Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"

Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

A hostage. MacIrwin was using his son as a hostage, and this was the ransom. Bastard! Southwick squinted down at the paper again, trying to decipher more of its words. Whoever wrote it didn’t use standard spellings, and it looked more like a sheep had written it. Damned Scots couldn’t speak or write in a coherent manner. He crumpled the paper. Where in blazes would he get two hundred pounds silver? Certainly he was wealthy, but he didn’t keep that much silver and gold lying around. He’d borrow funds from his friends, and ask a few of them to accompany him. He’d need plenty of guards.

“You are to take me to MacIrwin, and I do mean with great haste,” Southwick said.

The messenger’s eyes near bugged out of his head.

“You didn’t think I was just going to hand you two hundred pounds, did you?”

“Eh…nay, my laird.”

“Good. We leave at first light.” It would take him all day, at least, to gather all the funds. MacIrwin was a thief and an outlaw!

***

Two days after he’d talked to Gwyneth in the alehouse and given her the rose, Alasdair slipped into Leitha’s flower garden, hoping Gwyneth would show up again so he might talk to her in private about nothing in particular until gloaming settled over the land. Or perhaps steal a kiss. The scent of sun-warmed roses brought their first kiss to the forefront of his mind, and he indulged in a bit of daydreaming. At a noise behind him, he glanced around, expecting to see Gwyneth, but found Rory gazing up at him with a trusting look of adoration.

Och. The lad needed a father, and Alasdair did not feel worthy or capable of filling such a lofty role. But at times like this, he wanted to try.

“A good eve to you, Rory.”

“Will you teach me to fight with a sword?” The boy rushed forward, a small wooden sword in his hand and anticipation brightening his eyes.

How was he supposed to refuse such an eager request? The latest attack must have spurred the lad’s protective instincts. And he truly did need to learn some weaponry skills, for he’d be a man one day. And he’d need to defend himself.

“Very well. I’ll demonstrate a move or two.” Alasdair removed his own basket-hilted broadsword from his scabbard, held it aloft and waited.

The lad mimicked his stance.

“See, Rory, hold the hilt of your sword just this way.” Alasdair showed him the correct grip. “Try it.”

“Like this?” Rory adjusted his grip on the rough mock weapon that one of the older clansmen had carved for him. The hilt was actually too big for his small hand.

“Aye, very good. Now, if one of the enemy clan comes at you directly in front, thrusting straight toward your chest, deflect the blow this way.” Alasdair showed him the simple defense tactic.

The child repeated the move perfectly.

“Excellent! You’re a natural.”

His eyes alight, he grinned ear to ear. “Truly?” He even did a little bounce on his toes.

“Aye. ’Twas perfect.” Och, the lad near carved his heart from his chest at times. Maybe because he looked so much like Gwyneth, with those blue eyes. Or ’haps it was because Rory made Alasdair realize how much he missed his own son.

But he must not dwell on the past. Here and now were the important things.

Rory stood beside him, awaiting the next instruction.

Alasdair backed up to give himself room. “Now, if the enemy is slashing from left to right, trying to take your head off, you would block the blow this way.” He flicked his blade at the correct angle.

“What are you doing?” the incensed female voice echoed from behind them.

Alasdair turned. Gwyneth stood with her fists propped on her narrow hips, her brows lowered, and her mouth crimped into a thin line.

Now I’ve gone and done it.

“He’s showing me how to use a claidheamh mòr.” Rory proudly demonstrated his new skills for his mother.

She stiffened. “Why don’t you go find Little John Ray and show him? I need to talk to Laird MacGrath.”

“Aye!” The boy ran from the garden.

“Do not run with that sword!”

“’Tis not real, Ma,” Rory said as if she were daft.

“I know that, but you could still fall on it and hurt yourself.”

Rory let out an impatient breath and walked the rest of the way.

Gwyneth faced Alasdair again and crossed her arms over her chest. He would like to kiss the tightness and annoyance from her lips. But first he would, without doubt, have to endure an unpleasant sort of tongue-lashing. He would much prefer the other type, a flick of her tongue against his lips, inside his mouth. Saints! He could not look at her without hot arousal stirring his blood.

“I do not want you teaching my son how to wield a blade,” she said firmly.

Alasdair returned his broadsword to the scabbard at his hip. “And why is that, m’lady?”

Her face darkened. “Rory will not be a Highland warrior when he grows up. You people fight over everything. It’s your favorite pastime. I tell you, killing should not be a pastime.”

