone bench, he glanced over his shoulder and found a wide-eyed Gwyneth standing just inside the gate.

“Pray pardon. I didn’t know you were here.” She turned away. “I won’t bother you.”

“Nay. Come back.” Please.

He was thankful for her recovery from the fever. The Almighty likely had not heard so many prayers from him in the past two years.

Though at first she hesitated, Gwyneth came forward. “I thank you for showing mercy to Mistress Weems and Eileen.”

Yesterday, he’d had the two women escorted miles away to Aviemore. “The world is surely a more dangerous place with those two loose in it, but I couldn’t have them roaming about the castle trying to kill you.”

A faint grin lifted the corners of her lips. “I am much indebted to you for your protection. You are too kind.”

He snorted. “I have never been called such afore, and I would thank you to keep it a secret. I have the reputation of being a fierce warrior.”

“So, what are you, fierce warrior, doing sitting in a flower garden?”

He smiled and savored the teasing glint in her eyes far more than he should have. “’Tis the only quiet place about.”

“And beautiful.” Gwyneth’s light blue gaze darted over the pink, white and red flowers growing near the wall. “Sometimes I come out here for a breath of fresh air and to smell the roses.”

He’d always found it the best place for reflection. “Are you fond of flowers, then?”

“Yes. In England—” She pressed her lips closed, looking a bit shocked at herself, and glanced quickly away.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“We had…a garden.”

He waited for her to elaborate, and when she didn’t, he let it go. She didn’t trust him enough yet to talk of her past. How he wished she did. But trust was something he’d have to earn.

She strolled to the wall where a climbing rose was secured against it, cupped a red blossom in her hand and buried her nose in it. “Ahh. I love roses.” She turned to him with a smile more beautiful than all the flowers gathered here. So tempting. She effortlessly drew him under her spell, against his will. And he found himself wanting to grin like a fool, but controlled the impulse.

“So why do you have such a lovely garden? Was it your mother’s?”

“’Twas my wife’s.”

Gwyneth’s smile faded. “Oh, pray pardon. I shouldn’t have intruded. I’m sure you want time alone.”

“Nay, I’d like it if you stayed. Truly.”

Leitha, if you’re out there anywhere, looking down on us…this is Gwyneth. You would’ve liked her, I think. She saved my life.

“Did she like roses, too?” Gwyneth asked, standing a few feet away.

“Aye, she loved them. She’d wanted that particular rose to grow here. I sent one of the servants to the Lowlands to get it, but Leitha died before he returned. The servants planted the rose in the garden, then rooted another to plant by her grave at the kirk.”

Gwyneth blinked quickly against the moisture that gathered in her eyes. “Oh. That’s so romantic.”

He shook his head, denying any emotion. “Nay, I don’t have a romantic bone in my body. ’Tis only what she would’ve wanted.”

Gwyneth glanced away and brushed a finger against her eyes.

Her response touched him. She felt his loss. He didn’t know what to do with that realization, but he would like to hold her in his arms. Comfort her. Comfort himself.

“The servants attend to the garden,” Alasdair said to distract himself from her. “Continuing Leitha’s work.” Some of the female servants knew how much it meant to him. But he would not have the men of his clan know. He was a warrior and a chief, and should not give flowers or women’s feelings a second thought.

Nor, if he were wise, could he let another woman inside his heart. It would be too painful when she left him alone. The same had happened to his father. Alasdair’s mother had died when he was a child, and his father had spent the rest of his life alone. Such loss painted a dismal picture.

“Tessie told me yours and Leitha’s was a love match.” Emotions apparently under control, Gwyneth sat on the other stone bench, opposite him, and cast a shy but curious glance his way.

Too many keen-edged feelings stewed inside him, and not wanting Gwyneth to see them, he dropped his gaze to the carved falcon’s head on the wooden handle of his cane. “Aye, I did grow to love her. We met at a banquet one night at the home of a friend in the Lowlands.”

“Did you offer for her hand right away?”

“The next day.”

“Sounds like a romantic legend.”

He shrugged, dismissing such sentiment. “In truth, ’twas for practical reasons. I needed a wife and an heir. The romance didn’t last long. She died giving birth to our son a year later. And the wee bairn with her.”

Gwyneth came forward, sat on the stone beside him and clasped his hand in hers. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and filled with sympathy.

“I should be getting over it by now.” He stared at his large hand in Gwyneth’s small, cool ones, then turned one of hers over and brushed the palm. Her hands were not like Leitha’s. Gwyneth’s were near rough and calloused as his own. Work worn. It wasn’t right. She was a lady, and she should have a lady’s smooth hands. Despite this, he hungered for her touch upon his deprived skin. Stroking, caressing, coaxing this simmering ember to life within him.

When he thought of kissing her hand the way Lachlan had, something within him riveted and burned with a flickering heat. Aye, he should—he would love to—but he feared he couldn’t stop with her hand.

