Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"
Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair
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The high-pitched skirl of bagpipes echoed through the darkness from the village. Beautiful and haunting, the hymn reminded Alasdair of his father’s funeral. The pain and confusion that came with becoming the clan’s new laird was something he had finally overcome. But the grief he had not forgotten. Of course, all his life he’d known he would one day be laird, but he had not expected to be so young, twenty-three, when it happened.
He had promised himself he would avenge his father’s murder, but he hadn’t been able to. He hadn’t told all of his clansmen who the murderer was. They simply blamed it on the MacIrwins, Donald in particular. Not long after his own father’s death, Shaw had been killed in a skirmish with the Kerrs.
The matter was finished, but it didn’t seem so. Donald, along with Baigh’s two grown sons, had been with him that day. Accomplices. No, Alasdair didn’t want revenge against them, but he considered them the lowest of common criminals.
He was sure Gwyneth had nothing to do with his father’s death, but he couldn’t remove certain images from his mind—images of her and her vile husband together.
“What are you doing out here moping? Did you grow tired of the fairy’s tale?” Lachlan chuckled.
He turned, surveying his brother’s amused and carefree expression. He envied him that. “I’m but thinking.”
“’Tis the lady that’s put you in this glum mood.”
The truth of that prickled like a thistle in his plaid. “There is naught wrong with my mood.”
Lachlan snorted. “I saw the way you were watching her. Like a juicy red apple just out of your reach.”
Alasdair flicked a glare at his meddlesome brother. “’Tis hard to ignore someone who has bewitched the whole of our clan.”
“Including you, first and foremost.”
“As I recall, you were not immune to her charm.”
Lachlan snickered. “I’m not immune to any wench’s charm.”
Nor were they immune to him. The lasses from miles around were in love with him. Alasdair had never had time for such frivolities. Nor did he now. Best to put Gwyneth from his mind.
“Are you certain you can trust her? She is, after all, a relation of the MacIrwin,” Lachlan said in a more serious tone.
“It matters not. I’m helping her as she helped me. ’Tis all.” But indeed he did trust her, no matter her clan connection.
“’Tis time you were looking for another wife.”
Alasdair lifted a brow, determined to remove the focus from himself. “You’re one to talk.”
“I’m not the earl and chief, and don’t need a legitimate heir. But you do. An heir, and a spare. And a few wee lasses.” Lachlan grinned.
In truth, ’twas what Alasdair yearned for so badly his chest ached. Children and a cherished wife. But he shrugged it off. “If I don’t, the clan has plenty of other lads who can step up and be chief one day. ’Haps one of yours if you marry.”
“Ha!” Lachlan shook his head. “I’ll never marry. Besides, Da would’ve wanted the next chief to be your son.”
“I’m certain he would’ve approved of either.”
Lachlan had never been in love and therefore had never had his heart ripped from his chest even as he stood helplessly by and watched the life drain from his wife and child.
Alasdair did not possess the strength to endure it again.
***
That night Rory was sleeping with Alasdair’s cousin’s family in the village, with whom he’d stayed while Gwyneth was sick. She trusted them completely, and Rory had made friends with their sons.
Lying on the soft featherbed, Gwyneth wondered what Alasdair was doing in the bedchamber next to hers. Was he sleeping? She couldn’t. Her imagination worked overtime.
She could hardly believe the shocking and seductive words he had said to her. I have sinful thoughts about you at night, in my bed.
What sort of thoughts, precisely? And was he having them now? Her heart rate escalated.
Remembering the firmness of his lips on hers, she re-experienced his kiss in the darkness. She craved his taste, the hard press of his powerful body against hers. Never had a kiss been so intoxicating and delicious, like wine infused with herbs and honey—sweet, warm and citrusy. She smiled against her pillow, then traced her overly-sensitive lips with her fingertip.
She recalled the sound of his deep voice murmuring in her ear. Gwyneth, I wonder, have you ever had a kiss that near took your breath away? Oh heavens, yes, his kiss had done that and more.
