My Fierce Highlander (15 page)

He would see Donald pay for this as he had
never paid before. Alasdair had let things go on far too long—the
murders, the ambushes. And now this, killing the innocent people of
his clan…women and children.

No more. No mercy for the MacIrwins.

He prayed for rain to pour from the
cloud-filled sky and death to all the murdering MacIrwin men.

He’d dispatched five of the enemies thus far
himself. His men had taken out several more.

Most of the villagers had gone to the
relative safety of the barmkin and tower. But some had already lost
their lives in either the fires or the battle.

His cousin Fergus approached on horseback.
“The MacIrwin wants Mistress Carswell and her son back,” he
shouted. “He claims we’ve taken them hostage.”

Alasdair faced him, his rage escalating.
“That hell-hated bastard! He will kill them if he so much as sets
eyes on them. I would never make them go back.”

Fergus wheeled his horse and charged a
MacIrwin approaching from behind.

Pounding hooves and a war cry shot toward
Alasdair from the shadows.

Determination rushing thorough his veins, he
tugged on his mount’s reins and turned about to meet the threat,
head-on. The horse reared and near unseated him. He wrestled the
temperamental animal under control just in time to strike out. The
blade of the MacIrwin warrior clashed against his own.

Alasdair slashed and thrust. His spooked
horse reared again, catching him off guard. He toppled over the
horse’s hindquarters, slammed against the stony ground but
maintained a hold on his sword. Damnation! Though the pain in his
hip near blinded him, he scrambled out of the path of the
MacIrwin’s horse.

Lachlan stormed into the fray, engaging the
enemy and running him through.

“Are you all right, brother?” Lachlan called
over the roaring fires of the cottages.

“Aye, just busted my arse.” Coughing, he rose
and turned about in search of his horse. He could hardly see
through the smoke and brightness of the flames.

“You should return to the tower! You’ve
scarce recovered from the last skirmish,” Lachlan said.

“You’re wasting your breath, mother hen.”

Riding away, Lachlan found Alasdair’s horse,
slapped it on the rump and sent it trotting to him.

Once mounted, Alasdair cursed at the fresh
wave of MacIrwins invading the village, on foot and horseback,
slashing at anything that moved.

“Murdering bastards!” Alasdair gripped his
basket-hilted sword and joined Lachlan to fight beside him.

***

Shaking and almost out of breath, Gwyneth
approached the village from the shadows. The roaring of the flames
chilled her to the core. How many had already died in the fires?
How could Donald do such horrid things?

Heaven help me, if Rory dies, I’ll
personally kill Donald myself, even should his men strike me down
after I do the deed
.

She’d been to the cottage where Rory was
staying once and hoped she could find it again. But, dear heavens,
all the cottage roofs were on fire.

The heat singed her skin. The bitter smoke
choked her. Coughing, she yanked her plaid over her head and pulled
the small dagger from her bodice.

Her attention ahead, her foot caught on
something. Saints! A fallen warrior…three of them. Whispering a
prayer, she skirted around them.

Near the first burning cottage, two men on
horseback broke into a sword-slashing duel. Sparks popped off their
clashing blades.

She circled back and approached from the
rear. In the light from the fires, she now saw that one of the men
was Alasdair, his smoke-blackened face a mask of fury.

“Dear God, protect him,” she whispered.

Alasdair’s injuries of a few days ago hadn’t
slowed him down. He skillfully parried and thrust against his
opponent.

A tiny child ran screaming from behind the
row of cottages near her and blindly headed toward the fighting
warriors. A surge of strength jolted Gwyneth. She darted forward
and snatched the child from the ground. He wasn’t Rory, but he was
someone’s baby.

A MacIrwin foot soldier wielding a two-handed
sword, chased the child, quickening his pace when he noticed
Gwyneth. Skin prickling, she dashed in the opposite direction,
toward the tower.

I have to get Rory.

Halting, she glanced back at the same moment
Alasdair struck his mark, his sword sliding with deadly accuracy
into the mounted MacIrwin clansman’s chest. The man shouted and
toppled from his horse.

The other beast, chasing her on foot,
shouting taunts in Gaelic, and waving his claymore about, didn’t
let up.

