My Fierce Highlander Page 3

  Gwyneth rushed to him, icy anxiety knotting her insides. “There is no time, sir. I must hide you. Rory, go stay in the cottage with Mora, and don’t say a word. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Her son sprinted away.

  “I won’t play the lamb to his slaughter,” MacGrath said between clenched teeth, fierce determination emanating off him in waves.

  “I’ll cover you in straw and they’ll not see you, even should they look in here. You must trust me. There is nowhere else for you to hide now.” Please, God, make him listen to me.

  His stark gaze speared hers. “You should’ve let me keep my dagger.”

  “Here, take mine.” She pulled the small dirk from the busk of her corset and handed it to him.

  “This? ’Tis naught but a wee toothpick!”

  “That’s all I have. Do not move unless you’re certain they’ve found you.” Hands trembling, Gwyneth covered MacGrath from the top of his head to his toes with the blanket, then piled more straw over him until the blanket was hidden.

  On the way out, she pulled the door closed behind her. Thank God, Donald wasn’t in sight yet. She ran toward the cottage. The rhythmic staccato of hoof beats grew loud like her own pulse.

  Inside the cottage, she met Mora’s worried gaze. Why was Donald paying a visit? Did he suspect something?

  May God protect us.

  “Rory, sit over here and…shhh.” She pointed to a short stool, then clasped her trembling hands together. “Remember what I said? Not a word about the man in the byre.”

  Rory nodded. His rounded eyes told her he knew if he said the wrong thing, something terrible would happen. She hated that her son had to grow up in this harsh way of life.

  Pounding hooves drew closer, the sound making her stomach ache. If Donald and his men discovered MacGrath…. Heavens. She didn’t want to think of the consequences.

  The horses snorted and kicked up rocks outside the cottage. Donald and his men talked in Gaelic as they dismounted.

  Inhaling a deep breath, Gwyneth approached the open door and faced her cousin.

  “Did you happen to find Robert or Red John in yon glen?” Donald MacIrwin asked in an ill-tempered tone.

  “No, we didn’t. Why?” The stench from Donald’s stocky body forced Gwyneth to breathe through her mouth. His shaggy brown and gray beard contained a few crumbs from his last meal.

  “We couldn’t find them after the skirmish yester eve. The MacGraths must’ve took them hostage. Cursed mongrels.” He spat upon the ground.

  “Why did the MacGraths attack?” Pretending ignorance, she hid her clenched fists in the folds of her skirts.

  Donald’s mouth turned to a snarl, and she was unsure whether he was disgusted by her bold question or the subject matter.

  “Are you thinking they need a reason? Nay! They’re outlaws, the lot of them, wanting to steal more of our land.” Lowering his bushy brows, Donald stepped across the threshold and glanced about the room, even peered into the two box beds, neatly covered with woolen plaid blankets.

  Surely he didn’t expect to find his men there. She dared not move a muscle or even breathe too hard.

  Donald’s gaze lingered a bit too long on Rory where he sat like a tiny gentleman on a stool by the fire in the center of the floor.

  “The wee bastard’s shooting up like a weed, aye? I’ll see to it he starts training with a sword and targe in a year or two. I’ll be needing a few more fighting men.”

  Upon my faith, you will not get your hooks into my son! Gwyneth clenched her teeth until they ached.

  Donald turned and left the cottage. “Search yon wood,” he yelled to his men and pointed at the forest beyond the byre. “They may’ve crawled off and died.”

  One of his men moved toward the byre.

  No! Let him pass by. They simply could not find MacGrath or they were all dead.

  The man yanked the door open and stuck his head inside.

  After a long moment, he closed it and moved on.

  Thank you, God. Gwyneth released a breath, her knees threatening to buckle.

  She forced herself to go about her outside chores as usual, feeding the chickens and milking the cows, all the while watching for Donald’s men from the corner of her eye.

  About an hour later, they appeared to have left the area. Concealing her items in a feed bucket, she carried oat porridge, bread and ale into the byre.

