My Fierce Highlander (22 page)

Why had Gwyneth not told him about Rory’s
natural father? Was it because she was ashamed of the scandal, or
did she not trust Alasdair?

Something else still nagged him in the back
of his mind. Her situation with Shaw matched up too conveniently
with Alasdair’s father’s murder. What was it? He had a gut feeling
something wasn’t right. He must ask her.

He strode out of his chamber and down the
corridor toward the room Gwyneth used. He pounded a fist against
the door.

After a moment, Tessie opened the door, and
her eyes near popped out of her head. “Laird MacGrath!”

“Aye.” He spotted Gwyneth in a wooden bathtub
set before the fireplace. “Leave us.” He strode forward, inhaling a
whiff of the floral and herb scented steam that arose from her
bath.

Gwyneth gasped and started to sit up, but
then grabbed her smock and spread it over the water to further
shield herself. He didn’t know why. He’d been deep inside her
yesterday morn. And he wanted that again. Now. Arousal flooded him,
heating his blood.

He glanced back and found Tessie fidgeting in
the doorway.

“Tell no one I’m here.”

“Aye, m’laird.” At his stern glare, she
scurried out and closed the door with a click.

After locking the door, he dropped the key
into his sporran and turned his attention back to Gwyneth. He would
not have her leaving before he had his answers.

“Won’t you at least allow me to dry off and
dress properly?” She sat, red-faced and huddling beneath the
smock.

“No need. I but want a minute of your
time.”

Her ice-blue eyes glittered. Good, he liked
getting her passions worked up.

Moving closer, he placed his hands upon his
hips. “Why did you lead me to believe Baigh Shaw was Rory’s
father?”

Her mouth dropped open. “What? How did you—?”
Her eyes narrowed. “That Englishman who left this morn, earl
of…something.”

“Aye, Hennessy. Edward Murray. He’s a
Lowlander.”

“Well, I assume he told you everything, so
there’s nothing left for me to say,” she stated in her haughty
Sassenach accent. “I shall leave in the morn.”

“What are you blathering on about? You’ll be
staying right here.” The mere thought of her departing twisted his
gut.

“I will be an embarrassment to your
clan.”

“No one knows, save me. And even if they did,
what of it? The Highlands are full of bastards. So is England. Some
even accused your former queen of illegitimacy, aye?”

Gwyneth’s face reddened. “At least Rory has a
name besides mine own,” she said softly.

“Your name would be preferred to Baigh
Shaw’s,” Alasdair growled.

“You are a man. You cannot understand what it
is like for a woman in my situation.”

“Nay, but I’m not daft. Why Baigh Shaw?”
Why not anyone but that outlaw whoreson?

Gwyneth stared down into the water. “He was
the only man willing to give my son a name. I didn’t marry him
until Rory was three months old.”

“And exactly how old is Rory now?”

“He will be six next month.”

Alasdair did the calculations in his head. If
Rory had been born in July, and he was three months old when
Gwyneth married Shaw, that would’ve made it October. Shaw had
murdered Alasdair’s father that same month.

Shaw was naught but a commoner and an
assassin. And he would not have been worthy enough for Gwyneth to
wipe her slippers on before she was expelled from her family and
social position for her indiscretion. Gwyneth was a beautiful
woman. Shaw likely lusted over her and, of course, had no concern
for any scandal in faraway London. To marry so far above his
station would’ve been an added reward.

“Tell me,” Alasdair began, “how did your
marriage to Shaw come about?”

“What do you mean?”

“You needed a name for your son. And what did
Shaw need?”

She pressed her eyes closed and clenched her
jaw. “What do you think? Someone to…warm his bed, of course.”

The image revolted Alasdair. He couldn’t
fathom this woman, whom he craved and dreamed about, in bed with
the man he’d hated most in the world. Unable to look at her another
moment, he turned away and gripped the back of the chair by the
bed. The hard oak wood bit into his palm. He felt as he did when
ambushed—he wanted to destroy something.

He pulled in a deep, cooling breath. “And
Donald, was he involved in the marriage arrangements?”

“Of course. I was his ruined cousin, and he
wanted to get me married off. He didn’t care whom I married. The
fact that his friend and most loyal follower wanted me pleased
him.”