She could easily imagine lying in his big cozy-looking bed she’d sat beside several nights ago. The best part would be his hard-muscled body next to hers, his skin heating hers, his mouth and hands doing wicked but exquisite things to her.
Energy tingled through her body, as if she’d been standing a bit too close to a lightning strike. What had Alasdair done to her?
She must have slept…and dreamed. The images before her and the lustful sensations possessing her body couldn’t have been real life. She had never experienced such carnal indulgences before—not at her promiscuous downfall nor during her hellish marriage. Those were mere gray pebbles compared to the diamond-like sensations that sparkled through her at Alasdair’s touch.
Loud shouts and running footsteps woke Gwyneth from her restless dreams. The fire had gone out in the hearth, casting the room in cool darkness. She jumped up, crept to the door and opened it a crack. She couldn’t understand the shouts of alarm coming from the great hall, but something was terribly wrong. Even MacDade, her guard, was gone.
Gwyneth yanked on her petticoats, skirts and arisaid over her smock and crammed her feet into her leather slippers. She strode along the dark corridor and down the steps. In the great hall, the women servants scurried back and forth.
She spotted Tessie and hastened to catch up. “What’s happened?”
The young woman turned panic-stricken eyes on her. “’Tis the MacIrwins. They’re burning the village.”
A sickening chill shook her. “Rory’s down there!”
Tessie’s face blanched and tears glistened in her eyes. “Oh, Gwyneth,” she whispered and shook her head.
No! Something deep inside Gwyneth screamed. Denial blocking out all other thoughts, she dashed out the door and down the stone steps into the barmkin.
“Gwyneth!” Tessie chased after her as she ran mindless toward the gate. “You cannot go down there.”
No one would dare keep her from it. She stopped at the gate and faced Tessie. “I must go get Rory. Where’s Laird MacGrath?”
“With the men, of course, fighting.”
“Is he a lunatic? His foot is not healed.”
“’Twould surprise me if he is not at the forefront. ’Tis his way.”
“Open the gate!” she told the guard. Resolve tightened her muscles.
“You’re forbidden to leave. The MacGrath’s order.” The large, battle-scarred warrior stood firm.
“Some of the men are in charge of bringing people up here from the village,” Tessie said. “Maybe Rory’s here.”
Could it be possible? Hope making her lightheaded, Gwyneth glanced back, searching in desperation among the villagers milling about the barmkin. But she didn’t see Rory or the family he was staying with.
Beyond the iron gate, fires blazed in the distance, lighting up the pitch black night. She closed her eyes and the screams of the villagers reached her ears. A shudder of revulsion and terror ran through her.
Gwyneth’s throat tightened and she feared she might be sick and burst into hysterical sobs at the same moment. But she gathered her strength. “Let me pass! I must get my son.”
“Nay!” the guard bellowed, his scowl and thick beard giving him an intimidating look.
“I beg you to stay here.” Tears streamed down Tessie’s face.
Gwyneth didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred. She swiped the tears away and tried to think logically. How could she slip past the guard?
A group of armed men and villagers, including women and crying children, approached the gate outside. Soot and smoke blackened their faces and clothing.
Please let Rory be among them.
The guards motioned her and Tessie back as they admitted the villagers. Gwyneth searched each face.
She was devastated to see none of the four children who’d arrived was Rory. Making a desperate decision, Gwyneth ran through the gates before they swung closed.
The guard shouted behind her, and Tessie screamed out her name, but Gwyneth didn’t look back. She would find her precious child.
Chapter Seven
Alasdair rode hell-bent between the burning cottages of the village. Acrid smoke stung his eyes and congested his lungs. The intense heat seared his skin. In the bright light from the flaming thatch roofs, he searched for the thrice-cursed MacIrwins.