Clutching the wriggling child, she faced
forward and ran. She would take him to the tower and come back to
search for Rory, if she could get this barbarian off her heels.
Hooves clattered on the earth behind her. A hoarse battle cry
erupted, blades clashed.

Afraid she’d stumble and fall on the rocks,
Gwyneth could spare no time to glance back. The sound of a blade
slicing against bone met her ears, followed by a man’s scream. She
cringed.

“Go to the tower and stay there!” a man
yelled. Was that Alasdair’s voice?

She stopped and turned. The villain who’d
been pursuing her lay in a heap on the ground.

“Gwyneth? Is that you?” Alasdair rode closer
on his big black warhorse. “God’s teeth, woman! Get inside the
gates and don’t come back down here!” His hair hung wild about his
soot-blackened face, and his fierce expression brooked no
argument.

“I must find Rory! He was with your cousin,
Colin, and his wife.”

“I sent Rory to the tower with Fergus some
time ago, along with Colin’s family.”

Gwyneth almost sank to her knees in relief.
“Is he well?”

“Aye. Go back. Now!”

“I thank you. God keep you,” she called out,
though it was pitifully little and did not convey what she wanted
to say. She wished to drag him off his horse and bring him back to
the safety of the tower with her.

“Don’t worry. Now go!”

She turned and climbed the road up the hill
even as the first drops of cool rain fell. When she glanced back,
he was still watching her, guarding her.

Once she was inside the gates, Alasdair
wheeled his horse about and galloped away.

May God protect him.

Still carrying the screaming child, she
glanced about for Rory inside the barmkin. The summer rain shower
increased, drenching her and everyone around her in a chilly
downpour.

“Rory!” Gwyneth called. Alasdair had said
Rory was here, so he had to be. But where?

“Och, wee Kean!” An elderly woman approached
Gwyneth and gently took the child from her arms. “Thank you,
mistress.” Rain washed through the soot on the woman’s wrinkled
face.

“You’re welcome. Do you know Rory? Have you
seen him?”

The woman shook her head.

“He was with Colin and Grace.”

“Mayhap inside the castle.”

Gwyneth raced up the spiral tower steps. How
had she missed Rory’s arrival?

In the great hall, women, children and
elderly men moved about or sat on benches. Her gaze searched each
child’s face.

“Ma! Ma!” Rory, soot-covered and ragged,
dashed toward her.

Thank you, God.
She dropped to her
knees in relief and caught her precious child in her arms. “Oh,
Rory. Sweetheart, I’m glad you are well.”

Now, if only Alasdair were safe too.

***

Hours later, Alasdair stood beside his horse
on a small rise, overlooking the village and the activity there. He
and his men had cleared the area of live MacIrwins, but several
dead ones remained. Their bodies would need to be returned to their
clan.

Though Alasdair had lost only two of his own
fighting men in the skirmish, the loss was great to him. And he
didn’t yet know how many of the villagers had perished. Each member
of his clan was family, whether by blood or friendship.

He still couldn’t believe Gwyneth had been in
the village—damn her daft hide—right in the midst of the fighting.
He should string up the guards for allowing her beyond the walls.
And he’d rake her over the coals as well. Of course, nothing would
hold her back from saving the life of her son. Thank God she hadn’t
gotten herself killed, and Rory was safe, too.

The first rays of orange dawn light shone
above the high mountains on the horizon. Exhaustion weighing his
sore, overworked muscles, Alasdair craved to do naught more than
collapse in his bed, but he well knew he would get no sleep for a
while.

The belated rain had helped douse some of the
fires, but all that remained of most of the cottages were the thick
rock walls and trails of smoke drifting toward the purple-gray sky.
The flames had quickly devoured the thatch roofs, which then caved
in and burned everything inside the cottages. The villagers had
lost nearly everything they possessed of material value.

Various sheep, goats and cattle milled about
the cluttered and muddy dirt street. It would take a tremendous
amount of work to put the village back to rights. But some things
could never be replaced.

Lachlan approached, his face black and his
clothing bloody. “’Tis because of
her
that they
attacked.”

His brother’s sharp gaze and hardened jaw
surprised Alasdair. “What are you blathering on about?”

“Mistress Carswell.”

