My Fierce Highlander (16 page)

The uninjured warriors ate and rested,
preparing to take their turn at watch. Tomorrow, the clan would
hold the funerals and bury the dead. The next day, they would look
toward the future and start to rebuild the village. In the
meantime, everyone pulled together and consoled one another.

“’Tis time you ate something, then rested,”
Alasdair told Gwyneth. The dark circles beneath her eyes showed she
was as exhausted as he.

She nodded, rose and went in search of food,
he hoped.

Alasdair cleaned himself up in his
bedchamber, changed clothes and then found Lachlan in the great
hall. He also looked a mite better without the bloody clothes and
the soot.

“What is it you’re wanting to tell me?”
Lachlan asked in a surly tone once they were inside the library.
The cheerful sunlight slicing through the two narrow windows
clashed with Lachlan’s dark scowl, and Alasdair’s own mood.

“I’m sorry about Mary Anne,” Alasdair said in
a calm voice that he hoped conveyed his sympathy.

“Aye, we all are. Now my son has no
mother.”

“But he has a father—as we did growing up. He
will come here to live in the castle if you wish it.”

His brother propped his fists against his
waist. “That won’t change the fact that your fine Lady Gwyneth
caused all this.”

“Gwyneth saved Kean’s life.”

Lachlan looked as if someone had hit him
broadside with an ax. “What?”

“Aye. She came down to the village during the
fighting, looking for Rory. A MacIrwin on foot was chasing Kean
while I was trying to fight off another one on horseback. She
jumped out and grabbed Kean. He could’ve been trampled beneath the
horses’ hooves or killed by the enemy. I didn’t ken who either of
them were at first. But when Gwyneth turned back, I saw her face.
And I also saw Kean in her arms.”

Lachlan froze for a moment, then released a
harsh breath. “Merciful God, I must thank her.”

Alasdair stepped forward. “I’ll go with
you.”

“I appreciate your trust in me,” Lachlan said
in a dry tone, his expression easing.

“I ken how you like to show your gratitude to
the ladies.”

Lachlan’s abashed grin appeared, and he
clasped hands with Alasdair in a quick, fierce handshake. “Aye, you
ken me too well, brother, but I value my neck too highly to dally
with that one.”

Alasdair ignored his brother’s thinly veiled
reference to his possessiveness. “Later, I wish to talk to you
about going to the Privy Council in my stead. We’ll bring charges
against the MacIrwins for the attacks.”

Lachlan nodded. “’Twould please me beyond
measure to see Donald MacIrwin kicking the wind.”

They found Gwyneth in the great hall, again
watching over the injured, seeing that they drank broth and herbal
teas. He would indeed have to order her to her bed and force her to
rest.

Alasdair stopped close beside her. “M’lady,
if you please, we would have a word with you in the library.”

Gwyneth drew back, her confused gaze darting
back and forth between them. But Lachlan’s slight grin must have
put her at ease. Alasdair followed her into the smaller room, and
Lachlan closed the door behind them.

His brother dropped to one knee and grasped
Gwyneth’s hand in his. He feared Lachlan went too far when he
pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

Gwyneth froze, her wide eyes beseeching
Alasdair.

He smiled, attempting to reassure her that
his brother had not been stricken with lunacy.

“M’lady,” Lachlan said. “I thank you, and I
owe you a grand debt of gratitude for saving the life of my
son.”

She frowned down at him. “Your son?”

“Aye. Kean is my son—the wee lad you rescued
from the village last night.”

“Oh. I didn’t know,” she said softly.

“Surely, you are an angel sent from
heaven.”

“No, not at all.” Face flushing bright pink,
she gently tugged her hand from within his. “I simply acted on
instinct.”

Lachlan rose. “Nevertheless, if there is ever
anything I can do for you, I will. Just let me know.”

She curtsied. “I thank you.”

Lachlan gave her a bow and let himself
out.

Gwyneth darted a glance at Alasdair. “If that
is all—”

“Nay.” The word popped from his mouth,
perhaps too quickly, but he enjoyed being alone with her too much
to allow her to leave so soon. Had it only been yesterday evening
when he’d kissed her? It seemed a week ago, so much had happened
since.