He would see Donald pay for this as he had never paid before. Alasdair had let things go on far too long—the murders, the ambushes. And now this, killing the innocent people of his clan…women and children.
No more. No mercy for the MacIrwins.
He prayed for rain to pour from the cloud-filled sky and death to all the murdering MacIrwin men.
He’d dispatched five of the enemies thus far himself. His men had taken out several more.
Most of the villagers had gone to the relative safety of the barmkin and tower. But some had already lost their lives in either the fires or the battle.
His cousin Fergus approached on horseback. “The MacIrwin wants Mistress Carswell and her son back,” he shouted. “He claims we’ve taken them hostage.”
Alasdair faced him, his rage escalating. “That hell-hated bastard! He will kill them if he so much as sets eyes on them. I would never make them go back.”
Fergus wheeled his horse and charged a MacIrwin approaching from behind.
Pounding hooves and a war cry shot toward Alasdair from the shadows.
Determination rushing thorough his veins, he tugged on his mount’s reins and turned about to meet the threat, head-on. The horse reared and near unseated him. He wrestled the temperamental animal under control just in time to strike out. The blade of the MacIrwin warrior clashed against his own.
Alasdair slashed and thrust. His spooked horse reared again, catching him off guard. He toppled over the horse’s hindquarters, slammed against the stony ground but maintained a hold on his sword. Damnation! Though the pain in his hip near blinded him, he scrambled out of the path of the MacIrwin’s horse.
Lachlan stormed into the fray, engaging the enemy and running him through.
“Are you all right, brother?” Lachlan called over the roaring fires of the cottages.
“Aye, just busted my arse.” Coughing, he rose and turned about in search of his horse. He could hardly see through the smoke and brightness of the flames.
“You should return to the tower! You’ve scarce recovered from the last skirmish,” Lachlan said.
“You’re wasting your breath, mother hen.”
Riding away, Lachlan found Alasdair’s horse, slapped it on the rump and sent it trotting to him.
Once mounted, Alasdair cursed at the fresh wave of MacIrwins invading the village, on foot and horseback, slashing at anything that moved.
“Murdering bastards!” Alasdair gripped his basket-hilted sword and joined Lachlan to fight beside him.
***
Shaking and almost out of breath, Gwyneth approached the village from the shadows. The roaring of the flames chilled her to the core. How many had already died in the fires? How could Donald do such horrid things?
Heaven help me, if Rory dies, I’ll personally kill Donald myself, even should his men strike me down after I do the deed.
She’d been to the cottage where Rory was staying once and hoped she could find it again. But, dear heavens, all the cottage roofs were on fire.
The heat singed her skin. The bitter smoke choked her. Coughing, she yanked her plaid over her head and pulled the small dagger from her bodice.
Her attention ahead, her foot caught on something. Saints! A fallen warrior…three of them. Whispering a prayer, she skirted around them.
Near the first burning cottage, two men on horseback broke into a sword-slashing duel. Sparks popped off their clashing blades.
She circled back and approached from the rear. In the light from the fires, she now saw that one of the men was Alasdair, his smoke-blackened face a mask of fury.
“Dear God, protect him,” she whispered.
Alasdair’s injuries of a few days ago hadn’t slowed him down. He skillfully parried and thrust against his opponent.
A tiny child ran screaming from behind the row of cottages near her and blindly headed toward the fighting warriors. A surge of strength jolted Gwyneth. She darted forward and snatched the child from the ground. He wasn’t Rory, but he was someone’s baby.
A MacIrwin foot soldier wielding a two-handed sword, chased the child, quickening his pace when he noticed Gwyneth. Skin prickling, she dashed in the opposite direction, toward the tower.
I have to get Rory.
Halting, she glanced back at the same moment Alasdair struck his mark, his sword sliding with deadly accuracy into the mounted MacIrwin clansman’s chest. The man shouted and toppled from his horse.
The other beast, chasing her on foot, shouting taunts in Gaelic, and waving his claymore about, didn’t let up.