“’Tis a matter of survival. Do you think we invited the MacIrwins to burn the village? Nay. Every man must learn to defend himself and those he cares about. I make sure all the lads are trained so that when they become men, they can protect themselves, their families and the clan. If Rory grows up without knowing how to handle weapons, he will be at a disadvantage. If he is attacked, he will be unable to defend himself. Is that what you’re wanting?”

“No. I just don’t want him fighting, or using weapons at all,” she said in a calmer but stubborn tone.

“You’re a woman, and English at that. I don’t expect you to understand what it means to be a man of the Highlands. But Rory has undoubtedly inherited his interest in swords and protecting his family from his father.”

“From his father? That’s preposterous.”

“Baigh Shaw was ever a man who relished battle and fighting.”

Gwyneth opened her mouth, then closed it. Twice. For a moment she reminded him of a grounded salmon. Then the skin of her face and throat turned that adorable pink color. He wondered if her whole body blushed in just that way during lovemaking.

“The p-point is…I will not allow Rory to learn to fight or go into battle. I am giving him an education, and he will one day find a good position in a safe place. He could be a scholar, perhaps a professor at university, or even a physician.”

She had a grand dream for her son, and there was naught wrong with that, except it might not be what Rory wanted. When he grew up, he might wish to join the king’s army instead. But Alasdair wouldn’t deepen her anxiety. “Aye, I ken your meaning. No parent wants to think of their child in a dangerous circumstance.”

“You’re not a parent, so you cannot grasp the import of it.”

Her words flayed him like the sharp edge of a blade. “You’re right. I’m not a parent because my son died before he could be born.”

Gwyneth pressed her eyes closed for a moment, and when she opened them, managed to look most contrite. “Pray pardon, my laird. I did not mean that,” she said softly.

He didn’t respond, but tried to lock his emotions away again. He didn’t like them breaking free at the least provocation, nor did he wish to speak harshly to her.

“I only meant that, I don’t want anyone to encourage Rory in his interest in swords,” she said. “He’s always fighting mock battles with imaginary people. I usually try to divert his attention to something else.”

“’Tis a good habit. But you must realize the lad has a lot of Scots blood in him, and making him lose interest in fighting or weaponry will be a task. ’Tis natural. He was born to it. I was the same way as a lad. I was always hacking away at something with a wooden sword, as were my brother and cousins.”

“That’s fine. I’d just prefer you didn’t show him any more techniques for killing people.”

“I wasn’t showing him how to kill people. I was showing him how to block the blows of blades coming at him, moves that could one day save his life.”

She stared at the ground in silence and rubbed her forehead. He hoped she would think that over thoroughly, because a grown man who couldn’t defend himself was as good as dead.

“He but wants to protect and defend his ma,” Alasdair said.

“Did he tell you that?”

“Aye. When I was hurt and in your byre, he said he would protect you from the MacIrwin.”

“I see.”

He wasn’t sure she did. “Even then, Rory knew Donald was evil and that you were afraid of him. Rory’s a bright and canny lad, m’lady, and he’s but trying to develop the skills he needs to be a man.”

“He’s only five,” she said, her voice low and vulnerable.

Alasdair restrained the urge to take her into his arms and hold her, to soothe away the tension and fear. “He’ll be six soon, but it doesn’t matter his age. He’s a lad without his da, so he feels ’tis his job to protect the women of his family—you.”

“I must take him from the Highlands.” She locked her determined gaze onto Alasdair’s. “I’m sure Lachlan won’t be back for weeks with news of a position in Edinburgh. Have you thought of a family I might find a position with?”

Here it was again, the task he didn’t want to push forward with. It created too much turmoil within him. He’d already told her he didn’t want her to leave. But it would be best for Gwyneth, Rory, and the MacGrath clan if she did. Still, Alasdair knew he was a greedy, selfish bastard. He wanted…

What did he want?

“I have thought on it some. But I know very few Lowland families. None come to mind with young children.”

“What about your in-laws?”

“I’ve had little contact with them for some time. Perhaps one of Leitha’s brothers or sisters would be in need of a governess. I’ll send a letter.”

Her face brightened. “I would be in your debt.”

And what he would like in payment was a kiss. But how ridiculous he was—like a green lad on the edge of becoming a man, gazing at a pretty lass.

How he would love to be the cause of the happiness she now showed. But it was the prospect of leaving the Highlands—of leaving him—that filled her with joy.

“I thank you for your recommendation, Laird MacGrath.”

