My Fierce Highlander (12 page)

She shivered and climbed into bed. During the
next few hours, sleep eluded her. Despite the extra blankets she
piled on the bed, she only grew colder.

***

“Laird MacGrath.”

Alasdair roused from a fitful sleep he had
just fallen into. Thin dawn light strained through the window.

Trained as a warrior who had to be ready for
battle at any moment, he sprang out of bed and bumped his sore toe
against the floor. Pain shot up his leg. “
Iosa is Muire
Mhàthair
!” he rasped, along with a few more words he wouldn’t
utter in mixed company. “Aye, what the devil do you want?” he
demanded of Busby when his breath returned.

“Pray pardon, m’laird. MacDade says Mistress
Carswell is worsening with fever.”

“Damnation!” He pulled on trews and a shirt,
grabbed his cane and hobbled into the corridor. “I should string
Weems up for this,” he said between clenched teeth, pain still
emanating from his abused toe.

“Would you be needing some help with that?”
Lachlan asked behind him.

Alasdair turned. “Where have you been?”

“In the village with Celine a good part of
the night. I just heard what happened to Mistress Carswell.”

Well, that didn’t surprise him. Lachlan was
usually in the bed of one wench or another. Alasdair rapped on
Gwyneth’s door. It inched open, revealing the wee lad standing
there, big-eyed.

“Good morrow, Rory. How’s your ma?”

“She’s sick,” he said in a small voice.

Leaning on his cane, Alasdair limped forward
to the bed. Gwyneth shivered beneath the covers.

“Not feeling well, m’lady?” As gently as he
could, he touched her face. By the saints, she was burning up. He’d
seen more than one person die of a fever, and he did not want to
consider such a fate for his bonny Sassenach angel.

“No,” she whispered on an uneven, intake of
breath. “Would you have Tessie bring me willow bark steeped in hot
water?”

“Aye, that I will.” Thanks be to God, she was
well enough to ask for whatever medicine she needed. He instructed
MacDade to fetch Tessie along with the willow bark tea. Something
could be done to help her and she would be well soon. Alasdair
willed it to be so.

Rory stood by, squirming. His wide blue gaze
darted back and forth. The appearance of the tiny boy, so silent
and alone reminded Alasdair of how he’d felt as a child when his
own mother had been deathly ill.

“Come here, lad.” If he couldn’t do anything
right away to help Gwyneth, he’d do what he could for her son.

Rory hung his head and crept forward.

Alasdair bent, picked him up and held him on
one arm. The lad weighed no more than a full-grown squirrel.

“Don’t fash about your ma. She will be well
soon.”

Rory nodded and buried his face against
Alasdair’s neck. He hoped to God the lad wouldn’t cry. He didn’t
think he could abide it with a dry eye.

Lachlan sent him a curious, lifted-brow look,
along with a tiny grin.

“Rory and I have been friends since I awoke
mangled up in the cattle byre, have we not?”

The child nodded and lifted his head to peer
around with watery eyes. Saints, the lad near broke his heart.

“Rory, this is my younger brother, Lachlan.
He’s a right nice sort of fellow most of the time. But sometimes
he’s a pain in the rump.”

“Och. My thanks to you, dear brother,”
Lachlan retorted.

Rory allowed a tiny grin.

“A pleasure to meet you, Rory.” Lachlan shook
his hand.

The lad averted his gaze, then glanced at the
bed where his ma lay, worry again paling his face.

“Lachlan knows a fair bit about swords,
daggers, claymores and such, do you not, Lachlan?” Alasdair
asked.

“Aye.”

“’Haps you could show Rory your
collection.”

Lachlan frowned.

“Rory has a fondness for such things.” He
gave his brother a meaningful look.

“Ah, very well then.”

Alasdair set Rory on his feet. Lachlan took
his hand and led him from the room. Lachlan looked right at home,
leading the lad around. He had two sons of his own he carted about
on occasion, when he brought them up from the village. Bastards to
be sure, but Lachlan claimed them as his own and loved them.

Alasdair turned back to the bed at the same
time Tessie rushed into the room with the willow bark in hot
water.

“Good, I’m glad you’re here.”

“M’laird.” Tessie gave a brief curtsy.

“This will help her recover, I’m certain,” he
said with the strongest conviction he could muster.

