My Fierce Highlander (26 page)

“But he is illegitimate. He cannot
inherit—”

“That is but a formality.” His sharp tone
gave her pause.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked,
desperate to make sense of it all. “Have you not married?”

“I did marry—the duke of Pembley’s daughter,
but she died six months ago, barren.” His expression remained
impassive.

“So marry someone else!”

“I think I’ve had enough of marriage. And
since I already have a son, I don’t need to marry again. I don’t
intend to take him away from you. You may visit him anytime you
wish.”

Visit him. Visit?
“No!”

“You cannot deny me my son.”

Desperate, Gwyneth grasped at the threads of
control. “He is not your son. I visited with another man a few
nights after our…meeting.”

“You lying whore!”

“Southwick, you forget yourself,” Alasdair
growled and stepped forward. “You will show respect to Lady Gwyneth
in my home or you can leave now. Because of your actions, she lost
everything.”

Southwick glared at Alasdair. “Pray
pardon.”

As if those two insincere words could undo
all the damage he had wrecked on her life. And continued to
wreck.

“I’m merely trying to get her to see reason,”
Southwick continued in a milder tone, but malice still gleamed in
his eyes. “If only her small mind can comprehend—”

“’Tis time you were leaving,” Alasdair said
in his laird and commander voice. He stood over the two Englishmen
and pointed toward the door.

“I will give you money,” Southwick said to
Gwyneth.

“How dare you try to buy my son? You are the
lowest—”

“Southwick, you are overstaying your
welcome.” Alasdair’s voice held an Arctic chill. “Here in the
Highlands we don’t take insult lightly.”

Southwick’s face turned crimson, but he
remained silent and exited with his cohort.

“I will return.” Alasdair followed them
out.

Her trembling legs no longer able to hold her
up, she slumped onto a chair in the silent, empty room.

Dear heavens, what am I going to do?

What was Southwick scheming? She would be
glad for Rory to be the next marquess of Southwick, but an
illegitimate child could not inherit his natural father’s English
title. Clearly he had something illegal and nefarious in mind.
Either that or he’d turned lunatic.

In any case, she would not hand her son over
to the abusive knave at such a young age. Rory was
her
son,
and
she
would be the one to raise him. She would not want to
jeopardize his future, but she couldn’t let him go now. She loved
him more than her next breath and must always see that he was safe
and happy. Education was not the issue. She was already seeing to
that, and he was too young to be sent away to school.

Alasdair returned and slammed the heavy door.
“What a vile whoreson he is. I told the guards to keep them off
MacGrath land.”

“He’s come to finish destroying my life.”
Gwyneth sprang to her feet. “I cannot believe after he’s cast us
aside for six years, he now wants Rory when it’s convenient for
him. Rory cannot legally inherit his title, can he?”

“Nay. Unless Southwick’s title is Scottish
and you marry him.”

“His title is English and I would never marry
him.”

“Or he might petition the king. How many
people in London know for certain of Rory’s existence?”

“My family.” Suddenly too exhausted from the
tension to stand, she dropped to the chair near the hearth. “Father
didn’t want word of my disgrace getting out so he sent me away.
Because he had three other unmarried daughters at the time, he
didn’t want the family name sullied. Since Southwick and I both
disappeared, I’m certain people surmised the worst.”

Alasdair nodded and took the chair opposite
her.

“What if he doesn’t give up on trying to take
Rory? Will the law be on his side?” Gwyneth asked, pressing a hand
to her nauseated stomach.

“I don’t ken precisely how the English courts
work in this situation, but it doesn’t sound like what he wants to
do is legal anyway.”

The jaws of a trap sprang shut on Gwyneth.
Her mind struggled for an escape. Men held all the power over women
and children, no matter the situation. And even if Rory couldn’t
legally inherit a title, Southwick could still take her son on a
whim. “Dear lord, what am I going to do? He has a vicious temper
when he’s angry. When I—” She pressed her lips closed, shame
devouring her composure.

“Go on.”

“When I told him I was with child, he slapped
me and I fell.”