“You’re welcome. And ’tis Alasdair,” he corrected for the thousandth time. After the intimate way he’d touched her in the library, he couldn’t believe she would address him so formally, especially when they were alone. Clearly, she was trying to push him away.

She sobered, a guarded expression falling into place. “Very well, Alasdair.”

He shouldn’t have said anything. He preferred her smiling and carefree. She had the look of a very young lass then.

But he did savor the sound of his name on her lips. More than that, he wanted to savor her lips, feel them open beneath his, the way they did when he’d kissed her. She had invited him inside with warmth and ardor as if unable to control herself. Would she do that again now?

His expression must have changed for when her eyes met his, a sudden look of alarm crossed her features. “I must be off to see what Rory is into.” With a swish of her skirts Gwyneth turned and left.

He thought about calling her back but knew it would be folly. It was best that he not touch her again.

***

At midmorning several days later, Alasdair returned to his bedchamber to retrieve an old dagger he wished to let one of the villagers borrow. He halted when he found Gwyneth making his bed.

The sight of her bending over, touching the linens that had lain next to his naked skin the night before jolted him.

“You’re not a chambermaid.”

She spun around. “You startled me!”

“I only wished that you oversee the servants and make sure they do the work. Not do it yourself.” He could not abide watching her do household chores. He knew not why, but something about that felt very wrong.

“Willamena is sick, and I’ve taken over her chores,” Gwyneth said.

“You should’ve assigned it to someone else. You’re a lady.” He knew, without doubt, she was from the aristocratic class, though she refused to admit it. He could not fathom why.

She frowned and her eyes glinted with mysterious pain. A pain he yearned to get to the bottom of. What had happened in her past?

“I will earn my keep as well as my son’s,” she said with fierce pride.

“You’ve more than earned it with your healing skills. You saved my life and, to me, that’s worth a hefty sum.”

“Nevertheless…”

He paced toward the chest, trying to remember why he’d come. His attention strayed to Gwyneth as she approached the door.

“Um,” he said, hoping to stop her before she left. Why? He wanted to look at her a bit longer, listen to her soothing voice.

She turned. “You wanted something?”

Aye, I want something. Alasdair held himself back from suffocating in the blue of her eyes, bright as the loch reflecting the clear sky. “You must have been avoiding the garden of late.” And the kisses.

Her face flushed, but she held his gaze. “I would not wish to…cause a problem.”

“’Twould not be a problem, lass.” The only problem was that he wanted to kiss her again, but she’d made herself scarce. He longed for her cool hands to stroke over his naked skin, both inciting and soothing at once. He yearned to know what lingered in the depths of her thoughts. What did she want and need? What did she feel when he kissed her? Did she hunger the way he did?

She swallowed hard and stared at something behind him.

“Gwyneth.” Just saying her name aroused him as it would have to trail his tongue up her neck.

Her eyes darkened when she gauged his expression. He knew his desire must be written on his face. It had been a long time since he’d invited a woman into his bed, and his body was rebelling from the lack.

“What say you?” he asked.

“About…what, Laird MacGrath?”

She was attempting to remind him of his place, but he didn’t want to remember. He wanted only to be a man for a few minutes, and she a woman.

“What would you say if I locked the door and—” He inhaled a ragged breath, unable to vocalize what he wanted. So much.

She gasped. “No, you must not,” she whispered. “’Tis not proper.”

“Nay, not proper at all.” The fantasies playing through his mind threatened to render him senseless. Images of her naked beneath him, on top of him…squirming, arching bodies. The slide of her bare smooth skin across his. He was famished for the sweet, female taste of her. He wished to fill all his senses with naught but her.

“But ’tis beyond appealing to think about,” he murmured.

“Appalling, you mean.”

“Oh, nay, m’lady.” She didn’t mean that; she couldn’t. ’Twas obvious she’d relished those earlier kisses as much as he had.

She eased toward the door again, but he moved quicker and closed it in front of her. Hell. What am I doing? I should let her go.

His hand on the door, he tried to calm his need. Have I lost my mind? He wouldn’t do anything except touch her face, kiss her. Then he would stop. He would not dishonor her. He but wanted to cherish her for a moment. One stolen moment in time…for him and for her, amid all the thousands of hours of duty that devoured his time. Did they each not deserve a moment to enjoy something exquisite?

“Sir, this is not…this would not be wise.”

She was right of course. ’Twas foolhardy and reckless. Yet it was something he had to have, and whether she admitted it or not, something she also wanted.

