My Fierce Highlander (18 page)

“
Mo chreach
. I swore to myself I
wouldn’t do that. But you’re
so
—” He blew out a harsh
breath.

I must go while I still can. While I can
still make a rational decision.
Stumbling toward the door, she
tried to calm her ragged breathing and will some strength into her
wobbly legs.

I must leave the Highlands before I become a
slave to mine own desires and the drugging effects of this man.

***

When Gwyneth fled the library, closing the
door behind her, Alasdair sucked in a deep breath, trying to drive
away some of the lust engulfing him. He could not recall being so
aroused in his life.

“Damnation! I’m daft,” he muttered,
approaching the mantel and leaning an arm upon it. He should not
have accosted her with such force. Likely she would never speak to
him again, and who could blame her? He was no gentleman. Nay, he
was a rogue, in truth. But her sweet delicious mouth. Her soft
breast…in his hand…it had fit so perfectly. Her nipple peaked,
aroused. He would give near anything to taste it, draw it into his
mouth. Her silky skin and her scent seduced him. Thought deserted
him when he touched her. The wanting near consumed him. He turned
into naught more than an animal that craved to have her beneath
him. The drive to taste, to claim, to possess clutched at his
gut.

Though he was loath to admit it, she was
amazing to him…lovely beyond words. He could never tire of looking
into her blue eyes, like the summer sky, and he could not yet
comprehend all he saw there—intelligence, sensuality, caring. More.
His carnal side said he could never allow her to leave. But deep in
his vitals he knew if she stayed, he might well lose his heart.
Again. And what if she left after that? He could not bear to give
up another woman he loved. The last one had near killed him.

Nay, he must control his carnal urges. Though
when he was in her presence, controlling himself was the most
difficult thing on earth.

The clan…that’s what he must focus on. They
would be occupied for the next several days rebuilding the village,
replacing the roofs. He would spend all his time working with the
men, and he would have no time or energy to think about the lady
who had bewitched him.

***

Four days later, Gwyneth paused on her way
into the village alehouse where the midday meal for the workers
would be served. Bright sunlight gleamed down, heating her skin and
brightening her mood. She had hardly seen or spoken to Alasdair
during the past few days. He had kept himself occupied, and she had
as well. Still, it was impossible to forget the shocking but
delectable incident in the library.

Padraig, one of the soldiers who’d been
injured in the attack, stood by the door, his attention focused on
the men thatching roofs across the way.

“How are you feeling, Padraig?” she
asked.

He jerked as if she’d burned him. “M’lady,
pray pardon. I didn’t see you there.” He bowed, cradling his
wounded arm. “I’m much better. Thanks to God for blessing you with
healing skills.”

“I’m glad you’re recovering.” She strode
inside the alehouse where several female servants worked, removing
food from baskets and readying it for all the workers. The stone
floor and walls of the building still smelled of smoke, but the new
timbers and fresh thatch overhead gave her a feeling of hope.
Gwyneth put down her loaves of bread on a new table near the back
which she’d covered with a cloth earlier.

“I would much rather be on one of the roofs,”
Padraig said behind her.

She jumped and turned. Was he following
her?

“Nonsense, sir. You are not yet well enough
to help with the thatching.”

“But I will be soon, thanks to you,” he said
eagerly. His craggy face looked ruddy in the dimness. “’Tis glad I
am that you came to our clan.”

Good Lord! Surely he was not thinking to
court her.

“Would you like a piece of bread? It’s still
warm from the oven.” After slicing a thick chunk from the loaf, she
handed it to him, hoping to halt his talkativeness.

“Many thanks. You are most kind, m’lady. Most
kind, indeed.”

While she sliced bread, he launched into a
tale about a cow and three lads. She laughed and realized Rory
would love the story. Where was he? She glanced about and saw him
playing nearby with another boy.

Before she turned her attention to the bread
again, she caught sight of Alasdair standing just inside the door,
watching her. Her pulse skittered like a startled rabbit and she
pretended to ignore his progress in their direction.

Her hands were a bit unsteady on the knife
handle as she continued her chore. She had not talked privately to
him since the library incident. Well, truly, it wasn’t an incident.
It was an indulgence. One she must not fall into again.