Clutching the wriggling child, she faced forward and ran. She would take him to the tower and come back to search for Rory, if she could get this barbarian off her heels. Hooves clattered on the earth behind her. A hoarse battle cry erupted, blades clashed.
Afraid she’d stumble and fall on the rocks, Gwyneth could spare no time to glance back. The sound of a blade slicing against bone met her ears, followed by a man’s scream. She cringed.
“Go to the tower and stay there!” a man yelled. Was that Alasdair’s voice?
She stopped and turned. The villain who’d been pursuing her lay in a heap on the ground.
“Gwyneth? Is that you?” Alasdair rode closer on his big black warhorse. “God’s teeth, woman! Get inside the gates and don’t come back down here!” His hair hung wild about his soot-blackened face, and his fierce expression brooked no argument.
“I must find Rory! He was with your cousin, Colin, and his wife.”
“I sent Rory to the tower with Fergus some time ago, along with Colin’s family.”
Gwyneth almost sank to her knees in relief. “Is he well?”
“Aye. Go back. Now!”
“I thank you. God keep you,” she called out, though it was pitifully little and did not convey what she wanted to say. She wished to drag him off his horse and bring him back to the safety of the tower with her.
“Don’t worry. Now go!”
She turned and climbed the road up the hill even as the first drops of cool rain fell. When she glanced back, he was still watching her, guarding her.
Once she was inside the gates, Alasdair wheeled his horse about and galloped away.
May God protect him.
Still carrying the screaming child, she glanced about for Rory inside the barmkin. The summer rain shower increased, drenching her and everyone around her in a chilly downpour.
“Rory!” Gwyneth called. Alasdair had said Rory was here, so he had to be. But where?
“Och, wee Kean!” An elderly woman approached Gwyneth and gently took the child from her arms. “Thank you, mistress.” Rain washed through the soot on the woman’s wrinkled face.
“You’re welcome. Do you know Rory? Have you seen him?”
The woman shook her head.
“He was with Colin and Grace.”
“Mayhap inside the castle.”
Gwyneth raced up the spiral tower steps. How had she missed Rory’s arrival?
In the great hall, women, children and elderly men moved about or sat on benches. Her gaze searched each child’s face.
“Ma! Ma!” Rory, soot-covered and ragged, dashed toward her.
Thank you, God. She dropped to her knees in relief and caught her precious child in her arms. “Oh, Rory. Sweetheart, I’m glad you are well.”
Now, if only Alasdair were safe too.
***
Hours later, Alasdair stood beside his horse on a small rise, overlooking the village and the activity there. He and his men had cleared the area of live MacIrwins, but several dead ones remained. Their bodies would need to be returned to their clan.
Though Alasdair had lost only two of his own fighting men in the skirmish, the loss was great to him. And he didn’t yet know how many of the villagers had perished. Each member of his clan was family, whether by blood or friendship.
He still couldn’t believe Gwyneth had been in the village—damn her daft hide—right in the midst of the fighting. He should string up the guards for allowing her beyond the walls. And he’d rake her over the coals as well. Of course, nothing would hold her back from saving the life of her son. Thank God she hadn’t gotten herself killed, and Rory was safe, too.
The first rays of orange dawn light shone above the high mountains on the horizon. Exhaustion weighing his sore, overworked muscles, Alasdair craved to do naught more than collapse in his bed, but he well knew he would get no sleep for a while.
The belated rain had helped douse some of the fires, but all that remained of most of the cottages were the thick rock walls and trails of smoke drifting toward the purple-gray sky. The flames had quickly devoured the thatch roofs, which then caved in and burned everything inside the cottages. The villagers had lost nearly everything they possessed of material value.
Various sheep, goats and cattle milled about the cluttered and muddy dirt street. It would take a tremendous amount of work to put the village back to rights. But some things could never be replaced.
Lachlan approached, his face black and his clothing bloody. “’Tis because of her that they attacked.”