“One kiss and you’re free to go.” By the saints, he did have the same blood as Lachlan running through his veins. Alasdair hadn’t used his seduction skills in so long they were rusty as a sword from the sea.

He inched closer to her, but in an attempt to restrain his primal impulses, pressed his forehead to his fist against the door. He didn’t touch her, though his fingers ached to stroke her silky skin. “The kiss in the garden,” he said. “And the one in the library…I cannot get either out of my head. Do you ever think of them?”

Chapter Nine

Gwyneth couldn’t look Laird MacGrath in the eye when he said such things, reminding her of the lascivious kisses they’d shared. He stirred up a cauldron of wicked feelings inside her. Desires she thought she’d experienced before, but hadn’t. Her first seduction had been nothing compared to this.

Alasdair’s clean, woodsy-musk scent teased the side of her that reveled in sensuality, tempted her to press her nose to his chest and breathe him in. Clearly, he had bathed this morn in a pleasant-scented soap.

He leaned against the door as if she might escape. She should’ve fled earlier, just as he’d entered. The rational part of her knew this. But now a battle waged within her, and her sensual side craved naught but being pinned beneath his strong body.

“I guess you’ve forgotten both kisses, then,” he murmured. “They were naught, aye?”

Was he mad? She could think of little else. The kisses would remain her fondest memories. She had to leave this place, leave the enticement of this man.

Though her reputation and virtue were in tatters, she had tried to gather the mended shreds about her in these last few years. But he inspired her to set a torch to them. He drew her to him like iron filings to a lodestone, and when she looked into his eyes or stood in his presence, she questioned the value of reputation and virtue. They seemed cold, lifeless companions when she faced the brilliant, life-affirming heat of him.

“I remember the kisses,” she admitted, pressing her back against the solid wood of the door. “Indeed, how could I not?” I relive them every night. And every time I see you during the busy, tiresome days.

His eyes, black as the depths of sin, trapped her. She couldn’t help but trust him, couldn’t help but put herself under his control.

“Why can I not turn away from you?” she whispered.

He released a ragged breath. “’Haps the same reason I cannot turn from you. ’Tis beyond my strength.”

And clearly he had impressive strength, but whatever drew them together was far more powerful.

She moved toward him. “I shouldn’t do this again.”

But she did.

She slid her fingers into his dark hair and met his delectable lips with her own. Ahh. She had dreamed of this, relived his kisses so often, it seemed Alasdair had kissed her a hundred times. But he hadn’t, not like this. She had not remembered each nuance—the wet warmth of his mouth, his arousing masculine taste, the way his whisker stubble rasped her chin and upper lip, the way his big hands framed her waist and pulled her close.

She opened her mouth, hoping he’d slide his tongue inside and flick it across hers. When he did, her knees lost all strength. With a groan, he caught her to the solid muscles of his body and lifted her, stroking her over his stone-hard shaft. She squirmed and wrapped her arms around his neck. She craved him beyond all reason.

Why this intensity? She could scarce breathe. His lips ate at hers, his tongue tasted and seduced.

He kissed a teasing trail down her neck and sparked sensations through her breasts without even touching them. Oh, her nipples were hard, craving the heat and suction of his mouth savoring them.

She murmured a sound between a gasp and a moan before she could squelch it. How scandalous she was, but she could not renounce her needs.

Harsh breaths escaping him, he set her down gently and tried to hold her away from him, even as he kept pressing light kisses to her mouth. “Sweet Mother Mary, I believe you’re right, m’lady. Not wise.”

She didn’t want it to end, this dream, this sensual haven. She had experienced what went on between a man and a woman on a few occasions, but never had she yearned for it this badly. He was like a lodestone, and she could not back away.

Already, she missed the heat and solidity of his body. She followed him when he retreated, unable to smother her wanton hunger.

“Let me lock the door.” He lowered his lashes, half concealing the dark desire that burned in his eyes.

She couldn’t respond to such a request, for the implications far outreached the simple statement.

I can’t do this.

Yet, she had to. It was not in her power to say no. She needed him too much.

“M’lady—Gwyneth,” he whispered against her ear. “I’m wanting you now as I’ve never wanted another woman. You have damn well bewitched me, and all I can think of is being inside you, taking you over and over.”

Good heavens! Such shocking words he spoke. But, because of them, she ached.

“What say you? Do you want me as well?”

She grasped all her courage together. “Yes, I want you…Alasdair,” she whispered.

“Och! Dear God, how is this possible?”