Alasdair’s face tightened and the warrior in
him emerged. “Why did you not tell me this afore? I would’ve bashed
in his head on first sight!”

“You cannot do that.” Although she
appreciated his protectiveness, she would not have him assaulting
people on her behalf. “I also heard he beats his servants and may
have killed one, though no one could prove it. I cannot allow him
to take my son.”

“God’s wounds!” Alasdair shoved to his feet
and paced to his desk and back. “’Haps if you would marry me and
become a countess, you would hold more power in the event Southwick
tries to take Rory.”

***

Marry Alasdair? Good lord!

Was that the only alternative?

It had been hours since Alasdair had sprung
his latest “proposal,” but Gwyneth could think of nothing else—save
the nightmarish Southwick situation.

She stood beside Rory in the shadows and
gazed out over the bustling activity in the great hall she’d helped
decorate with herb and flower garlands. Their sweet, pungent scents
blending with all manner of meat, onion, and bread aromas now
sickened her.

Alasdair had forbidden her to return to the
kitchen or to help with the final preparations of the feast. Her
fidgety hands craved something to do. But she was glad for the time
to spend with Rory, simply to watch him play with his small friend.
Just to make sure he was safe and still here with her.

She would have no life without her son and
could never let him go.

But to marry Alasdair in the hopes his
position would hold some sway with English courts didn’t seem the
answer. Nor would it be fair to him.

She didn’t know how much influence Alasdair
had with King James, but everyone knew the king, though Scottish,
held no fondness for these wild and rebellious Highlanders. In all
likelihood, if she did marry a Highland laird, the king and courts
would have even less sympathy for her plight. Since Southwick was
English, they would want Rory raised on English soil.

Gwyneth’s gaze shifted to Alasdair, striding
across the great hall, clothed in his finest apparel—a newly woven
kilt of blue and black tartan, crisp ivory linen shirt and deep
blue doublet.

He approached her through the throng of
people that milled about between the two long rows of tables
weighted down with food.

Please do not let him propose again.

Alasdair stopped before her and Rory.
“M’lady.” He bowed, then stroked an affectionate hand over Rory’s
head, but his focus remained on Gwyneth. “Would you do me the honor
of sitting with me at high table?”

His clean scent with a trace of lavender
reached her, teasing her senses. The dampness of his hair told her
he had bathed recently. His eyes were dark seduction, even now. She
was tempted to say
yes
to anything he asked.

“I thank you, but I cannot.” Her gaze dropped
to her son and the look of wide-eyed hero-worship he cast up at
Alasdair. Why couldn’t Alasdair have been Rory’s natural father,
instead of Southwick?

Alasdair let out an impatient breath. “You
are a noble guest just as the laird and lady of Clan Grant
are.”

“No, Laird MacGrath, I am but your temporary
housekeeper. I would not care to explain to them why I am given the
honor of sitting at the laird’s table.”

“You’re an English lady, daughter of an earl.
That’s the only explanation you need. Besides, ’tis not their
concern. I am but providing you and your son protection.”

“I’m sorry.” His guests were sure to assume
the worst—and the truth—that she and Alasdair had been lovers. She
couldn’t bear any more looks or words of censure this day.
Southwick’s visit had been more than sufficient to destroy her
composure. Aside from that, she would make a silent dinner
companion.

“Very well. I proclaim you are no longer my
housekeeper. You’re an honored guest, and you are not to lift
another finger to help.”

Was he serious or teasing her? At times his
mysterious eyes were impossible to read.

“Then I will be forced to leave.”

“Humph. You are the most vexing woman I have
ever dealt with.” His grumpy proclamation was laced with humor.

She noticed a few guests nearby staring their
way and grinning.

“I’m sorry not to be more agreeable, my
laird,” she said in a low tone.

“As well you should be.”

Why in heaven’s name was he talking so loud?
She focused on Rory’s fine hair, wishing to escape this
conversation. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself or more
specifically, to Alasdair’s interest in her.

His warm fingers underneath her chin, he
tipped her face toward him, and a tiny grin formed on his lips. “I
swear I shall have you eating at my table afore the year is
out.”

He should not touch her thus, with such
boldness and possession, before anyone who watched.