“Padraig, how’s the arm?” Alasdair asked in a
boisterous tone.

“’Tis improving, m’laird. I was just telling
Mistress Carswell about the time the demon cow run my two brothers
and me to ground.”

“Indeed? I wish I could’ve seen that.”
Alasdair’s gaze upon Padraig was not as friendly as it should’ve
been. The silence between the two men extended and the tension
thickened. Pretending not to notice, Gwyneth continued with her
task.
Slice, slice.

Padraig cleared his throat. “Well, then. I
must find Sweeney. Pray pardon.” He bowed and ambled away.

Gwyneth glanced up at Alasdair and lifted a
brow. Men. Could they do naught but compete in everything they
did?

She tried to pretend their kiss of a few
nights ago hadn’t happened. A kiss and a bit more.
Do not think
of it.
He had seemed to be avoiding her the past few days.

“Glad I am to see you here.” The tightness
had not left his face.

She tried to think of something intelligent,
yet not flirtatious, to say. “I never thought I’d be serving food
in an alehouse, but in this case it seems innocent enough.”

Alasdair’s expression lightened. “Aye. No
carousing today.”

Gazing into his dark eyes was like food for
her soul, but she must not overindulge even in that small
pleasure.

A thick post blocked them from most of the
others in the large room and created a sense of privacy. Her
awareness of him intensified. He smelled of fresh wood shavings, a
few of which still clung to his kilt.

“But we’ll be carousing during
Feill
Sheathain
a week hence. Midsummer’s Eve or St. John’s Day to
you Sassenachs.” He grinned. “’Haps even a lady such as yourself
will let down her hair.”

Good lord, the celebration was certain to be
pagan…and beyond scandalous. She had been excluded from festivities
while a part of the MacIrwin clan. Donald’s idea of a celebration
involved him and his soldiers, food and drink, and all the whores
they could find. The common people of the clan were suppressed and
barely given enough food to survive, even though they were the ones
who did all the work.

“I do not think so, Laird MacGrath. I’m not
much for that sort of thing.”

“Well, you should be.” He turned his head
sideways and gazed down at her. “There is a time to mourn and a
time to celebrate. We should throw ourselves wholly into each when
the time comes. ’Tis a part of living. If we don’t enjoy life when
given the chance, then the chance may never come again.”

His words sounded sage enough. She longed to
live her life fully and enjoy it. But she didn’t know how. Her
circumstance for the past few years had been too uncertain.

In the next instant, Alasdair stepped in
close behind her, and her awareness of him shot upward like a
flaming arrow. His breath warmed her ear, and he brushed his lips
across her temple. “Don’t be afraid of living, Gwyneth.”

Chills shimmered through her body. The knife
slipped from her fingers and clattered on the table beside the
bread.

Oh, good lord. Don’t do this to me, Alasdair.
Don’t turn my body into a traitor.

He pulled back a few inches, slid something
behind her ear and stroked a finger down the sensitive skin of her
neck.

“What is…?” Her words trailed off on a
breath. She inhaled the scent of wild roses even as she removed the
smooth stem from behind her ear. A simple white rose with only a
few petals and yellow stamens in the center. Emotion caught in her
throat.
Alasdair.
She closed her eyes and pressed her nose
to the flower, letting its lavish scent and his sweetness wash over
her.

“I thank you,” she whispered, not daring to
let him see the moisture in her eyes.

He stepped back. “Och! Rory, what are you
doing down there?”

Her son peered up at them from beneath the
tablecloth. His hair stuck out in all directions, and his curious,
wide-eyed gaze darted back and forth between them.

Alasdair chuckled. “You have the look of a
wee hedgehog about you, lad.”

Rory grinned and crawled out. “I saw a badger
yesterday.”

“Did you now? What did he look like?”
Alasdair winked at her before they strolled away, Rory talking as
fast as his tongue would move.

Gwyneth exhaled, releasing the tension and
savoring the affection he conjured in her. After sniffing the rose
once more, she slipped it into her pocket. She would not have
anyone wondering what she was doing with a rose behind her ear, or
what secret person might have given it to her. Feeling overheated
of a sudden, she wished for a hand fan.