She wondered the same thing. How could she have happened upon such a treasure as him? And such undeniable passion?

With a click of the key turning in the lock, he shielded them from the intrusion of the outside world. For this beautiful moment, he was hers alone in the intimacy of his bedchamber.

He picked her up, flush against his body, and kissed her…a deep devouring kiss. She perceived that he withheld nothing, but infused this kiss with his soul, and all his hunger. So fogged was her rationality, she didn’t realize they’d moved across the room until he lowered her to his bed.

He drew his shirt over his head, removed his sporran, but left his kilt belted at his waist. Viewing the sprinkling of dark hair over the battle-honed muscles of his chest and abdomen was a wicked indulgence. His eyes gleamed with seductive promises, anticipation, but what she treasured most was the care and compassion she saw there. This was a man such as she never knew existed. He would not selfishly take from her; he’d give her what she craved, generously.

Standing at the edge of the bed, watching her with eyes near dark as onyx, he gently pushed up her petticoats and skirts. His rough hands smoothing up her thighs above the tops of her stockings sent chills over her body.

“Mmm…Gwyneth.” He crawled onto the bed, between her legs, and kissed her neck, licked a trail down toward her breasts where they were pushed up by her corset.

With a muttered Gaelic word, he pressed kisses to the upper swells of her breasts and slid his tongue along her cleavage.

A sharp yearning speared her, and she mindlessly thrust her hips toward him where he hovered over her. “Oh,” she gasped.

His hand beneath her skirts, he caught her and cradled her derriere. At the touch of his warm palm rasping her delicate skin, she grew impatient and pulled him closer.

Gazing into her eyes, he stroked gentle fingers through her moisture, parting the sensitive lips of her sex. Drawing air between his teeth, he hissed, his eyes almost closing.

Such forbidden cravings that he elicited stole her thoughts and reasoning. “Alasdair?”

“Mmm, I wish I had time to take off every stitch of your clothing. But I’m on the edge. I cannot take another minute of your tempting.”

He couldn’t be talking about her. Yet when he gazed at her with such raw intensity, she knew he told her true.

Shifting, he brought her hand down to his sleek hard shaft. Fever-hot and generously proportioned. She wrapped her fingers around him, marveling at how exquisitely made he was.

His eyes drifted closed and his jaw tightened at her touch. Though she should be embarrassed, she wasn’t. The feel of him was heaven. And she wanted him, that part of him, inside her. She squeezed and stroked.

“You’re amazing,” she whispered and couldn’t help the way her voice trembled.

“Och, lass.” He shook his head, his hair tickling over her face. “You’re the one who’s amazing. You’re my undoing.”

“I want you now,” she whispered, unable to tolerate the aching need any longer.

“Aye.” Drawing near, he kissed her, flicked his tongue between her lips in an erotic echo. “Guide me into you,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Yes.” How he aroused her and empowered her, giving her control over their lovemaking. She stroked the broad tip of his shaft through her moisture. “Oh. That feels…” Splendid. Her yearning for him magnified. She positioned him just where she wanted him.

His muscles bunched, and he slid in, slowly stretching her with sublime fullness. “Beautiful,” he moaned in an awed tone against her ear, blocking out her own frenetic sounds. “You are so…beautiful. Gwyneth. Mmm.” He inched slowly deeper.

Yes, yes! She wanted to give herself over to him completely. She wanted him to pin her down, thrust hard, fast and without restraint. Instead, he held himself still and rigid within her, scarcely breathing, as if savoring their erotic bond.

“Please,” she whispered. “Alasdair.”

“Aye, m’eudail.” In that moment, he seemed to understand what she needed for he withdrew and plunged in deeper, again and again, becoming slicker, sliding easier each time. His movements came faster, more forcefully.

Oh, she could scarce believe what carnal bliss.

“Saints!” he growled.

It seemed she had never experienced this before, because never had the joining given her such an upheaval of pleasure. But not just pleasure—magnitude, a depth of meaning. Something this thrilling had to be sinful, but she felt no shame.

Her body burned where it joined with his. She couldn’t discern her own breaths from his against her lips. She was as close to him as she could get, yet she grasped him to her, wanting closer, more, wanting to touch all of him at once. Her clothing was a hateful barrier between them. Craving his naked skin against her own, she wrapped her legs around his, and her arms around his neck.

And the way he moved, undulating. He slid in a fluid motion, thrusting to her depths and away, fast and powerfully. What magic.

