My Fierce Highlander (13 page)

“Aye, m’laird.” Smitty headed across the
great hall.

Donald would have the clerk scribe a fancy
missive to Southwick. The Englishman would be on his way here by
the time they snatched the lad from MacGrath’s talons.

***

Guilt tormented Alasdair though he sat in a
peaceful place. Leitha’s flower garden was a walled, private spot
to the side of the castle, with a gate, herbs and shrubs. The scent
of roses surrounded him, reminding him of his late wife. But
another woman, very much alive, occupied his thoughts.

He’d tried to avoid Gwyneth for the last few
days, but he knew she was healing. He’d noticed she had started
using her arm.

His carnal attraction to Gwyneth gnawed at
his conscience, and was the reason he steered clear of her. When he
was in her presence, he sometimes forgot about Leitha. Forgot he
was supposed to be grieving her loss. “I’m sorry, Leitha,” he
murmured. “I’m the worst sort of rogue.”

An appealing scent caught his attention—the
lemon balm plant that his leg was brushing against. He snapped a
leaf from it and chewed it. Would it ease his grief as was rumored?
At least the tangy citrus flavor was pleasant and refreshing.

A soft summer breeze, like a gentle hand,
touched his face and blew his hair back. After a time, a sense of
peace settled in his chest.

“Oh!” a feminine voice said behind him.

Turning on the stone bench, he glanced over
his shoulder and found a wide-eyed Gwyneth standing just inside the
gate.

“Pray pardon. I didn’t know you were here.”
She turned away. “I won’t bother you.”

“Nay. Come back.”
Please.

He was thankful for her recovery from the
fever. The Almighty likely had not heard so many prayers from him
in the past two years.

Though at first she hesitated, Gwyneth came
forward. “I thank you for showing mercy to Mistress Weems and
Eileen.”

Yesterday, he’d had the two women escorted
miles away to Aviemore. “The world is surely a more dangerous place
with those two loose in it, but I couldn’t have them roaming about
the castle trying to kill you.”

A faint grin lifted the corners of her lips.
“I am much indebted to you for your protection. You are too
kind.”

He snorted. “I have never been called such
afore, and I would thank you to keep it a secret. I have the
reputation of being a fierce warrior.”

“So, what are you, fierce warrior, doing
sitting in a flower garden?”

He smiled and savored the teasing glint in
her eyes far more than he should have. “’Tis the only quiet place
about.”

“And beautiful.” Gwyneth’s light blue gaze
darted over the pink, white and red flowers growing near the wall.
“Sometimes I come out here for a breath of fresh air and to smell
the roses.”

He’d always found it the best place for
reflection. “Are you fond of flowers, then?”

“Yes. In England—” She pressed her lips
closed, looking a bit shocked at herself, and glanced quickly
away.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“We had…a garden.”

He waited for her to elaborate, and when she
didn’t, he let it go. She didn’t trust him enough yet to talk of
her past. How he wished she did. But trust was something he’d have
to earn.

She strolled to the wall where a climbing
rose was secured against it, cupped a red blossom in her hand and
buried her nose in it. “Ahh. I love roses.” She turned to him with
a smile more beautiful than all the flowers gathered here. So
tempting. She effortlessly drew him under her spell, against his
will. And he found himself wanting to grin like a fool, but
controlled the impulse.

“So why do you have such a lovely garden? Was
it your mother’s?”

“’Twas my wife’s.”

Gwyneth’s smile faded. “Oh, pray pardon. I
shouldn’t have intruded. I’m sure you want time alone.”

“Nay, I’d like it if you stayed. Truly.”

Leitha, if you’re out there anywhere, looking
down on us…this is Gwyneth. You would’ve liked her, I think. She
saved my life.

“Did she like roses, too?” Gwyneth asked,
standing a few feet away.

“Aye, she loved them. She’d wanted that
particular rose to grow here. I sent one of the servants to the
Lowlands to get it, but Leitha died before he returned. The
servants planted the rose in the garden, then rooted another to
plant by her grave at the kirk.”

Gwyneth blinked quickly against the moisture
that gathered in her eyes. “Oh. That’s so romantic.”

