My Fierce Highlander Read online

  Thoughts of Alasdair shoved sleep away. When she imagined him, his dark eyes and big gentle hands, a thrill spiraled through her. Why? She did not know. Was he a man of honor, or was he concealing his true nature from her?

  She couldn’t forget the way he’d caressed her face, as if she were made of precious glass. Her breath hitched even as she remembered the compelling, seductive look in his eyes. She’d thought, with fear and longing, that he might kiss her. Heavens! What would she have done if he had? When he had released her from his spell, she felt as if she’d been freed from the effects of a drug.

  I am foolhardy for thinking of such matters.

  She barely noticed the quiet footsteps padding in her direction, the squeak of a floorboard, and assumed one of the women was headed to the garderobe privy. A thump sounded and a woman’s grumble floated in the darkness. Gwyneth turned her back to the commotion, wishing instead to secretly drift off to sleep amongst dreams of Alasdair.

  But the footsteps drew nearer and a sudden hot pain pierced her arm, radiating outward. Gwyneth cried out and rolled into one of the other female servants to escape further injury.

  Dear lord, someone is trying to kill me!

  Screams and yells erupted among a tussle.

  Panic quickened her movements as she crawled over the other women.

  A candle flared to life, and the darkness retreated. She rose and clasped her bloodied upper arm. Pain sliced through her.

  She surveyed the chaos of the room around her, trying to discern who had the weapon. Some of the women stood, while others sat or remained lying. Rush mats and plaid blankets were strewn about, no bloody daggers in evidence.

  “Gwyneth, you’re bleeding!” Eyes wide, Tessie crossed over several people and grasped her arm.

  One of the men, named Busby, stuck his head in. “What’s the ruckus about?”

  “Someone cut Gwyneth.”

  Feeling strangely suspended, Gwyneth held her arm and prayed the pain would lessen.

  Busby waved her forward.

  Tessie guided her toward him. He ripped open her sleeve and eyed her wound. “’Tis deep. Laird MacGrath will be wanting to know about this. Follow me.”

  “No. Not now.” Gwyneth hung back, not wanting to cause a scene. “He’s asleep. I can take care of it myself.”

  “Go on now, Gwyneth,” Tessie urged but stayed behind.

  Busby pulled Gwyneth through the doorway, down the spiral steps, then up a different stone staircase. “Someone’s wanting you dead, lass. And I won’t be responsible for leaving you in a den of female vipers.”

  Holding the candle aloft, Busby rapped at an ornate, carved door.

  She squirmed in both pain and unease about disturbing the laird. Men did not like their sleep interrupted.

  After a moment, Alasdair, wearing a long-tailed shirt, opened the door and squinted against the candle’s flame. His gaze locked on Gwyneth’s. “Aye? What’s wrong?”

  “Mistress Carswell has been hurt. One of the women stabbed her in the arm.”

  “In truth?” Alasdair’s frown deepened. “Let me see, m’lady.”

  She took her hand away from her now-bare upper arm and blood trickled from the throbbing, burning wound.

  “By the saints! I’ll have somebody’s head for this!”

  “No, Laird MacGrath.” She’d known he’d be angry, but she hadn’t been sure it wouldn’t be directed at her. Now she feared he’d kill one of the women.

  “Who did this?” he demanded of her.

  “I know not. The room was dark.”

  “Rouse everyone within these walls,” Alasdair commanded Busby. “Have them assemble in the hall, forthwith.”

  “Aye, m’laird.” Busby trotted away, yelling for everyone to proceed to the great hall.

  “I don’t wish to cause an uproar,” Gwyneth said.

  “You’re not the one causing it. I’ll find out who did this and see her punished.” His Scottish burr grew more pronounced than usual. “Iosa is Muire Mhàthair,” he muttered, along with other Gaelic words.

  “I need to clean the wound and apply some herbal ointment, but I don’t have any with me.” Lightheadedness snatched her equilibrium for a moment and she caught herself against the wall. She hadn’t lost much blood and had endured far worse pain than this in the past. She simply needed to sit down for a minute.