“Mo dia, Gwyneth,” he rasped between kisses. “You’re so lovely.” He watched her, gazed into her soul. As if he understood and felt what she did. As if he was wholly there with her, drowning in this ocean of madness. He was. He had to be; she saw it in his eyes.

Her corset turned sweltering and constricting. She couldn’t breathe deeply enough.

A hot tingling began in her center where he slid. It gathered speed and intensity. A breathless sensation gripped her and the pleasure crashed in on itself, magnified, seized her thoughts.

What’s happening? I’m dying! She screamed, but Alasdair closed his mouth over hers, muffling her sounds. She pulled him harder against her. She wanted him all the way inside. More, more, more.

She reveled in a moment of reckless abandon such as she never allowed herself. And if she truly were dying, there could be no better way to go.

But she didn’t die. She’d never felt more alive. Joy bubbled up inside her, and she laughed. The pleasure flowed away from her in little waves. Alasdair chose that moment to growl, drive himself to the hilt and pour into her. From his fierce expression, he seemed in pain. But she knew he was experiencing the same rapture she had. She had only thought men did that. She had not known a woman could find her release, or enjoy this act so thoroughly.

Just as he withdrew, someone pounded at the door of the bedchamber, shattering the sensual spell woven around them.

“Oh, no.” Gwyneth struggled from beneath Alasdair. She yanked down her skirts, stood and adjusted her clothing. “No one must find me here.”

Not yet recovered from his climax, Alasdair glared at the door and muttered Gaelic words amid harsh breaths. “Don’t fash yourself, lass,” he whispered, then yelled “Fuirich mionaid!” at the person on the other side of the door. Breath calming, he lazily stood, pulled his shirt on over his head and moved toward the door.

She scurried behind it. “Do not let them in.”

He shook his head and opened the door a crack to peer out. “Aye?”

“Is everything all right?” a man outside the door asked.

“Aye. I was but changing my shirt.”

Alasdair closed the door and approached her. He stroked his fingers beneath her chin and pressed a sweet kiss to her lips. “Gwyneth,” he said as if the word itself were sacred. “You’re a treasure more fine than ever I touched.”

Vulnerability rolled through her and threatened to fill her eyes with tears. She had made her own choice, and she was glad.

I refuse to regret it.

“Are you well?” His dark brows furrowed with concern.

She nodded.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. What he’d made her feel was far from pain, but now…

His worried gaze lingering on her, he stepped away and stuffed his shirttail beneath his kilt and fastened the top portion with his brooch.

She faced the door and waited for him to finish. Upon my faith, what have I done? Any woman who followed her body’s urges was full of folly, was she not?

Alasdair moved in front of her, tipped her chin up and studied her. “I’ll tell no one. ’Tis our secret, aye?”

She nodded and said nothing, though inside she was screaming, I should not have.

He pressed a quick, firm kiss to her lips, then stepped back. “I’ll check the corridor and if no one is about, you can slip away to your bedchamber.”

He peered out, then motioned to her. She slunk along to her room, feeling like the lowest of thieves.

***

That afternoon, the sun beamed down brightly as Alasdair oversaw the thatching of the last roofs of the villagers’ cottages. He stood aside, away from the crowd, watching his strong clansmen on the roofs, working hard, but laughing and joking as was their habit.

But neither thatch nor jokes could hold Alasdair’s attention. His mind drifted back to three hours earlier, in his bedchamber.

Gwyneth.

How lush and lovely she was. Eager and sensual.

Saints! He hadn’t expected to bed her today. Or ever, in truth. He’d thought her resistance would prove unmovable. Not so. ’Twas a flood of the best luck he’d ever had.

His erection swelled, tingling for her again, and he was glad for his sporran, preventing his plaid rising in front. She was an astounding woman. So sweet and passionate. The way she’d wanted him so badly compounded his own desire. He had always loved bringing a woman to the height of ecstasy. That Gwyneth had responded and experienced it so quickly had taken away the last vestiges of his control and he’d gone hurtling over the edge of delirious pleasure.

Though he could never give his heart to another woman the way he had to Leitha, maybe taking another wife would not be such a bad idea, as Lachlan had suggested. Perhaps Alasdair should propose a hand-fasting to Gwyneth. He needed an heir after all, and Gwyneth was obviously fertile, given that she had Rory.

Planting his seed within her would be no duty, but boundless pleasure. Och! He would relish bedding her every night, and sometimes during the day, to make sure she was pregnant. Imagining her carrying his child within her stirred up all sorts of primal urges and he craved her again. Now.