The girl turned wide eyes on him. She looked
no older than a child, herself. “I pray it will.”

He nodded and forced himself to rebuild the
fire when all he wanted to do was touch Gwyneth, hold her hand.

“Here, Gwyneth, drink this,” Tessie whispered
behind him.

He prayed that another woman he was getting
used to having around wouldn’t desert him.

Chapter Six

Gwyneth awoke with a start and a clear mind.
Her sweat-dampened clothing clung to her skin. Overheated as if she
lay in an oven, she shoved the covers down. Claws of soreness sank
into every muscle of her body. She stilled, praying the pain would
go away. Her gaze landed on the sole light in the room, the fire in
the hearth. The faint but bitter scent of peat and wood smoke
filled the room. Heavy rain blew against a glass window.

Where am I?

The glow from the flames revealed the carved
bed draped in velvet. Alasdair’s guest room.

She glanced aside and found him sitting in a
chair by the bed. Good heavens! What was he doing here? All her
muscles tensed with shooting needles of pain. Then she noticed his
eyes were closed, and his head rested against the back of the
chair. It reminded her of the eve she’d found him injured on the
battlefield, passed out. Somehow, she’d known then he was an
unusual man. A leader who craved peace had to be a caring man. She
could never grow tired of looking at him. Long dark hair framed a
ruggedly appealing face. His jaw clenched hard, and she thought she
heard his teeth grinding together.

But this was no romantic interlude. Danger
and treachery lurked about everywhere, in her clan as well as this
one. Someone here had tried to kill her after all. Ignoring the
soreness, she sat up and glanced about. Rory wasn’t in bed beside
her. Where was he? Maybe Tessie was watching after him. She slid
toward the edge of the bed to find out.

At her motion, the bed creaked.

Alasdair awoke and straightened. “M’lady?”
His gaze searched her face, then dropped to her arm. “How are you
feeling?”

“Better.” She gently touched her injured arm.
“But still sore. Where’s Rory?”

“My cousin’s wife is caring for him. No need
to worry. She’s very trustworthy.”

“Good. I thank you.” A bit of relief eased
her tense muscles.

Leaning forward, he examined her closely in
the dimness. “The fever is gone, then?”

“Yes.” Tugging the coverlet up again in
modesty, she realized she needed to change out of her
sweat-drenched smock.

Before she knew what he was about, he reached
out and placed his hand on her forehead. He skimmed warm, raspy
fingertips down to her cheek while his sharp, observant gaze
searched her face. His frown remained in place a long moment.

She forgot to breathe beneath the caring, yet
seemingly desperate, ministrations of his hand.

“Thanks be to God.” He shoved himself out of
the chair and grabbed his cane. “Are you hungry?”

Before she could answer, he wrenched open the
door and bellowed a command to someone in the corridor. “Have
Tessie bring porridge and milk.” He eased the door closed and sent
Gwyneth a sheepish glance.

Milk? What was she, a child? And his order
had made the food sound like a life or death necessity. She hid a
smile behind the coverlet and her drawn-up knees. She had never
encountered a man such as Alasdair.

He poked at the fire and added a bit of peat.
Long moments passed while he stared at the flames, the only noise
the popping of the sparks. Finally, her curiosity overcame her.

“What are you doing in here?” Without doubt
the clan would gossip about their chief’s highly unusual activity
of caring for a sick woman of the enemy clan.

He cast a dubious look over his shoulder.
“Making sure you were recovering. Did you do any less for me?”

She shook her head, remembering the night
she’d lain in the byre beside him when he’d had a fever. Surely it
wasn’t the same. She was a healer; he wasn’t. Had he applied a cool
cloth to her hot forehead? She could not imagine it.

He seemed intent on coaxing the fire into
throwing off more heat, though the room was sweltering.

“What of the two women in the dungeon?” she
asked, hoping he hadn’t done something drastic.

“They remain imprisoned,” he said in a hard
tone. “I held off deciding their fates until I knew you lived.”

A knock sounded at the door. When Alasdair
opened it, Tessie entered with a tray of food.

“I’ll be next door if you should need
anything,” he said.

She didn’t know whether she was glad or
disappointed that he’d suddenly decided to take his leave.

“I thank you,” she told him before he
disappeared. “And I thank you as well, Tessie. You are a
blessing.”