His brother’s sharp gaze and hardened jaw surprised Alasdair. “What are you blathering on about?”
“Mistress Carswell.”
Alasdair drew back, frowning. “Nay, the MacIrwin’s attacked because I escaped their clutches almost a fortnight past.”
“Aye, you would deny it! Fergus told me of the message—the MacIrwin wants her back.”
“You would have me send her to her death! Along with her innocent son?”
Lachlan inhaled a deep slow breath and continued in a calmer tone. “Nay, but you must send her away, mayhap back to England.”
“Nay! Don’t challenge me, Lachlan.”
“Surely you see what she’s bringing down on our clan.”
Alasdair loved his brother, but at the moment, he felt like slugging him in the jaw. “She has nowhere else to go. Her family disowned her. Her father sent her to the MacIrwin, and the bastard will kill her if he has a chance. She saved my life and I will return the favor as many times as I must.” Aye, that’s how grateful he was for what she’d done for him, endangering her own life and losing a friend in the process. Gwyneth deserved someone to protect her.
Lachlan sighed. “You should find her a place far from here.”
Alasdair shook his head. He knew not why, but something deep inside him said her place was with him. “We had conflict with the MacIrwins long before she came to us. In case you forgot, they killed Da six years past.”
“How could I forget?” Lachlan snapped, his scowl severe. “It happened right before my eyes.”
“And they burned the village once before, nine years ago. Will you blame that on Gwyneth, too?”
“Nay. I’m not—”
“Lachlan!” cried a female voice.
They turned to find an elderly woman hobbling toward them. Alasdair couldn’t recognize her with so much soot on her face.
“’Tis Mary Anne! She’s dead!” The woman wailed.
Mary Anne was the mother of one of Lachlan’s children. A stricken look crossed his face. “Are you certain?”
“Aye.” The woman wiped her eyes, smearing soot.
“Where’s Kean?” Lachlan strode away with her.
Alasdair propped his hand against his saddle while the horse hung its head and nosed at the trampled grass. Then he remembered—Gwyneth had been carrying Kean last night when she’d left the village. She’d saved the wee lad’s life.
What was he going to do about her?
Lachlan was right of course, Alasdair should send her away. As long as she remained here, she would draw the MacIrwin’s attention. She’d said she would like to find a position as a governess. Maybe that would be the best solution for them all. Except for him. But being the clan chief had required more than one sacrifice on his part.
***
Sharp sunlight gleamed over the peaks of the blue-purple mountains to the east. A stiff summer wind carried away the scents of smoke and blood, of war and violence that Alasdair hated. He ignored the aches and pains of his own body, and forced himself to concentrate on what could be salvaged rather than what had been lost. He must give his clan hope of a brighter future. They looked to him for support and encouragement and he would not let them down.
While some of his men transported the bodies of the dead MacIrwins to the borders of Donald’s holdings, others carried the three injured MacGrath warriors up to the tower. He’d posted several guards around the grounds in case the MacIrwins returned.
As soon as Alasdair stepped into the great hall, Gwyneth appeared beside him and grasped his hand. So thankful was he that she was unharmed, he wanted to yank her into his arms and embrace her so tightly he might crush the breath from her. But he forced himself not to and squeezed her hand instead.
“You’re not hurt?” Her frantic gaze searched him, then fixed on his torso. “You’re bleeding.”
“Nay, ’tis not my blood. I only have a few scratches and bruises. Since you are a healer, I wondered, could you help these three men?” He motioned to the side. “Our village healer is busy with the others.”
Releasing his hand, she turned her attention toward the moaning or unconscious men being carried in. She directed where they should be laid in the great hall. She then set to work examining them and telling the women which herbs and supplies she would require.
At her suggestion, Alasdair gave whisky to the ones who were awake and in pain. She removed a lead ball from his steward’s shoulder, and after cleaning the wounds, stitched up the cuts and gashes of the other two men, Angus and Padraig.