  “Saints! You’re about to keel over.” His words, which sounded like ye’re aboot t’ keel o’er, didn’t make sense for a moment. He gently caught her good arm and her waist, then led her into the darkness of his room. “You must lie down. I vow, whatever crook-pated wench did this will regret it.”

  How could he see anything? ’Twas dark as pitch. But his musky male scent permeated the room in a disturbing way. That, coupled with his strong hands upon her, was near too much.

  “I am fine now, truly. A chair will do,” she assured him. She simply could not lie upon his bed. Not only would the whole of the clan be gossiping, but she would find it too disconcerting.

  He seated her in a padded chair by his bed. “Uisge-beatha is good for wounds. I’ve used it for cuts on the battlefield.” Alasdair lit a candle on the mantle, then pulled on a pair of trews beneath his long-tailed shirt.

  Gwyneth yanked her gaze from the appealing sight of him to stare at the elaborately carved headboard to her left. She could not watch something so intimate as Alasdair dressing, even if she had seen him close to naked during his illness. And what a vision that had been, all those firm muscles.

  I should not be here, in this room.

  She should be focusing on her wound and the dire situation she found herself in. But heavens, his bed was big. And soft-looking. The white sheets and counterpane twisted and thrown back. They were probably still cozy and warm from his body. How would it feel to lie there with him, his body warming and protecting her?

  “I’ll send Busby into the village, and he’ll bring back what you need from Tessie’s mother, Seri.”

  Gwyneth shoved her foolhardy thoughts away to think about what he’d said. “Tessie’s mother is the healer?”

  “Aye. In the meantime, we’ll clean the wound with this.” Alasdair snatched a flagon of uisge-beatha from a chest. While holding her arm lightly in his hand, he dribbled the strong-smelling whisky onto her wound.

  Her arm burned with liquid fire. She jerked away and sucked in a hissing breath.

  “Pray pardon. I ken that smarts like the very devil. I’m not such a gentle healer as you are.” He set the whisky on a table and searched about inside a chest, then came back and wrapped a white linen cloth around her arm. “There, now. Better?” His tone sounded so hopeful, how could she disagree, though the wound still pained her greatly. After all, it was a stab wound rather than a cut.

  “Yes. I thank you,” she said. Why was he so kind to her? Maybe it was all pretense, because he somehow perceived it would knock down her defenses. But to what end? Perhaps he was scheming to use her against Donald for revenge. Or did he want her in that illicit way that a man wants a woman? Hot shame washed through her, for she was not immune to his appeal. She feared she might want him in the same illicit way.

  “I’m sorry this happened.” Alasdair put the whisky away. “Without doubt, you don’t feel safe anywhere. You’ll stay in one of the guest rooms like I suggested afore, and I’ll post a guard outside. Rory can stay with you if you’d like.”

  “Yes, I think he should.” Rory liked staying with his new friends, but he might be in danger as well.

  “Are you feeling well enough to go to the hall?”

  “I think so.” She stood, discovering she was very steady and clear headed. The dizziness had left her.

  She preceded him out. Cane in one hand and a candle in the other, Alasdair limped forward and ushered her along. He didn’t allow the steps leading down to slow his pace.

  Once in the noisy great hall, he motioned to Busby. “Go into the village and get the herbs Mistress Carswell requires.”

  Gwyne
th relayed to Busby what she needed, the bare essentials—royal fern, comfrey, vervain, and a couple others—in case he couldn’t remember detailed instructions.

  When he hastened away, Rory tugged at her skirts. “Ma, what happened?”

  She knelt and hugged him. “I am well, but someone cut my arm.” She pointed to her bandage. “You will stay with me the rest of the night.”

  “I would have your attention,” Alasdair called with echoing voice to the teeming group of servants and other clan members—between twenty and thirty people—gathered in the candlelit hall.

  Silence descended and all eyes turned to him where he stood, tall and commanding, upon the dais.

  “Someone has injured Mistress Carswell.” He motioned to her, standing a few feet to the side. All eyes shifted to her, and she stiffened. Now they would hate her even more.

  “First, I would have you ken that Mistress Carswell well and truly saved my life a few days past, when I was injured on MacIrwin land,” he said. “If not for her kindness and healing skills, I would be dead now. For me, she put her own life in danger, as well as that of her son and her friend. Because of this, she deserves the highest regard and gratitude from us all.”