Alasdair forced himself to look at her
again.

Her wide blue eyes were deceptively innocent,
her lush lips alluring. Her bare shoulders above the water, and the
knowledge she was naked beneath, aroused him fully. He imagined the
rosy tips of her breasts, yearned to see them peeking from the
water. The urge to yank her from the bath and drape her wet body
over his near overpowered him. He hoped she couldn’t see how he
trembled from the waning rage and the burgeoning desire. His
reaction shamed and alarmed him. No woman took his control. None!
He’d come here for answers to his questions, and he would have
them.

“Precisely when did the marriage take place?”
he asked with considerably more calm than he felt.

“October in the year of our Lord 1612.”

“What day?”

She frowned. “The twenty-fifth. Why?”

God’s bones. This was no coincidence. A cold
frisson spiraled down his spine. “A week after my father’s murder.
Do you not think it strange that the two events happened so close
together?”

“Yes, I do.” She stared down into the bath
for a moment, then lifted her open—dare he say trusting?—gaze to
him. “You think I was Donald’s payment to Baigh for murdering your
father, do you not?”

“Were you?” He managed not to growl the
words…just barely.

“Possibly. I heard the two of them talking
one night about some kind of bargain. Donald told Baigh he could
marry me if he followed through with his end of it. They didn’t say
what the task was, but they left the castle and returned two days
later. A few days after that, Baigh and I were married. Nothing
about the bargain was ever mentioned again.”

“I see.” It was true, then. Everything he’d
suspected. Yet, what did it matter? Even if she was payment,
Gwyneth was still innocent of any wrongdoing. Baigh was still the
murderer… a dead murderer. There wasn’t enough evidence to
implicate Donald, even if he did hire someone to kill his enemy and
used a woman as payment.

Alasdair’s anger at Gwyneth drained away and
left him feeling raw. She had done naught wrong—not to him or his
father, only to herself.

“Rory doesn’t know Baigh isn’t his father,
and I would appreciate it if no one tells him,” she said in a
vulnerable tone.

“Your secret is safe with me. I ken your
father is an earl, and that your correct title is indeed ‘lady’.
Why do you not use it?”

She shook her head, sadness in her eyes.
“’Twould be a mockery.”

His chest ached at the pain and humiliation
she must have suffered, all because she’d trusted the wrong man.
“Why did your father not force the scoundrel Southwick to marry
you?”

Her blush reappeared, and she stared into the
flames of the fireplace. “He fled to Spain or France. Besides, I
had already told him of my condition, and he wasn’t willing to do
the right thing. He wanted someone more beautiful, someone with a
much larger dowry.”

Alasdair couldn’t understand a man like that.
He’d never seen a woman more beautiful and appealing than Gwyneth.
How could a man abandon her when she carried his child? “’Twas
utter lunacy,” he muttered. But he was glad for it now. Else the
tempting fairy wouldn’t be sitting in his castle, in her bath
before him.

Naked.

Time for talking was past.

Chapter Ten

Gwyneth didn’t care for Alasdair’s mood in
the least. Pacing by the bath tub, he seemed to be barely
suppressing his rage. But he had a right to it if Baigh had
murdered his father.

Alasdair’s eyes had been cutting in their
intensity while he’d questioned her. Now they darkened and strayed
to the water of her bath. Despite the flickering dimness of the
firelight, maybe he could actually see through the thin white smock
that floated over her. She did not want him to see her naked. Did
she?

No, indeed.

On the morrow, the whole of Kintalon Castle
would likely be wagging their tongues over what their laird had
done, barging in on her bath. They might even surmise what had
happened yesterday—a quick shocking tryst in his bedchamber.

“Would you be willing to step outside while I
dress? The water is turning cold.”

One corner of Alasdair’s lips lifted, and his
eyes turned devilish. “I was hoping you’d invite me to join
you.”

“No!”

Clearly, he now thought to make free use of
her body any time he chose. He no longer respected her, and why
should he?

“I’m in need of a bath.” He unfastened his
bronze brooch and let the upper portion of his plaid fall behind
him. His hand went to his leather belt. She closed her eyes before
he unclasped it. A buckle thudded upon the floor. His linen shirt
brushed over his skin in a whisper.