He shook his head, denying any emotion. “Nay,
I don’t have a romantic bone in my body. ’Tis only what she
would’ve wanted.”

Gwyneth glanced away and brushed a finger
against her eyes.

Her response touched him. She felt his loss.
He didn’t know what to do with that realization, but he would like
to hold her in his arms. Comfort her. Comfort himself.

“The servants attend to the garden,” Alasdair
said to distract himself from her. “Continuing Leitha’s work.” Some
of the female servants knew how much it meant to him. But he would
not have the men of his clan know. He was a warrior and a chief,
and should not give flowers or women’s feelings a second
thought.

Nor, if he were wise, could he let another
woman inside his heart. It would be too painful when she left him
alone. The same had happened to his father. Alasdair’s mother had
died when he was a child, and his father had spent the rest of his
life alone. Such loss painted a dismal picture.

“Tessie told me yours and Leitha’s was a love
match.” Emotions apparently under control, Gwyneth sat on the other
stone bench, opposite him, and cast a shy but curious glance his
way.

Too many keen-edged feelings stewed inside
him, and not wanting Gwyneth to see them, he dropped his gaze to
the carved falcon’s head on the wooden handle of his cane. “Aye, I
did grow to love her. We met at a banquet one night at the home of
a friend in the Lowlands.”

“Did you offer for her hand right away?”

“The next day.”

“Sounds like a romantic legend.”

He shrugged, dismissing such sentiment. “In
truth, ’twas for practical reasons. I needed a wife and an heir.
The romance didn’t last long. She died giving birth to our son a
year later. And the wee bairn with her.”

Gwyneth came forward, sat on the stone beside
him and clasped his hand in hers. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Her
voice was little more than a whisper, and filled with sympathy.

“I should be getting over it by now.” He
stared at his large hand in Gwyneth’s small, cool ones, then turned
one of hers over and brushed the palm. Her hands were not like
Leitha’s. Gwyneth’s were near rough and calloused as his own. Work
worn. It wasn’t right. She was a lady, and she should have a lady’s
smooth hands. Despite this, he hungered for her touch upon his
deprived skin. Stroking, caressing, coaxing this simmering ember to
life within him.

When he thought of kissing her hand the way
Lachlan had, something within him riveted and burned with a
flickering heat. Aye, he should—he would love to—but he feared he
couldn’t stop with her hand.

She closed her fingers and pulled away.
“Nonsense. We never forget the pain of losing those we love.”

His fingers ached with her desertion. He had
not realized how lonely and deprived he was until that moment.

“You ken the pain of loss, too, for you lost
your husband.” The murdering bastard. Had she loved him? In truth,
it shouldn’t matter, but Alasdair wanted to learn more of their
association.

“Yes, I know something of loss.” Gwyneth
stood and paced toward the bed of herbs a few yards away. Her
action was nothing less than what he’d expected.

“What about you and Shaw? Was that a love
match as well?”

“Heavens, no.” She shook her head. “Not at
all. My cousin arranged the whole thing.”

Tension he hadn’t realized he’d been feeling
released him. His shoulders relaxed. “Why would you, an English
lady, marry a course Highlander, and one who isn’t a chieftain at
that?” He had to know. But would she answer? She hadn’t admitted to
being a member of the aristocracy, but he knew from her manner and
speech she had to be.

A long tense moment of silence followed.
“Well, ’tis a long story, and I wouldn’t want to bore you.” She
faced him. “I would ask another favor of you, Laird MacGrath.”

“Alasdair, please,” he corrected, loath to
admit that he wanted to hear his name from her lips.

“Alasdair, I know you will grow tired of
providing food and shelter for me and my son before long.”

How could she say such a thing? “Nay, you are
both welcome to stay here as long as you like. I have the room, and
you both eat like wee birds.”

“I thank you, but I do not wish to impose.
I’ve been thinking I would like a position as a governess or tutor
for some wealthy family in the Lowlands or in England. I thought
perhaps you might know of someone who could use my services. I
would need to take Rory with me, of course. I have no references,
but if you could provide some sort of character reference or letter
of recommendation, I would be deeply indebted to you.”