  Bless him. Tears pricked her eyes.

  He glared at the rapt crowd. “Now, tell me. Who took it upon themselves to stab Mistress Carswell in the arm? I require that you step forward now.” Alasdair’s gaze raked over the group of women servants who had been in the room with Gwyneth when she’d been injured.

  Everyone stood frozen. Her own elevated pulse thumped in her ears and shot pain through her wound.

  “I didn’t expect that you would. If anyone kens who did this, speak up now!”

  The long moment of silence stretched Gwyneth’s nerves to near breaking point. Who wanted to kill her and why?

  “Well then, you’re protecting someone with nary a qualm about murdering. I have no choice but to release the lot of you from your positions within my home.”

  Gwyneth frowned. Was he mad? His household could not function without the female servants.

  “Nay!” several women cried. Much jostling and whispering ensued. They shoved a thin young woman forward. “’Twas Eileen,” they announced.

  Gwyneth didn’t recognize her.

  “Eileen MacMann, why would you want to harm Mistress Carswell?” Alasdair asked.

  “I didn’t want to, Laird MacGrath. Mistress Weems forced me to. She said I would lose my position if I didn’t do as she bid.”

  This bit of news didn’t surprise Gwyneth in the least. Weems had not liked her from the moment she laid eyes on her. She suspected the housekeeper saw her as a threat to her position. Gwyneth couldn’t believe how far the other woman would go to see her gone.

  “Nay, the wench lies!” the housekeeper bellowed.

  “Silence!” Alasdair thumped his cane on the floor, his expression hardening. “Weems, step forward.”

  The housekeeper waddled forth and blinked her beady black eyes at Gwyneth, then turned her full attention to her laird.

  “Why would you want to injure Mistress Carswell?”

  “I don’t want to, Laird MacGrath. Eileen is lying. ’Twas all her doing, alone.”

  Eileen shook her head, tears dripping from her red-rimmed eyes.

  Alasdair scrutinized Weems for a long moment, then turned his attention to another servant. “Tessie, what do you think?”

  “Me, m’laird?” The girl swallowed hard and her gaze searched out Gwyneth. She nodded at Tessie to give her a bit of courage. Both Alasdair and Weems could be intimidating—Alasdair put her on the spot and Weems could make her life miserable.

  “Aye. The truth please.”

  She flicked a nervous glance at Mistress Weems. “I think what Eileen says is true.”

  The housekeeper turned and glared at her.

  “Do you now?” Alasdair asked.

  Tessie nodded.

  “Does anyone else agree with Tessie? Raise your hand if you do.”

  Several hands went up tentatively.

  “They’re liars, the lot of them,” the housekeeper yelled.

  “Mmph.” Alasdair stepped down from the dais and limped toward Gwyneth. “Has Mistress Weems shown any ill will toward you?” he asked in a low tone.

  “A little. But I don’t know why.”

  He paced before the servants again. “Very well. Mistress Weems and Eileen, both of you will spend some time in the dungeon until I decide what to do with you. I won’t tolerate such aggression within my own household. If you wish to wield a blade, you can ride into battle with the men during the next skirmish.”

  The male servants and clan members cackled at that. The wide-eyed females whispered amongst themselves. Eileen covered her eyes and cried, while Mistress Weems, with her red-faced snarl, appeared angry enough to slaughter ten warriors. Her glare bore down on Gwyneth, but she again refused to look away. She would not be intimidated by the bullish woman. Not that Weems could do much damage to anyone while in the dungeon, except Eileen.

  “Laird MacGrath,” Weems said, drawing his attention again. “The MacIrwins killed my husband years ago, when you were no more than a wee bairn. And she’s a MacIrwin.” Weems pointed a condemning finger at Gwyneth.

  Low mutterings and grumbles issued forth from the crowd, and a cold surge of dread arose within Gwyneth.

  “Silence!” Alasdair demanded. “Weems, you may be older than me, but I’ll tolerate no insolence from you!” He paused and let his glare slide over the people. “Most of us here have had a loved one killed by the MacIrwins. But Gwyneth Carswell didn’t do any of that. She grew up in England and has only lived in the Highlands a short time. Because she helped me, the MacIrwins want to kill her, too. That puts her on our side.”