“You’re welcome. I’m pleased to see you
feeling better.” She set the wooden tray laden with food on
Gwyneth’s lap. The delightful smells made her stomach grumble.

“I’m sorry you’ve had to fetch me so many
things.”

“Nonsense. I would do naught less for a
friend such as you are.”

Gwyneth took a spoonful of the warm oat
porridge. The slight sweet flavor surprised her. “Did you put honey
in this?”

“Aye. ’Tis the way the MacGrath eats his
porridge. Do you like it?” Tessie plopped her thin frame down onto
the chair by the bed.

“It’s delicious.”

The girl grinned.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Since early this morn when I gave you the
willow bark. ’Tis now close to midnight. More than eighteen hours,
you slept.” After glancing at the door, Tessie leaned forward and
lowered her voice. “The MacGrath refused to leave your side, except
for a few minutes at a time. He is fair taken with you.”

Another type of fever washed over Gwyneth.
She cleared her throat and stared into the cup of milk. “You must
be mistaken.”

Tessie giggled. “Nay. I’ve worked here in the
castle for more than four years. He’s shown no interest in women
since his wife. And believe me, more than one lass has tried to
catch his eye.”

Goodness. He’d said his wife had died two
years ago, hadn’t he? He must have indeed loved his lady a great
amount.

“Please, tell me about her…his wife.”

“Leitha was a right sweet lady with red hair
and green eyes—a Lowlander. ’Twas a love match, you see. It near
killed him when she died of the childbed fever.”

Gwyneth’s heart ached when she envisioned
such a scene. “How awful. Did the babe survive?”

“Nay, the poor wee laddie.”

“A tragedy. I’m so sorry to hear of it.” She
couldn’t imagine what she would’ve done if she’d lost Rory during
the birthing.

“The MacGrath held up well afore the clan,
but afterward he kept to himself much of the time. I’ve a feeling
’twas far harder on him than anyone kens.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Alasdair gave the
impression of strength much like a mountain of stone. But he seemed
to have a caring heart. “I’ve noticed how kind he is. Tell me, is
he typical of the men in this clan?”

Tessie shrugged. “Some people are kind and
others are cruel, in this clan as in others. My own Robbie is kind
as well.”

“I’m glad. ’Tis clear you have a love
match.”

She blushed and grinned. “Indeed. What of
Rory’s father?”

Gwyneth shook her head, thinking of two
men—Rory’s natural father and Baigh Shaw. “He was a beast. I have
not known any kind men in my lifetime.”

“How sad. If anyone deserves kindness, ’tis
you. And glad I am that Laird MacGrath is taking to you like honey
bees to heather.”

Gwyneth almost choked on the sip of milk
she’d taken. She sputtered but finally swallowed. “I’m sure you’re
overestimating his concern.”

***

“We have to get Gwyneth Carswell back, along
with her bastard,” Donald MacIrwin told Smitty, his sword bearer,
as they leaned over the small table near the fireplace in the dim
great hall of Irwin Castle. He kept his voice down, not knowing
which of his clan might betray him. Donald thirsted for a mug of
ale, but dared not consume too much, else they’d run out. The clan
needed funds badly.

“Aye, m’laird.” Smitty’s dark eyes gleamed
like bits of coal.

“Once Lord Darrow finds out his daughter is
nay longer here, he’ll stop sending the payments. But I have a
plan.”

Months ago, a Sassanach lord named Southwick
had sent him a missive telling him to send Gwyneth’s son Rory to
him in London. Donald had ignored the demand, of course. He didn’t
take orders from the damned English and besides, Lord Darrow’s
money was useful to him. If the lad was nay longer here, Darrow
might send less money for Gwyneth’s upkeep.

But now maybe Donald could strike a bargain
with Southwick. He could retrieve Rory himself…for a price. A very
large price. Enough silver to support Donald and the clan for a few
years at least. He didn’t care why Southwick wanted the lad, but he
suspected the man was the lad’s natural father.

“How will we get Gwyneth and her son back?”
Smitty asked.

Donald darted a glance around the great hall,
making sure none of the busy-body maids were close by and lowered
his voice. “A surprise attack. I want as many of the MacGrath clan
dead as possible. An utter sacking, I tell you. Take all their
cattle and sheep, along with Gwyneth and Rory. I want them unhurt,
mind you. But we will torch the rest of them. Find the clerk and
the messenger for me.”