Alasdair watched her work tirelessly for more than an hour and assisted by turning the men over when she asked. The blood and gore did not appear to bother her. She had a backbone of tempered steel and more courage than a lot of men he’d seen. Yet, she possessed the gentle and caring touch of a guardian angel.
The uninjured warriors ate and rested, preparing to take their turn at watch. Tomorrow, the clan would hold the funerals and bury the dead. The next day, they would look toward the future and start to rebuild the village. In the meantime, everyone pulled together and consoled one another.
“’Tis time you ate something, then rested,” Alasdair told Gwyneth. The dark circles beneath her eyes showed she was as exhausted as he.
She nodded, rose and went in search of food, he hoped.
Alasdair cleaned himself up in his bedchamber, changed clothes and then found Lachlan in the great hall. He also looked a mite better without the bloody clothes and the soot.
“What is it you’re wanting to tell me?” Lachlan asked in a surly tone once they were inside the library. The cheerful sunlight slicing through the two narrow windows clashed with Lachlan’s dark scowl, and Alasdair’s own mood.
“I’m sorry about Mary Anne,” Alasdair said in a calm voice that he hoped conveyed his sympathy.
“Aye, we all are. Now my son has no mother.”
“But he has a father—as we did growing up. He will come here to live in the castle if you wish it.”
His brother propped his fists against his waist. “That won’t change the fact that your fine Lady Gwyneth caused all this.”
“Gwyneth saved Kean’s life.”
Lachlan looked as if someone had hit him broadside with an ax. “What?”
“Aye. She came down to the village during the fighting, looking for Rory. A MacIrwin on foot was chasing Kean while I was trying to fight off another one on horseback. She jumped out and grabbed Kean. He could’ve been trampled beneath the horses’ hooves or killed by the enemy. I didn’t ken who either of them were at first. But when Gwyneth turned back, I saw her face. And I also saw Kean in her arms.”
Lachlan froze for a moment, then released a harsh breath. “Merciful God, I must thank her.”
Alasdair stepped forward. “I’ll go with you.”
“I appreciate your trust in me,” Lachlan said in a dry tone, his expression easing.
“I ken how you like to show your gratitude to the ladies.”
Lachlan’s abashed grin appeared, and he clasped hands with Alasdair in a quick, fierce handshake. “Aye, you ken me too well, brother, but I value my neck too highly to dally with that one.”
Alasdair ignored his brother’s thinly veiled reference to his possessiveness. “Later, I wish to talk to you about going to the Privy Council in my stead. We’ll bring charges against the MacIrwins for the attacks.”
Lachlan nodded. “’Twould please me beyond measure to see Donald MacIrwin kicking the wind.”
They found Gwyneth in the great hall, again watching over the injured, seeing that they drank broth and herbal teas. He would indeed have to order her to her bed and force her to rest.
Alasdair stopped close beside her. “M’lady, if you please, we would have a word with you in the library.”
Gwyneth drew back, her confused gaze darting back and forth between them. But Lachlan’s slight grin must have put her at ease. Alasdair followed her into the smaller room, and Lachlan closed the door behind them.
His brother dropped to one knee and grasped Gwyneth’s hand in his. He feared Lachlan went too far when he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.
Gwyneth froze, her wide eyes beseeching Alasdair.
He smiled, attempting to reassure her that his brother had not been stricken with lunacy.
“M’lady,” Lachlan said. “I thank you, and I owe you a grand debt of gratitude for saving the life of my son.”
She frowned down at him. “Your son?”
“Aye. Kean is my son—the wee lad you rescued from the village last night.”
“Oh. I didn’t know,” she said softly.
“Surely, you are an angel sent from heaven.”
“No, not at all.” Face flushing bright pink, she gently tugged her hand from within his. “I simply acted on instinct.”
Lachlan rose. “Nevertheless, if there is ever anything I can do for you, I will. Just let me know.”