  The room remained quiet.

  “Now, does anyone else have any ill will toward Mistress Carswell?” he asked. “Anyone else here going to pin all the MacIrwins’ misdeeds on her?”

  Several heads shook negatively in response. And a few murmured, “Nay, m’laird.”

  “If you do, you’ll have me to answer to, and I won’t be so lenient with the next offense.” He turned toward two men, guards carrying swords and outfitted in metal studded leather armor, and spoke quietly to them.

  Now that she was fairly certain the clan wouldn’t lynch her, Gwyneth tried to calm herself, despite her knees being a bit unsteady. She was most thankful to Alasdair for defending her. Still, she was concerned for Eileen and bewildered by her. She feared the girl wouldn’t be safe in the cell with Weems.

  The two guards escorted the women through the ranks of the silent clan. And Alasdair headed toward her.

  “Come with me, m’lady,” he murmured as he passed her. She could not fathom the way he switched from calling her ‘Mistress Carswell’ in front of his clan, to a more elevated form of address in private. He had deduced too much about her, insisting on using a form of address she no longer claimed. But because of the way he said it, almost as a friendly endearment, she could not bring herself to ask him to stop.

  Urging Rory before her, she followed Alasdair up the stairs and down a short corridor, past his room. He flung open a door. “You’ll both use this room. ’Twas cleaned earlier today. I hope you’ll find it to your liking.” Without waiting for her to answer, he limped in and lit a candle with his own.

  The meager light revealed a spacious room with a large, heavily-draped poster bed in the corner and a thick Turkish carpet before it.

  “Oh, I cannot take this room,” Gwyneth said, taken aback by the finery. “Don’t you have something smaller, less ornate?”

  “What’s wrong with ornate?” An almost imperceptible grin quirked his lips. “I would wager, m’lady, that when you lived in England you had a room far grander than this one.”

  She stared at the floor, refusing to reveal a glimpse of her past to him. What he said was too close to the truth, and she did not wish to take a step back in time. Rising above her station for a brief ti
me and enjoying such luxury could only be more painful in the end, when she had it no longer.

  “Did you not?” Alasdair asked.

  Gwyneth was glad when a panting Busby stopped in the open doorway.

  “Mistress Carswell, I have the herbs. Seri was out birthing a bairn, but one of her daughters said these would be what you’re wanting.”

  Gwyneth rushed toward him and took the tiny sacks of crushed herbs. She sniffed them, their distinct pungent or bitter aromas confirming their identities. “I thank you. If you would be so kind, could you ask Tessie to bring me some fresh, clean water and whisky?”

  “Busby, also please tell MacDade to come up as well. I would have him guard,” Alasdair said.

  “Aye, m’laird.” Busby scurried away.

  Alasdair stood at the mantel, his back to her. “You’ll be needing a fire in here. ’Tis chill.” He set about building one himself. Why would he not have a servant do that?

  Gwyneth turned down the fine linen and wool covers on the bed. “Get in, Rory.”

  Her sleepy son complied.

  Minutes later, she wondered how long Alasdair would stay. Did he want to oversee the care of her wound?

  He stood, his attention still cast toward the small fire he’d built. “If you should require other clothing, you shall find some in that trunk in the corner.” He nodded to his right, still without looking at her.

  “You are too kind. Whose clothes are they?”

  A long moment of silence stretched between them, and she thought he wouldn’t answer. The fire caught the tender and popped.

  “They were my wife’s,” he said in a monotone.

  “Your wife’s?” He’d never mentioned a wife before. Was this the Leitha whose name he’d murmured in his fevered sleep several nights ago?

  “Aye, she died two years past. She was a wee lass, much like you are, so I’m thinking the clothes may fit. Anyway, you came here with naught more than the clothes on your back. You’ll be needing something else to wear.”

  “I thank you.”

  “’Tis the least I can do.”

  Gwyneth wanted to disagree. What did this cost him? Had he loved his late wife so much that giving away her clothing pained him? Or did he have no emotional attachment to her?