He wished he could employ Gwyneth. If his son
had lived, he would’ve one day needed a governess. Aside from that,
he didn’t want Gwyneth and Rory to leave. In such a short time,
he’d grown fond of the lad. As for Gwyneth, he could not yet begin
to fathom the impact she was having on his life. She’d saved his
life, helped him heal. That was only the beginning. But now…seeing
her never failed to shine more light into his day. In the most
crowded of rooms, the great hall, his gaze always found her,
singled her out as if she were the only person in the room.

“Would you be willing to help me find a
position?” She pulled him from his musings.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Another idea came
to him. “I ken ’tis beneath you, but I have need of someone to
oversee and organize the maid servants, now that Weems is gone. I’d
pay you well, of course. Would you be willing to help out in that
way in the meantime?”

“I’d be glad to.” Her sincere and direct gaze
lit on his for a moment then slid away. “But it would only be
temporary until you find someone else, because I would prefer a
governess position away from the Highlands.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t have to like
it. “I’ll send some letters out.”

“You will?” She seemed much too pleased.

“You’re surprised that I would help?”

Her gaze drifted to the flowers. “You are a
kind man. Not like my cousin Donald.”

“You asked for his help, and he refused,
didn’t he?”

“Indeed.”

What a bastard the MacIrwin was. “Well, I
don’t ken your family’s situation. Mayhap he had a reason to want
to keep you on his lands.”

She frowned and jammed her fists onto her
hips. “That’s it. My father.”

“And who would he be?” Alasdair was glad for
the opportunity to ask.

“’Tis of no importance.”

“Is it now? Somehow I doubt that. I suspect
your father is someone of much import.”

Gwyneth shrugged. “I would wager—had I
anything to wager—that my father is paying Donald to keep me.”

“Why would he?”

“I’d rather not say, but I’m sure Donald
would’ve wanted something for his trouble. Oh, men!” She thumped
her foot against the stone-paved ground and turned away. “I detest
every last one of them.”

Alasdair snorted. “’Tis saddened I am to hear
that you detest me, as well.”

She halted by the rock wall and sent him a
sheepish glance. “I didn’t mean you.”

“And what am I, then? A wee hare?”

In the glow of sunset, her blush deepened.
“Hardly.” A stiff, refreshing breeze off the loch pulled strands of
hair from the knot at the back of her head.

He rose and limped forward on his cane. His
gaze traveled over the tall rock wall, toward the mountains and the
setting sun obscured by pink and orange clouds, but his full
attention locked on this mesmerizing woman.

Gwyneth.

He passed her name through his thoughts a
hundred times a day. He wanted to say her name, whisper it into her
ear. But that would imply an intimacy they didn’t share.

In that moment, the sharp urge to kiss her
burst through his defenses. Her small yet full lips were dark-pink
and moist. Last night he had dreamed of kissing her, and a lot
more—removing her clothing, stroking his lips over every inch of
her soft skin, sliding fully into her tight, wet depths. He had
wakened hot and aroused as he had not been in years.

“What would you do, m’lady, if I kissed
you?”

Her wide-eyed gaze flew to his, and she
stepped back.

Aye, retreat if you ken what’s good for
you.

He was strong enough to resist her allure,
but he didn’t want to. Not anymore. Damnation, he’d tried. But each
day she stole more and more of his attention, until finally his
nights were filled with those heated dreams, and his days with
scorching fantasies. He was a chief with no interest in leading at
the moment.

Slowly, he moved toward where she stood with
her back to the wall. Arms crossed, she watched him warily for a
moment as if he were going to attack her. She didn’t know him very
well at all, did she?

He propped his cane up, placed his arm on the
wall beside her and leaned casually, close to her. Closer than was
proper. Her womanly essence sent his thoughts scattering. “Gwyneth,
I wonder, have you ever had a kiss that near took your breath
away?”

Her cheeks reddened even more.

“I confess, just the thought of kissing you
the way I would like does that to me.”

She swallowed hard and stared at the ground,
then at the gate as if she might make a mad dash for it. But she
didn’t. “Oh, you are…unseemly.” Her whispered chastisement sounded
more breathless excitement than offended shock.

“Aye. That I am. I have sinful thoughts about
you at night, in my bed,” he whispered.