He’d had no time to think about the kiss and
what it had meant—that he was far more drawn to her than he should
be. And that he wanted another kiss. Wanted more than a kiss. But
aside from that, nothing else had changed. Sending her away would
be the best solution for her and the clan. Besides, it was what she
wished. But he wouldn’t do it now. He had to find her a safe and
suitable place first, and at the moment, they needed her healing
skills here.

“Yes, my laird?” Her blush was still in
evidence, and it lent her a charming quality.

“I wish to thank you, as well, for saving
Kean’s life and those of my men.”

“I could do nothing less.”

Though modest, she had the proud posture and
regal bearing of a lady, which could not be concealed beneath her
dirty, bloody clothing.

“When I saw you in the village during the
worst of the fighting, I wanted to throttle you for putting
yourself in such danger.” He’d meant to speak the words in a harsh,
angry tone, but couldn’t quite manage it. Instead he simply
sounded…desperate. Desperate to keep her safe.

She lifted courageous eyes to his. “And what
about the danger you were in? Going into battle already
injured.”

“My toe is much improved. And ’twas my
responsibility. Not yours.”

Blue fire lit within her eyes. “Rory is my
responsibility, and I would go through hell itself, if I had to, to
save his life.”

He nodded. “Aye, of course. You are a brave
lady, to be sure. And I admire that.” In truth, he admired far too
many things about her.

She glanced away as if dismissing his words.
He wanted to hold a mirror up to her, to show her what an
incredible woman she was. He wanted to show her how she should
value herself. Too many men had put her down and treated her
poorly, instead of giving her the care and attention she
deserved.

“You’re always taking care of others,” he
said. “I wonder, who takes care of you?”

She looked at him straight. “I’m not too
proud to accept the help of others, but I take care of myself for
the most part.”

Indeed, she did. She was independent, too,
flexible as a willow. A survivor. He could not recall a woman he
admired as much—well, except for his Leitha, of course. Still,
Gwyneth was stronger. But she needed someone to take care of her
from time to time. Someone to lean on and cling to in the
storm.

One part of him craved to be that person.
Another part of him rebelled at the very thought. He could never
again be that close to anyone. It hurt too much when they abandoned
him. He reinforced the icy wall around the most vulnerable part of
him, but it did not stop him from craving everything about her.

“I thank you for looking out for Rory and
sending him up safely with Fergus,” she said.

“Of course, ’twas the least I could do.”

The village had been crawling with MacIrwins,
any one of whom wanted to see her dead. A careless flick of a blade
and her life would’ve been forfeit. Drained away, as Leitha’s had,
leaving him regretting that he had not done more. ’Twas a tragic
thing to realize you were too late.

Acting on naught more than the fierce and
perplexing feelings raging inside him, Alasdair stepped forward and
pulled Gwyneth into his arms. “Pray pardon, m’lady. I must hold you
for a minute.”

“Oh.” The wee surprised sound was no more
than a breath from her.

He pressed his face against her silky hair
and inhaled the smoke scent mixed with a hint of herbs and whisky
with which she’d medicated the injured. But most of all, her own
unique female scent held him spellbound. He remembered it from when
he’d kissed her and that little window to paradise had opened.

Her small frame against his own much larger
one soothed his battle-ravaged soul. The vital warmth of her
reassured him she was indeed alive—that they both were.

Her body was still taut with tension, but her
arms crept around his waist and held him just as tightly. He
savored her touch and her embrace, afraid to move. Afraid he would
frighten her away. After a moment, her body relaxed within his
arms. Aye, this was the way it should be. Naught had ever felt so
right. Relishing the lithe, sensual feel of her, he tried to absorb
her calmness and peace into himself.

Against her cool hair, his lips formed a
kiss. Saints! How he treasured her and wished to kiss her all over.
Without thought, he brushed his lips across her forehead, then
pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks. She pulled in a shaky breath,
drawing his attention to her lips he hungered to taste again.

Tilting her flushed face down and to the
side, she withdrew her arms from around his waist. Disappointment
besieged him, though in truth he didn’t know what the devil he was
doing kissing her face in such a way. Had he gone mad? He
immediately released her.