  “They’ve gone.” She approached the corner where MacGrath lay and set the food on the ground.

  “Mo chreach.” He pushed the blanket and straw from his head. “I thank you for the use of your wee dirk, but I’m wanting my dagger now.” He handed her the weapon.

  “I’ll bring it to you. But you must eat and regain your strength.”

  “When I heard them open the door, I was thinking I was a dead man for certain sure.”

  “We’ve outsmarted them for now.” She placed a rolled-up blanket beneath his head and shoulders so he might sit up a bit. “Careful you don’t cause that wound to bleed again.”

  His direct stare unnerved her. He seemed intent on catching a glimpse of her thoughts—as if he wanted to know her secrets.

  “I thank you for your help,” he said, his voice low and deep.

  “You’re welcome.”

  But he was the enemy, she had to keep reminding herself. An enemy she had given a weapon to, and had it returned. That connection of fledgling trust was something new to her.

  Gwyneth knelt beside him, picked up the bowl and scooped a spoonful of oat porridge for him.

  “I’m not so maimed I cannot feed myself, m’lady.”

  Stubborn male pride. “Don’t be silly. You’re injured, and I would rather you didn’t spill porridge all over my blanket.” She held the wooden spoon to his mouth. “Open.” If she treated him like a lad, mayhap she wouldn’t see him as such a tempting man.

  He hesitated, but eventually complied. He took the bite, chewed and swallowed. “’Tis verra good.” A hint of a smile lightened his expression, but his perceptive gaze remained steady upon her.

  “Mora taught me her secret recipe,” she said to fill the uncomfortable silence. She was certainly not accustomed to men praising her cooking…or staring at her with such attentiveness.

  “Who’s Mora?” he asked.

  “A good friend and a healer, also. This is her byre, and Rory and I live in her cottage.”

  “Ah.” He accepted another bite and swallowed. “She trained you in the healing arts, then?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Not only are you a good cook and a gifted healer, you’re lovely as a spring morn. You ken the kind—when the sky is so brilliant and blue it hurts your eyes.” He winked.

  Her face felt singed of a sudden. Good heavens! Such extravagant words, she could not credit. The knock on the head had addled him. But a wink from those darkly seductive eyes was captivating and potent. She fed him quickly so he would stop spewing nonsense. Men did not compliment her looks. Certainly not her late husband, Baigh Shaw.

  I’m glad he’s gone. Time and again, Baigh had mistreated Rory, and her as well. She was thankful they didn’t have to suffer any more bruises at his hand.

  “Tell me, m’lady, what is your name?” MacGrath’s deep voice murmured the words in an intimate tone that sent tingles down her neck. She was not even that close to him. Though she did wonder what it would feel like if he whispered against her ear. He watched her as a cat watches a sparrow before it pounces.

  “Mistress Carswell.” She hated the Scottish custom in which the wife did not take her husband’s last name when she married, but kept her maiden name. The children, at least, took the husband’s name. That was the reason she’d agreed to marry Baigh Shaw, so her son would have a name besides her own.

  “And your Christian name?” MacGrath asked.

  She dropped her gaze to the bowl of lumpy porridge and the spoon she stirred it with. Not near as appealing as his visage, but safe. “It matters not.”

  He
tilted his head. “I but wondered if your name fits you.”

  She lifted another bite, trying to focus on the spoon and not his enticing mouth. Not the amused quirk.

  “And if my name doesn’t fit? What am I to do, pick another one?”

  He smiled with a flash of strong white teeth. “Aye, and why not?”

  A grin formed on her lips, but she squelched it. This was the senseless banter of a flirtation. Ridiculous here, in a Highland byre. This was no dance in a great hall or fine castle. No need to be coy.

  “Gwyneth is my name.”

  “’Tis Welsh, not English.”

  His astuteness impressed her. “My mother spent a few years of her youth in Wales. She had a close friend by that name.”

  “’Tis a bonny and fitting name for you as well.”

  “I thank you.” She lifted a small chunk of bread to his mouth. He opened and took it. Her finger grazed his lip, the silkiness and heat intensifying her awareness. Her hand was much less steady as she lowered it.