Straightening her spine, she picked up the
knife and continued slicing the bread, though her hands were less
steady than before.

I cannot allow him to weaken me with a
rose…with his teasing touches and hot breath, whispering in my ear.
I must remain strong at all costs.

Nothing but trouble would follow if she did
lose her head. And though he was kind, he was a man like all
others, interested in bedding whoever was willing and available…and
caught his fancy. It was simply the way of men to pursue their
baser sensual instincts.

Well, she was neither willing nor
available.

Truly, I am not! I will not think of him
anymore.

***

“My lord, a messenger from Scotland is here
to see you.”

Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick
glanced up at his footman who bowed then straightened. Messenger
from Scotland? Could it be that the MacIrwin barbarian was finally
heeding his request?

“Show him into the library and wait with him.
We don’t want him to stuff his pockets with trinkets, now do
we?”

“No, my lord. As you wish.” He bowed again
and retreated.

Southwick smiled. He’d written months ago to
that damned MacIrwin, inquiring about his son. Finally, a response.
He’d never met his son, nor did he know his name, but he would
soon. This was the only son he’d ever have, so he had no choice but
to find him. All he had to do now was figure out how to make him
legitimate. But first he had to gain custody of him from his whore
of a mother. That should prove easy enough given he was a marquess
with powerful connections, and Gwyneth was…nothing.

Taking his time, Southwick stood and
straightened his green brocade doublet and his white ruffled cuffs.
He proceeded down the wide, ornate stairway to the library, where a
footman opened the door for him. He entered to find another footman
and a shabbily dressed messenger in a belted plaid. A barbaric
Scots peasant, to be sure.

“M’laird.” He bowed at least.

Southwick cringed at his accent. There was
nothing that grated on his nerves more.

“Are you Laird Southwick?” the messenger
asked.

“Indeed, I am Maxwell Huntley, marquess of
Southwick. And who might you be?”

“Robertson, sir. Chief MacIrwin sent me to
bring you this.” He extended his hand and in it was a dirty, bent
and folded missive.

Thankful he was wearing gloves, Southwick
took the paper, broke the red wax seal and flung the paper open.
Perching his spectacles upon his nose, he tilted the paper to the
light from the tall, heavily-draped window and read. Well, he tried
to read. The handwriting was near illegible. Something about his
son. MacIrwin had him and if he wanted him, he must send two
hundred pounds.

“Outrageous! Two hundred pounds is an
outrageous sum! He is my son. Why should I have to pay for him?” he
shouted at the messenger, who stepped back wide-eyed and bowed
slightly.

A hostage. MacIrwin was using his son as a
hostage, and this was the ransom. Bastard! Southwick squinted down
at the paper again, trying to decipher more of its words. Whoever
wrote it didn’t use standard spellings, and it looked more like a
sheep had written it. Damned Scots couldn’t speak or write in a
coherent manner. He crumpled the paper. Where in blazes would he
get two hundred pounds silver? Certainly he was wealthy, but he
didn’t keep that much silver and gold lying around. He’d borrow
funds from his friends, and ask a few of them to accompany him.
He’d need plenty of guards.

“You are to take me to MacIrwin, and I do
mean with great haste,” Southwick said.

The messenger’s eyes near bugged out of his
head.

“You didn’t think I was just going to hand
you two hundred pounds, did you?”

“Eh…nay, my laird.”

“Good. We leave at first light.” It would
take him all day, at least, to gather all the funds. MacIrwin was a
thief and an outlaw!

***

Two days after he’d talked to Gwyneth in the
alehouse and given her the rose, Alasdair slipped into Leitha’s
flower garden, hoping Gwyneth would show up again so he might talk
to her in private about nothing in particular until gloaming
settled over the land. Or perhaps steal a kiss. The scent of
sun-warmed roses brought their first kiss to the forefront of his
mind, and he indulged in a bit of daydreaming. At a noise behind
him, he glanced around, expecting to see Gwyneth, but found Rory
gazing up at him with a trusting look of adoration.