With much hesitation, she glanced up at him
with darkened blue eyes. “I must go see to the injured men.”

Shoving away the ardent feelings that now
filled him, he focused on her words. “Nay. You are to go get some
sleep yourself, afore you fall down.”

“But—”

“I won’t be hearing an argument about it. Off
with you now, to your room.”

Maybe if he treated her like a child, she
would lose some of her womanly appeal. But he doubted anything
would cool his body’s heated interest in her.

***

Having washed away all traces of soot, blood
and grime, and wearing fresh clothing, Gwyneth paced from one end
of her chamber to the other, past the ostentatious bed, where her
freshly bathed son lay snoring within the downy mattress. She
paused by the narrow window with its wavy glass. She was not sleepy
in the least. Tired and shaken, yes, but not relaxed enough to
sleep. She was glad Rory had agreed to a nap.

The events of the past few hours replayed
through her mind over and over. The fires, the violence, the
death.

The fear.

Fear for Rory’s life and for Alasdair’s.

After she’d found Rory and held him in her
arms, her worries had turned to Alasdair. She’d feared his broken
toe would cause him to make some small mistake in battle and get
himself killed.

But he was alive, thanks be to God.

Alive and warm and strong. When he’d held her
for those few shining moments in the library—
heavens!
She’d
almost broken down into sobs. Why? Not sadness. No, with
thankfulness, and joy and a hundred other emotions that crashed in
on her when he touched her.

The intensity of his dark brown eyes and the
firm grip of his arms told her he’d needed to hold her. That his
regard for her went beyond a man’s physical need for a woman. He
had felt the same concern for her safety that she’d felt for his.
And the way he’d kissed her forehead, her cheeks. With affection.
With passion that went beyond the physical. She’d been near shaking
with emotion for him by the time she’d left the library.

Always, he looked at her with such
admiration—she could not fathom it.

He wasn’t like his charming seducer brother,
but Alasdair was nonetheless charming and seductive, in a more
subtle way. Mayhap in a more cunning way that gave her a false
sense of security, until she was well caught in his trap…and then
she would be a gone goose.

“No. No, I must not,” she whispered. “I must
go away from here.” For the sake of Rory’s life and her own
sanity.

But the prospect didn’t hold the appeal it
once did.

Chapter Eight

“May I have a word with you?” Gwyneth asked
Lachlan later that afternoon when she found him in the noisy great
hall. Normally she would not have asked anything of him, but she
was desperate.

His brows lifted. “Indeed.” He followed her
to the less crowded side of the huge room where they might have a
bit of privacy.

“I searched you out as soon as I heard you
were going to Edinburgh,” she said.

“Aye, Alasdair is sending me to petition the
Privy Council on his behalf. He kens of how charismatic and
diplomatic I can be.” Lachlan smiled and winked.

The man should learn to rein in his
effortless seductive charm. No more than a flick of an eyelid from
him, and she felt like an awkward young girl. Not that she was
attracted to him—certainly not in the way she was attracted to
Alasdair—but Lachlan constantly left her in a state of
discomfiture.

“You said if I ever needed your help to ask,”
she reminded him.

“Aye.” He watched her warily, his countenance
turning serious. “What would you be needing help with? As I said,
I’m in your debt for saving Kean’s life.”

“I want to leave the Highlands.”

He frowned and glanced about. “Aye, but I
don’t think you should travel with me this time. I’m in a wee
hurry.”

“No, not now.”

He smiled. “I’m relieved. As I’m sure
Alasdair will be. He would be in a foul mood indeed if I deprived
him of seeing your lovely face every day.”

Heat rushed over her. The implication that
Alasdair enjoyed looking at her—goodness. It filled her with
giddiness and sparked the memory of his wicked kiss.

“He would take his fury out on the clan—and
me too, of course,” Lachlan continued. “There would never be
another peaceful day here at Kintalon. I wager he would follow us
all the way to Edinburgh to reclaim you.”

Her whole body started to sweat. She couldn’t
believe how he was going on about Alasdair’s interest in her.
Surely he exaggerated. “Please, sir—”