  MacGrath chewed and swallowed. “’Tis you I must thank. I cannot remember when I’ve had better porridge and bread. Or someone with such a gentle hand to tend my wounds.”

  He was a charmer in the guise of a whiskered barbarian, and unfortunately, she was not immune.

  She gave him the wooden cup of ale, gathered her wooden utensils and stood. “You’re welcome. Now, you must rest so you can heal.”

  He drank, then handed her the empty cup. “I’m hoping you’ll hurry back afore long. I’m enjoying your company.”

  Ignoring his last statement and the engaging look in his eye, she hurriedly said, “I’ll bring your supper later, sir.”

  “And my dagger, too, aye?”

  “Yes.” Disliking the heated sensation that covered her body, she strode out the door and closed it before he could utter any more sugared compliments. She’d felt this way years ago when a dashing lord had asked for a dance. Now she knew no good could come of it.

  Not for her. Not ever for her.

  Her two older sisters had been more fortunate and wiser than she, and they’d married well. She didn’t yet know whether her three younger sisters were married; she hadn’t seen them in six years. She had no doubt her only brother was doing well at university. He was their father’s favorite, after all, his heir, and would never want for anything.

  Best not to think of her family, England or men. All were beyond her reach. And she was glad she didn’t have to bow down to a man’s wishes anymore. She now had the greatest measure of freedom she’d ever had, thanks to Mora. If her friend hadn’t taken her in, Donald might have married Gwyneth off to another of his wretched friends.

  No, she would never marry again and be under a man’s command.

  ***

  Alasdair shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable on the hard packed floor. With his belly partway full and his mind floating with images of a lovely lass, he was as content as could be expected. His foot, his head, and various other spots pained him, but he tried not to think on it.

  Instead, he closed his eyes and forced his thoughts toward his own safety and that of his clansmen. Did they think him dead? Would Donald MacIrwin return?

  Something poked his arm, and his eyes sprang open.

  The lad jumped back and clutched a weathered wooden sword to his chest. “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “Not with you poking at me like that.”

  Rory’s sky-blue eyes remained round.

  Alasdair smiled, hoping the lad would lose some of his fear. “’Tis a nice sword you have there.”

  He held it out and looked at it. “I found it in the wood.”

  “Did you now? That was a bit of luck.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Angus.” Alasdair hated to lie to the child, but ’twas safest for him. “And you’re Rory?”

  “Aye. Are you a warrior?”

  “I suppose I am.” Though fighting was not something he chose. He would much rather simply lead his clan in peace.

  Rory glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “Will you teach me to be a warrior, too?”

  “You’re a mite young.”

  “Next month I’ll be six.” His eyes lit with excitement. “One time I got to watch the laird’s men practicing with their swords and pistols and axes. I want to do that. Someday, I’ll be a great fighter.”

  “That you will, lad. I’ve no doubt of it.”

  “Watch this.” Rory launched into some fancy footwork and thrust his sword about.

  Fine entertainment, but Alasdair dared not laugh. He maintained a solemn expression, and when Rory, breathing hard from the exertion, halted and looked to him for reaction, Alasdair nodded. “Well done indeed. I see you already ken a few things.”

  Rory came forward, curious eyes examining him. “What kind of sword do you have?”

  “None at the moment. I’m guessing someone took my favorite sword and made off with it. But I shall get another. A basket-hilted broadsword is a good weapon, for you can wield it one-handed and hold your mount’s reins or a targe in the other hand.”

  “I want a great two-handed Highland sword.” Rory stepped back, clasped his small sword in both hands and slung it about as if fighting an invisible enemy.

  Alasdair almost laughed. “Aye, another fine weapon when you’re wanting to mow down a few dozen of the enemy.”

  Rory paused, mouth agape. “Have you done that?”

  “On occasion.”

  “How many men have you killed?”

  “I didn’t keep a count, lad. Doing battle is a lot worse than you’re imagining. ’Tis not anything to be happy or excited about. ’Tis simply a sad and gruesome necessity to protect the clan.”