She closed her fingers and pulled away. “Nonsense. We never forget the pain of losing those we love.”

His fingers ached with her desertion. He had not realized how lonely and deprived he was until that moment.

“You ken the pain of loss, too, for you lost your husband.” The murdering bastard. Had she loved him? In truth, it shouldn’t matter, but Alasdair wanted to learn more of their association.

“Yes, I know something of loss.” Gwyneth stood and paced toward the bed of herbs a few yards away. Her action was nothing less than what he’d expected.

“What about you and Shaw? Was that a love match as well?”

“Heavens, no.” She shook her head. “Not at all. My cousin arranged the whole thing.”

Tension he hadn’t realized he’d been feeling released him. His shoulders relaxed. “Why would you, an English lady, marry a course Highlander, and one who isn’t a chieftain at that?” He had to know. But would she answer? She hadn’t admitted to being a member of the aristocracy, but he knew from her manner and speech she had to be.

A long tense moment of silence followed. “Well, ’tis a long story, and I wouldn’t want to bore you.” She faced him. “I would ask another favor of you, Laird MacGrath.”

“Alasdair, please,” he corrected, loath to admit that he wanted to hear his name from her lips.

“Alasdair, I know you will grow tired of providing food and shelter for me and my son before long.”

How could she say such a thing? “Nay, you are both welcome to stay here as long as you like. I have the room, and you both eat like wee birds.”

“I thank you, but I do not wish to impose. I’ve been thinking I would like a position as a governess or tutor for some wealthy family in the Lowlands or in England. I thought perhaps you might know of someone who could use my services. I would need to take Rory with me, of course. I have no references, but if you could provide some sort of character reference or letter of recommendation, I would be deeply indebted to you.”

He wished he could employ Gwyneth. If his son had lived, he would’ve one day needed a governess. Aside from that, he didn’t want Gwyneth and Rory to leave. In such a short time, he’d grown fond of the lad. As for Gwyneth, he could not yet begin to fathom the impact she was having on his life. She’d saved his life, helped him heal. That was only the beginning. But now…seeing her never failed to shine more light into his day. In the most crowded of rooms, the great hall, his gaze always found her, singled her out as if she were the only person in the room.

“Would you be willing to help me find a position?” She pulled him from his musings.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Another idea came to him. “I ken ’tis beneath you, but I have need of someone to oversee and organize the maid servants, now that Weems is gone. I’d pay you well, of course. Would you be willing to help out in that way in the meantime?”

“I’d be glad to.” Her sincere and direct gaze lit on his for a moment then slid away. “But it would only be temporary until you find someone else, because I would prefer a governess position away from the Highlands.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t have to like it. “I’ll send some letters out.”

“You will?” She seemed much too pleased.

“You’re surprised that I would help?”

Her gaze drifted to the flowers. “You are a kind man. Not like my cousin Donald.”

“You asked for his help, and he refused, didn’t he?”

“Indeed.”

What a bastard the MacIrwin was. “Well, I don’t ken your family’s situation. Mayhap he had a reason to want to keep you on his lands.”

She frowned and jammed her fists onto her hips. “That’s it. My father.”

“And who would he be?” Alasdair was glad for the opportunity to ask.

“’Tis of no importance.”

“Is it now? Somehow I doubt that. I suspect your father is someone of much import.”

Gwyneth shrugged. “I would wager—had I anything to wager—that my father is paying Donald to keep me.”

“Why would he?”

“I’d rather not say, but I’m sure Donald would’ve wanted something for his trouble. Oh, men!” She thumped her foot against the stone-paved ground and turned away. “I detest every last one of them.”

Alasdair snorted. “’Tis saddened I am to hear that you detest me, as well.”

She halted by the rock wall and sent him a sheepish glance. “I didn’t mean you.”

“And what am I, then? A wee hare?”

In the glow of sunset, her blush deepened. “Hardly.” A stiff, refreshing breeze off the loch pulled strands of hair from the knot at the back of her head.

He rose and limped forward on his cane. His gaze traveled over the tall rock wall, toward the mountains and the setting sun obscured by pink and orange clouds, but his full attention locked on this mesmerizing woman.

Gwyneth.

He passed her name through his thoughts a hundred times a day. He wanted to say her name, whisper it into her ear. But that would imply an intimacy they didn’t share.

In that moment, the sharp urge to kiss her burst through his defenses. Her small yet full lips were dark-pink and moist. Last night he had dreamed of kissing her, and a lot more—removing her clothing, stroking his lips over every inch of her soft skin, sliding fully into her tight, wet depths. He had wakened hot and aroused as he had not been in years.

“What would you do, m’lady, if I kissed you?”

Her wide-eyed gaze flew to his, and she stepped back.

Aye, retreat if you ken what’s good for you.

He was strong enough to resist her allure, but he didn’t want to. Not anymore. Damnation, he’d tried. But each day she stole more and more of his attention, until finally his nights were filled with those heated dreams, and his days with scorching fantasies. He was a chief with no interest in leading at the moment.

