My Fierce Highlander Page 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Alasdair cleared his throat, and Lachlan released her.

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

  Oh dear.

  Her knees going slightly weak, she reclaimed her seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What?” She stiffened.

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

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

  Or was she simply the most naive person on earth?

  “When did this happen?” she asked.

  “Six years ago this October.”

  That was around the time she’d married Baigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Alasdair eyed her in silence.

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

  Bastard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She stood numb and unmoving. She did not know this man, did not understand his changeable moods. He was far more complex than the other men she knew.

  “Look at me.” He tilted her chin up.

  The too-intimate touch of his roughened fingertip quickened her pulse. In the dimness, she stared at the white linen shirt covering his chest and the bronze falcon brooch pinning his plaid in place.

  His warm fingers spread, cupping her face. He trailed his thumbs along her jaw and cheek on both sides and tingles cascaded in the wake.

  Her breath halted. Heavens! He should not touch her thus. And yet, she couldn’t draw away. She was trapped like a bird within his big, gentle hands.

  His fingertips slipped downward to brush over her pulse and the tender skin of her neck. Something in her chest fluttered in a crazy dance of delight. Insanity.

  She lifted her gaze to his heavy-lidded eyes. Their dark depths focused on her eyes, then shifted to her lips.

  Dear lord, surely he will not kiss me.

  Chapter Five

  Alasdair feared he might give up the whole of his lands and title to claim one fiery kiss from Gwyneth right here, right now. Not that he would have to give up anything. But it was not something the earl and chief of the MacGrath clan, should do with a lady under his protection.

  For a certainty, he had never felt skin as velvety smooth as that of her face. He wanted to brush his lips over her throat, her soft breasts and breathe her woman scent. Live on it.

  Her eyes did not reflect fear. Instead, they glinted with waning anger, and a mixture of confusion, wonder, and excitement. Her pink lips looked innocent enough, but when she licked them—as he hungered to do himself—arousal tightened his loins.

  If he were more like Lachlan, he might have her begging him to lift her skirts, here within this library, and satisfy their deepest carnal yearnings, perhaps yearnings she didn’t even know she possessed until that moment.

  But he was not his brother. Alasdair had to think of his position, always. He refused to take advantage of those subordinate to him, like a man of less honor would do. Though he craved her, he did not want her to think his help came with a price. Because it certainly didn’t.

  He dropped his hands away from Gwyneth and took a step back. “I believe you.”

  “Truly?” she asked in a shaky whisper. Hope shone from her eyes, blue as the cloudless sky after a fierce rainstorm had washed it.

  “Aye.” He turned away. He didn’t believe her guilty, but something about the connection between his father, her and Baigh Shaw still irked him like a wee pebble in his shoe.

  “I thank you.”

  The door opened and clicked closed. When he glanced back, she was gone.

  By the saints, his body still tingled with rushing heat. Lust. Arousal such as he’d not felt in so long he’d forgotten it was possible to need with this intensity. He had always been faithful to his wife. Even two years after her death.

  “’Slud!”

  He had but a moment to wallow in longing and regret before Lachlan barged in and slammed the door behind him.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Alasdair?”

  “She’s innocent.” Alasdair hoped to forestall his brother’s anger, which he could well understand. He’d watched their father die of the poison.

  “You’re sure of this, then?”

  “She saved my life.”

  Lachlan’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t ken who you were. The men told me she was calling you Angus.”

  “Aye, I lied to her. I was unsure whether I could trust her at the time. Now, I believe I can. If she was wanting all us MacGraths dead, she would’ve finished me off when I was out, not ushered me back to the land of the living.”

  Lachlan’s frown remained in place, and his perceptive gaze searched Alasdair’s face.

  “Don’t fash yourself so,” Alasdair said.

  Lachlan’s expression lightened. “Easy for you to say. You’re wanting to bed her.”

  With his well-earned reputation as Seducer of the Highlands, Lachlan was an expert at spotting attraction from ten paces away, whether it involved him or not. There was no escaping his brother’s insightful observation, and Alasdair had no intention of denying his attraction to Gwyneth. “’Tis nay concern of yours.”

  Lachlan smirked, half genuine smile, half derision. “I don’t know whether to congratulate you on finding a wench to your liking, or warn you that lust has blinded you to her scheming ways.”

  “I’m not blinded! ’Tis not the way of it.”

  “Oh, aye.” The scoundrel’s grin broadened.

  “She’s a lady deserving of our respect.”

  “So you say. I’ve not seen proof of it, save her haughty Sassenach speech. Why, pray, would an English lady marry Baigh Shaw?”

  Lachlan’s doubts were the same ones that plagued Alasdair.

  “I haven’t figured that out, yet. But I intend to in due time.”

  Lachlan observed him with a calculating, devilish grin. Alasdair expected a fair amount of ribbing from him. Due in part to the fact that Alasdair had shown little interest in women since his wife died. He’d loved Leitha, and could never imagine replacing her. And he wasn’t thinking such now.

  In truth, he desired Gwyneth in a most carn
al way, but that was not a good thing. He couldn’t have her. Whether she denied it or not, her speech and manners told him she was a lady, deserving of his highest regard. He wouldn’t treat her like a common wench. In addition, she was of the enemy clan, widow to his father’s murderer. Nay, he could never touch her.

  “Och, man.” Lachlan chuckled. “I’ve not seen you in such a stew over a lass in years.”

  Alasdair rolled his eyes and wished his brother would go on and leave him be. “I’m not in a stew.”

  Lachlan snorted. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. Never before have you protested with such a possessive glare when I’ve kissed a lady’s hand.”

  A wave of annoyance and chagrin washed over Alasdair. ’Twas true, he’d even surprised himself with that exaggerated reaction, but instinct had taken over. “I simply didn’t want you seducing her as you do all the other females you meet. ’Tis not permissible for either of us to view her in that manner.”

  “Aye, keep lying to yourself, brother. Mayhap one day you will start believing it.”

  ***

  That night, Gwyneth slept on a straw mat in a large upstairs room shared by the women servants, while Rory slept in the room next door with the children. She was not yet accustomed to the smell of so many unwashed bodies in one place. At Mora’s cottage, she had grown more used to the fragrance of fresh air, drying herbs and peat smoke.

  Alasdair had offered her a private room in the newer wing, reserved for special guests of the nobility when they visited. She’d refused. Most of his clan already disliked and mistrusted her. If she placed herself in such an exalted position, they would undoubtedly hate her.

  Best to stay in the class she’d sunk to, rather than pretending to return to her former station. Likely, she wouldn’t catch a wink of sleep on a soft featherbed, anyway. She didn’t allow herself such flights of fancy. She had lost all comforts and luxuries when she’d given up her virtue to that titled, villainous knave in London.

  Regrets proved useless. She focused on Rory, as she always did, and said a prayer of thanks for him. He truly was a gift, and she would never regret having him.