  “Aye,” Rory mimicked his accent and pressed his mouth into a solemn line. “I’m going to protect my ma and Mora from Laird MacIrwin.”

  A cold frisson ran thorough Alasdair. “Why is that? What would he do to them?”

  Rory frowned and thought for a moment. “I don’t know. But he’s mean.”

  “Make sure you don’t tell the MacIrwin or any of his men I’m here.”

  “I know. He would kill you on sight.”

  “That he would.” Canny lad. Alasdair wondered whether he might spill the information his mother had denied him. “Tell me, Rory, what was your father’s name?”

  “My da? Baigh Shaw.”

  Saints! The man who murdered my father? Alasdair could scarce draw breath for a moment. Surely he’d misheard.

  “In truth? Baigh Shaw?” He tried to keep his voice calm, when all he wanted to do was yell.

  Rory nodded. “But I don’t remember him. He died in battle.”

  “Rory,” Gwyneth scolded from the doorway. “Come out of there at once and leave Master MacGrath alone.”

  Slumping, Rory shuffled toward the door.

  The child was innocent of any crime his father had committed. But his mother might be a different matter. “He’s not bothering me.”

  “You must rest. Come now, Rory.”

  “Yes’m.”

  Alasdair listened to the two walk away even as he pushed himself up. Pain wracked his body but determination made it bearable. He had to get out of his enemy’s pocket. Grasping the blanket around his waist, he stood and limped along the byre’s stone wall. With each step, his big toe throbbed as if a hammer pounded it. Dizziness almost overwhelmed him, and he staggered. When the blackness abated, he continued onward.

  “I must find my clothes and shoes,” he muttered to himself.

  “What are you doing up?” The demand came from behind him.

  Turning halfway, he glared at the woman—Gwyneth. “Your porridge has worked a miracle. I’m near recovered.”

  “You are not.” She stamped forward, treating him as she would Rory. “You must lie down, sir.”

  “Nay, I don’t wish to lie down.”

  “I knew Rory would upset you.”

  “I’m not upset!” he growled. Upset? Damna
tion, he wanted to destroy something.

  “Very well.” She took several paces back. “I was but trying to help.”

  He froze, realizing she feared he would hit her. Nay, he would never strike a woman, even when angry. With a deep breath, some of his rage slipped away. “Pray pardon.”

  She surveyed him with wide eyes for a long moment. “May I examine your wound?”

  “And which wound would that be?” He turned fully toward her, holding the blanket in place at his hips. He still couldn’t believe it. She was the widow of a murderer, the man who had poisoned Alasdair’s father in his own home. Perhaps she had even helped, given that she was a healer who knew about herbs and their properties.

  She bent and examined the stitched cut that smarted and burned on his lower abdomen. “As I suspected, you are bleeding again.”

  He couldn’t help but watch her. She was so close to him, her breath fanned against his stomach. His imagination turned wicked and he visualized her brushing her lips over the skin beneath his navel, kissing him, moving lower. No matter that he could barely walk, he felt himself tingling, hardening, wanting her. He had not experienced such keen desire in many a moon.

  “Devil take it,” he muttered under his breath, hating his uncontrollable reaction to her. She was a woman; he was a man. That was the only explanation. No matter that she might have concocted the poison that killed his father more than five years before.

  Indeed, it did matter. He fought back the nausea gripping him.

  “Where are my clothes and shoes?”

  “Your shirt and doublet were ruined. Your plaid fared better but ’tis still bloody.”

  “I thank you, but I would have it back now. As well as my shoes, belt, sporran and sgian dubh.”

  “Of course.” She frowned. “You are not thinking to leave now, are you?”

  “Nay,” he lied. “I but wish to have my belongings.”

  She eyed him suspiciously, then left.

  Combating dizziness and disorientation, he limped forward, pain shooting through his foot with each step. He’d walked from many a battlefield more broken up than he was now.

  She returned a few minutes later, carrying his possessions. “I suppose you need help with your plaid.”