Slowly, he moved toward where she stood with her back to the wall. Arms crossed, she watched him warily for a moment as if he were going to attack her. She didn’t know him very well at all, did she?

He propped his cane up, placed his arm on the wall beside her and leaned casually, close to her. Closer than was proper. Her womanly essence sent his thoughts scattering. “Gwyneth, I wonder, have you ever had a kiss that near took your breath away?”

Her cheeks reddened even more.

“I confess, just the thought of kissing you the way I would like does that to me.”

She swallowed hard and stared at the ground, then at the gate as if she might make a mad dash for it. But she didn’t. “Oh, you are…unseemly.” Her whispered chastisement sounded more breathless excitement than offended shock.

“Aye. That I am. I have sinful thoughts about you at night, in my bed,” he whispered.

Her breath came out in a rush against his throat. Heat and chills chased over his skin and his erection tingled and tightened, hard as the stone wall.

He exhaled against her forehead. “God help me, Gwyneth, I want to taste your skin.” Kiss you, lips to ankle and back again, lick you in dark, forbidden places. Get drenched by your desire while you surround me and hold me tightly so deep inside you. Wrap yourself around me and moan my name.

“Good heavens,” she whispered.

“Are you wanting that, too?”

She didn’t answer.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then drew back slightly. “Gwyneth?”

She glanced up, her normally light eyes turned dark, her lips parted. Though it might be sacrilege, he thanked Heaven for female lust. She slipped her hand around his neck. Taking that as the signal he needed, he captured her lips.

She tasted of salvation and damnation at once. No woman had ever lured him to forget who he was…forget his past, his future, and fill him with the need to have her no matter the cost to his soul.

She was more delicious than the sweetest comfit. She was honey and cream he wanted to lap up like a famished cat. He hardened so fully, dizziness snatched his equilibrium. He could not help but pull her to him, his hands at her waist dropping, caressing her derriere through the petticoats, no farthingale to hamper his progress. His fingers ached to tug up her skirts, to caress the softest skin, wet, hidden female places.

Alasdair’s kiss was unlike anything Gwyneth could’ve expected. Never had anyone kissed her in such a fierce-tender, devouring way. The shameless movements of his tongue, flicking into her mouth, shocked her and awakened her to each tiny detail of him. He tasted faintly of lemons, delicious and tangy, and she savored him.

A moan rumbled from his throat. “Mo dia.” A curse or prayer, she wasn’t sure which.

Tingling heat covered her body and moisture gathered between her legs. By the saints! This was worse—far more sinful than anything she’d ever done, because she exulted in it. The sheer sumptuousness of his mouth obliterated all else.

Her aching nipples rubbed the hard muscles of his chest. And his hands, good lord, the places he caressed. And then she felt him—his aroused shaft stroked her belly, pressed firmly against her, as if begging to be inside. She ached. His kilt and her own threadbare skirts were almost as nothing between them. Instinct urged her to pull him down to the ground, atop her. Inside her.

She gasped, shocked at her response to him. What her father had said was true—she was a harlot, easily seduced when the right words were whispered in her ear. And Alasdair knew the perfect ones.

She jerked away from him.

In the gloaming, his face was flushed, his eyes black as midnight, his breathing unsteady. She had always thought his eyes had a sensual, lustful look about them. Now, that was multiplied a hundred times. Undoubtedly, he was a man made for the bedchamber. A man who knew everything about seducing a woman and rendering her helpless under his lascivious spell. A woman such as herself would be doomed in his presence.

“I must go.” She ran back toward the door of the castle.

***

That night, the soothing rhythm of Gwyneth’s clear, animated voice mesmerized Alasdair, as it did his clan. Days ago, she’d started telling Rory and one of the other lads a story of great adventure, but within a few days she’d lured all the children. And now the bigger part of his clan, young and old, had gathered around her in the great hall after supper to hear these fantastic tales they’d never heard before—obviously English, or perhaps she’d made them up herself to amuse her son.

Her descriptions of the unusual landscapes her characters passed through and their funny adventures were indeed spellbinding.

What he’d found even more enthralling was her kiss. It was a good thing she’d pulled away. He might have taken her there, against the stone wall, with no protest from her. Indeed, she had been an active participant, tugging him closer, teasing his tongue with her own. Saints! A passionate woman was a wondrous treasure. Thinking of how she had kissed him with a hunger that increased his own now made him hard with need.

It had been far longer than he wanted to admit since he’d been with a woman. He’d smothered his natural desires beneath his grief and his duty of leading and overseeing the clan. Apparently, his desires were awakened in full now and demanding release. But he could not pursue this with Gwyneth. He could not dishonor her.

He turned away from the sound of her seductive voice and strode upstairs onto the battlements. The cool night wind blew his hair back from his face. He released a pent-up breath and drew the fresh air in deep.