Alasdair drew back, frowning. “Nay, the
MacIrwin’s attacked because I escaped their clutches almost a
fortnight past.”

“Aye, you would deny it! Fergus told me of
the message—the MacIrwin wants her back.”

“You would have me send her to her death!
Along with her innocent son?”

Lachlan inhaled a deep slow breath and
continued in a calmer tone. “Nay, but you must send her away,
mayhap back to England.”

“Nay! Don’t challenge me, Lachlan.”

“Surely you see what she’s bringing down on
our clan.”

Alasdair loved his brother, but at the
moment, he felt like slugging him in the jaw. “She has nowhere else
to go. Her family disowned her. Her father sent her to the
MacIrwin, and the bastard will kill her if he has a chance. She
saved my life and I will return the favor as many times as I must.”
Aye, that’s how grateful he was for what she’d done for him,
endangering her own life and losing a friend in the process.
Gwyneth deserved someone to protect her.

Lachlan sighed. “You should find her a place
far from here.”

Alasdair shook his head. He knew not why, but
something deep inside him said her place was with him. “We had
conflict with the MacIrwins long before she came to us. In case you
forgot, they killed Da six years past.”

“How could I forget?” Lachlan snapped, his
scowl severe. “It happened right before my eyes.”

“And they burned the village once before,
nine years ago. Will you blame that on Gwyneth, too?”

“Nay. I’m not—”

“Lachlan!” cried a female voice.

They turned to find an elderly woman hobbling
toward them. Alasdair couldn’t recognize her with so much soot on
her face.

“’Tis Mary Anne! She’s dead!” The woman
wailed.

Mary Anne was the mother of one of Lachlan’s
children. A stricken look crossed his face. “Are you certain?”

“Aye.” The woman wiped her eyes, smearing
soot.

“Where’s Kean?” Lachlan strode away with
her.

Alasdair propped his hand against his saddle
while the horse hung its head and nosed at the trampled grass. Then
he remembered—Gwyneth had been carrying Kean last night when she’d
left the village. She’d saved the wee lad’s life.

What was he going to do about her?

Lachlan was right of course, Alasdair should
send her away. As long as she remained here, she would draw the
MacIrwin’s attention. She’d said she would like to find a position
as a governess. Maybe that would be the best solution for them all.
Except for him. But being the clan chief had required more than one
sacrifice on his part.

***

Sharp sunlight gleamed over the peaks of the
blue-purple mountains to the east. A stiff summer wind carried away
the scents of smoke and blood, of war and violence that Alasdair
hated. He ignored the aches and pains of his own body, and forced
himself to concentrate on what could be salvaged rather than what
had been lost. He must give his clan hope of a brighter future.
They looked to him for support and encouragement and he would not
let them down.

While some of his men transported the bodies
of the dead MacIrwins to the borders of Donald’s holdings, others
carried the three injured MacGrath warriors up to the tower. He’d
posted several guards around the grounds in case the MacIrwins
returned.

As soon as Alasdair stepped into the great
hall, Gwyneth appeared beside him and grasped his hand. So thankful
was he that she was unharmed, he wanted to yank her into his arms
and embrace her so tightly he might crush the breath from her. But
he forced himself not to and squeezed her hand instead.

“You’re not hurt?” Her frantic gaze searched
him, then fixed on his torso. “You’re bleeding.”

“Nay, ’tis not my blood. I only have a few
scratches and bruises. Since you are a healer, I wondered, could
you help these three men?” He motioned to the side. “Our village
healer is busy with the others.”

Releasing his hand, she turned her attention
toward the moaning or unconscious men being carried in. She
directed where they should be laid in the great hall. She then set
to work examining them and telling the women which herbs and
supplies she would require.

At her suggestion, Alasdair gave whisky to
the ones who were awake and in pain. She removed a lead ball from
his steward’s shoulder, and after cleaning the wounds, stitched up
the cuts and gashes of the other two men, Angus and Padraig.

Alasdair watched her work tirelessly for more
than an hour and assisted by turning the men over when she asked.
The blood and gore did not appear to bother her. She had a backbone
of tempered steel and more courage than a lot of men he’d seen.
Yet, she possessed the gentle and caring touch of a guardian
angel.