She curtsied. “I thank you.”
Lachlan gave her a bow and let himself out.
Gwyneth darted a glance at Alasdair. “If that is all—”
“Nay.” The word popped from his mouth, perhaps too quickly, but he enjoyed being alone with her too much to allow her to leave so soon. Had it only been yesterday evening when he’d kissed her? It seemed a week ago, so much had happened since.
He’d had no time to think about the kiss and what it had meant—that he was far more drawn to her than he should be. And that he wanted another kiss. Wanted more than a kiss. But aside from that, nothing else had changed. Sending her away would be the best solution for her and the clan. Besides, it was what she wished. But he wouldn’t do it now. He had to find her a safe and suitable place first, and at the moment, they needed her healing skills here.
“Yes, my laird?” Her blush was still in evidence, and it lent her a charming quality.
“I wish to thank you, as well, for saving Kean’s life and those of my men.”
“I could do nothing less.”
Though modest, she had the proud posture and regal bearing of a lady, which could not be concealed beneath her dirty, bloody clothing.
“When I saw you in the village during the worst of the fighting, I wanted to throttle you for putting yourself in such danger.” He’d meant to speak the words in a harsh, angry tone, but couldn’t quite manage it. Instead he simply sounded…desperate. Desperate to keep her safe.
She lifted courageous eyes to his. “And what about the danger you were in? Going into battle already injured.”
“My toe is much improved. And ’twas my responsibility. Not yours.”
Blue fire lit within her eyes. “Rory is my responsibility, and I would go through hell itself, if I had to, to save his life.”
He nodded. “Aye, of course. You are a brave lady, to be sure. And I admire that.” In truth, he admired far too many things about her.
She glanced away as if dismissing his words. He wanted to hold a mirror up to her, to show her what an incredible woman she was. He wanted to show her how she should value herself. Too many men had put her down and treated her poorly, instead of giving her the care and attention she deserved.
“You’re always taking care of others,” he said. “I wonder, who takes care of you?”
She looked at him straight. “I’m not too proud to accept the help of others, but I take care of myself for the most part.”
Indeed, she did. She was independent, too, flexible as a willow. A survivor. He could not recall a woman he admired as much—well, except for his Leitha, of course. Still, Gwyneth was stronger. But she needed someone to take care of her from time to time. Someone to lean on and cling to in the storm.
One part of him craved to be that person. Another part of him rebelled at the very thought. He could never again be that close to anyone. It hurt too much when they abandoned him. He reinforced the icy wall around the most vulnerable part of him, but it did not stop him from craving everything about her.
“I thank you for looking out for Rory and sending him up safely with Fergus,” she said.
“Of course, ’twas the least I could do.”
The village had been crawling with MacIrwins, any one of whom wanted to see her dead. A careless flick of a blade and her life would’ve been forfeit. Drained away, as Leitha’s had, leaving him regretting that he had not done more. ’Twas a tragic thing to realize you were too late.
Acting on naught more than the fierce and perplexing feelings raging inside him, Alasdair stepped forward and pulled Gwyneth into his arms. “Pray pardon, m’lady. I must hold you for a minute.”
“Oh.” The wee surprised sound was no more than a breath from her.
He pressed his face against her silky hair and inhaled the smoke scent mixed with a hint of herbs and whisky with which she’d medicated the injured. But most of all, her own unique female scent held him spellbound. He remembered it from when he’d kissed her and that little window to paradise had opened.
Her small frame against his own much larger one soothed his battle-ravaged soul. The vital warmth of her reassured him she was indeed alive—that they both were.
Her body was still taut with tension, but her arms crept around his waist and held him just as tightly. He savored her touch and her embrace, afraid to move. Afraid he would frighten her away. After a moment, her body relaxed within his arms. Aye, this was the way it should be. Naught had ever felt so right. Relishing the lithe, sensual feel of her, he tried to absorb her calmness and peace into himself.
