My Fierce Highlander (10 page)

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 carnal
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.

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.”

Gwyneth 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.