“And if you do not?” she asked.

His smile widened. His eyes took on that look
he always had just before he coaxed her into something delicious
yet shocking. “I’m said to be most stubborn and determined.”

***

“You lied, MacIrwin!” Southwick shouted, his
reedy voice echoing off the rock walls of Irwin Castle’s great
hall. “You do not have my son as you claimed in your missive. And
MacGrath refuses to release him.”

His muscles tense and his hand on his sword
hilt, Donald MacIrwin restrained his bloodlust and surveyed his
clansmen. Each of them glared at the English whoreson but held
their tongues. He must do the same if he wanted the two-hundred
pounds.

“Dare you call me a liar, you stinking
Sassanach?” And he did reek. His perfume was enough to knock a
strong man flat.

Southwick extended his arms, indicating the
great hall around them. “I do not see him here in your possession.
And yet, you said in your missive that you held him. That you
wished me to pay a monstrous and outrageous ransom for my own
son.”

“That’s because the bitch Gwyneth took him
and fled. When I get my hands on her I’ll…”
kill her
. But
nay, he couldn’t say that now. First, he had to separate Southwick
from his gold and silver.

“I don’t care what you do to Gwyneth. I want
my son.” Southwick’s tone reminded Donald of a petulant, spoiled
bairn.

“I have a proposition,” Donald offered. “I’ll
retrieve the wee lad from MacGrath and you pay me the two hundred
pounds.”

Southwick’s eyes narrowed as he considered.
“I must have my son in hand first. Completely unharmed and healthy.
Yes, you go get him, hand him over to me, and I’ll give you the
money.”

Triumphant victory burst through Donald. He
would have the money soon. “Very well.” Donald stepped forward and
extended his hand. Southwick, wearing brown gloves, finally took
his hand and shook. Och, what a weak handshake the Sassanach had.
Donald and his men could easily overpower Southwick and his lordly
friends, kill them, and take the money, but he did not wish to
anger King James.

“Now, me and my men must go make plans for
the lad’s rescue. Have supper while you wait,” Donald said.

If Gwyneth or any of the MacGraths got in his
way, he would not be so careful of his actions.

***

During the
Feill-Sheathain
feast at
Kintalon Castle, Gwyneth sat at a table toward the back with Tessie
and some of the lower ranking clan members and children. She had
nothing to celebrate and no appetite for the fine foods laid out
before her—roast beef, mutton, lamb, fine yellow cheese, leeks,
parsnips, cabbage, oat cakes—the list went on. Here sat more food
than she’d seen during her entire stay in the Highlands, and
Alasdair did not deprive even the lowest servant from
partaking.

What if Southwick pursued custody of Rory?
That was all she could think about, and nausea replaced her
appetite.

“Is all well, then?” Tessie asked beside
her.

Gwyneth nodded and forced herself to eat.

“What did the fancy Sassenach want?”

Those sitting closest to Gwyneth cast
inquiring glances her way.

“Nothing of importance,” she said for all to
hear, then lowered her voice for Tessie’s ears only. “I’ll tell you
later.” She didn’t want anyone else to know her connection with
Southwick, especially Rory.

After dark, music and dancing commenced
around two large bonfires outside the barmkin walls on a hill
overlooking the loch, the village and the fields. Gwyneth went only
to watch Rory as he joined in, dancing and cavorting with the other
children.

Smoke from the wood and peat fires burned her
lungs when the wind shifted. She coughed and moved further
away.

Small blazes, like torches, in the fields and
pastures below caught her attention. Outsiders. Dear lord, was
Southwick returning? Donald invading? Strangely, the torches were
not moving in their direction but around toward the right in large
circles.

“’Tis to bless the crops and cattle, for a
fruitful harvest and many calves,” Alasdair said close behind
her.

She spun to face him. “In truth? Do you
believe that?”

He shrugged. “Aye, why not? Our clan has been
prosperous for two hundred years. You cannot argue with success.
But I’m not a heathen if that’s what you’re thinking.” His wicked
grin and wink had the disturbing effect of negating his words and
raising her awareness of him.