Oh, good lord, I’m trapped, naked.

Covering her front as best she could with the
sodden smock, she pushed to her feet in the center of the tub.
Water sluiced down her body and from her hair. The cool air sent
chills and gooseflesh over her skin.

She snatched a brief glimpse of Alasdair
standing nude a few feet away. He was built like a pagan deity and
displayed a full erection. Though she’d touched him there before,
and had his raw power inside her, that didn’t stop her from wishing
the room was dark. Now, she didn’t have the fog of arousal to dull
her inhibitions.

Trying not to look at him, as well as keep
herself covered, she stepped from the tub. Water drained from her
smock onto the carpet.

Alasdair moved toward her. She scuttled away
and retreated behind a wooden screen.

Please don’t let him follow.

His brief, low chuckle echoed off the stone
walls, and water splashed.

He took supreme delight in her discomfiture,
didn’t he?
I’m the greatest fool.

She peered around the edge of the screen and
found him sitting in the tub. While it had almost swallowed her
whole, he fit into it perfectly.

“This water isn’t cold,” he said. “I’m
thinking you’ve never bathed in Loch Morlich.”

No, indeed.
She didn’t bathe in
lochs.

She dressed quickly in a clean, dry smock and
dressing gown. Both were too thin for her comfort. Determined not
to tempt him or fall for his seductive charms again, she also put
on her
arisaid
and belted the bulky, woolen plaid about her
waist.

“M’lady, I wonder, would you be willing to
help a man with his bath? I cannot reach my back.”

She stiffened her spine and stepped from
behind the screen.
I’ll be strong. I won’t let him affect
me.
That was easy to think, but harder to achieve, she realized
once her gaze ran over Alasdair’s powerful shoulders and chest
above the water. His predatory gaze tracked her movements, and she
gave him a wide berth.

“Who usually washes your back?” She could
well imagine any number of female servants enjoying the task.

When he didn’t answer, she slid her gaze to
him. He reminded her of an amused scoundrel, wicked and dark. “I’ve
had no one in my bed, save you, for a good long while, if that’s
what you’re asking,” he said.

Her face flushed and she shrugged, trying to
pretend it mattered not. That hadn’t been what she was asking, but
the information surprised her, relieved her, though she shouldn’t
even care. They had no attachments or bonds between them. Yet she
found cutting jealousy edged along her nerves when she imagined him
with another woman.

“I won’t bite you, m’lady—” He chuckled.
“Well, I would like to, but I promise I will only do so if you
ask.”

Heavens!
Such outrageous remarks he
made—she supposed she deserved it. She had certainly asked for what
he’d given her yesterday, and reveled in the wild, thrilling
abandon of it. But now, she was not proud of her recklessness.

She should take the key from his sporran,
unlock the door and leave, but he’d likely follow. Naked. Another
spectacle was the last thing she wanted.

“I have it on good authority that a woman
likes a man with a clean body and a dirty mind.”

How ridiculous he was. She bit back a grin.
“And who told you that?”

“Lachlan, of course.”

“I wager Lachlan doesn’t know as much about
women as he thinks he does.”

“I’m thinking you’re right.” Alasdair smiled.
“’Haps even I ken more than he does about women.”

Likely he did. Certainly he appealed to her
with his clean, hard-muscled body. As for his mind, she would not
call it dirty, though he did know well how to seduce her with his
sensual, lascivious words and scorching kisses.

“You don’t wish to help me? Stubborn, aye?”
He winked. “’Tis only fitting. You have a fair bit of Scots blood
in you.”

Trying to ignore his teasing, she strolled
away, searching for something with which to occupy herself. But she
slipped secretive glances back at him. Using the soap, he lathered
her cloth and stroked it over his powerful chest and sculpted arms.
His slow movements were beyond enticing.

She would mend a pair of trews one of the
women had given her for Rory. That should take her mind off the
tempting man in the tub.

No, it wouldn’t, but she could pretend it
did.

With a sloshing sound, Alasdair slid down and
dunked his head beneath the water, then sat upright again, water
streaming down his face and off his long black hair. He rubbed the
chunk of soap over his hair, making a miserable attempt to wash
it.