My Fierce Highlander (3 page)

While the healer examined his injuries, he
studied her captivating face. Was her creamy skin as silky as it
looked? She frowned as she worked, and some of her light-brown hair
escaped the knot at the back of her head. He wanted to wrap the
straight, wispy strands around his fingers. Why didn’t she wear the
kerch
head-covering favored by married Highland women?
Perhaps she wasn’t married, though she had a child. A widow, then.
No rings adorned her fingers, but that told him naught since
Highland women only wore their wedding rings on special
occasions.

One thing was sure, she’d undressed him and
seen him naked. Wishing he could’ve been awake for that, he
suppressed a grin.

She caught him watching her, and her skin
turned pink. Ah, but she was a bonny Sassenach. He smiled. What was
she doing here in the Highlands tending his wounds? Mayhap she was
an angel or a fairy and not a human woman at all.

Her cool, efficient hands felt soothing on
his skin, overheated from the wool blanket. Indeed, soothing, but
her touch slowly coaxed a new heat to life within him, a different
sort of tingling heat he had suppressed for some time and was
surprised to feel now with such strength.

“Are you in much pain?” Her eyes were guarded
when they met his, and he pushed his irrational interest in her
away. His very life was in danger and he best focus on that.

“Nay.” He had endured far worse. Perhaps it
was her gentle touch that eased his aches.

She covered him again with the blanket. “You
must lie still.”

“Aye. Did I not arrive with any weapons?” He
felt more naked without those than without his kilt.

“A dagger. I have it well-hidden.” She
rose.

“I would have it back to defend myself, if
you don’t mind. If the MacIrwin shows up, I’ll be helpless as a wee
bairn.”

“How do I know you won’t use it on me?”

He scowled. “I wouldn’t harm you. Are you
thinking I’m daft?”

She studied him with intelligent, watchful
eyes. “I’ll consider it.”

He released an impatient breath. “How long
have I been here?”

“Since last night.”

Not long, but likely his clan thought him
dead because Donald MacIrwin didn’t take hostages. Lachlan wouldn’t
relish taking over as chief. He was probably even now cursing
Alasdair for being so careless.

“You hit your head on something,” the woman
said.

Alasdair moved his head on the straw-filled
pillow, and a pain shot through his skull. “Or something hit me on
the head. I reckon ’twas the broad side of an ax…which I much
prefer to the sharp side.” He stroked his fingers over the sore
lump on the back of his head. “God’s bones, ’tis the size of a
sheep’s hoof.” He laid his head back on the pillow and gazed up at
her. Surely she was his guardian angel. “You saved my life.”

“Most likely.” She glanced away as if it were
nothing.

“I thank you.” It seemed so little to say.
How would he ever repay her? “But why would you care if I lived or
died?”

Her gaze examined his eyes, dropped to his
mouth, his bare shoulder, then lifted again. She shrugged. “I’m a
healer. ’Twas the least I could do for a fellow human being.”

“What? You don’t think me a savage?” He was
certain he looked greatly uncivilized to her English eyes…eyes
which now gleamed with blue ire.

“No. The only thing savage is this senseless
fighting over nothing!”

“Well, I would see it stopped but your clan
will not let it be. When we’re provoked, we fight as any clan
would. The MacIrwins have committed many a crime against us.”

“Two hundred years in the past.”

“Nay. More than I can recount during my own
lifetime. Including murder.”

Her gaze locked to his. “What?”

“Aye, your fine cousin—oh, never mind. Why am
I telling a woman? I must be on my way.” What a waste of time this
all was. He must get back to his own clan.

“No!”

Such a forceful command from the wee lass? He
couldn’t help but gape at her militant expression.

“You shall not get very far with a broken
toe,” she added.

“Oh, is that all?” He moved his feet and a
stabbing pain ricocheted up his left leg. “God’s bones!” With a
grunt, he ground his teeth and stilled, praying the pain would go
back into hiding.

“You see?” She placed her hands on her hips
and glared down at him as if he were a wayward lad. “We didn’t even
know your big toe was broken until it turned black and
swelled.”

He released his held breath. “Mayhap ’tis but
a sprain.”

“God willing, you will be so lucky. I cannot
understand why men do this to themselves.” A spark of anger flashed
in her eyes, and this distracted him from his own agony. Her fire
had a definite appeal.

“Och, we’re lacking a wee bit in the tower.”
He wanted to tap a finger against his head, but dared not move too
much. Instead, he attempted to relax. “What of your husband? Does
he ken I’m here?” He prayed no men of the clan knew of his
presence, else it could prove his downfall.

“My husband was killed in a skirmish three
years ago,” she said in a wooden voice.

Without doubt, she was not yet done grieving
the loss. He well knew how mourning could linger. Even after two
years, he still missed his wife.

“I’m sorry to hear it. And he was…?”

The healer’s gaze speared him. “I’m certain
you didn’t know him. What is your name?”

“Angus MacGrath,” he lied, thinking she’d
likely recognize his real first name.

She frowned, but curtsied nonetheless. “A
pleasure. You are chief of the MacGrath clan, are you not?”

How had she figured that out? Mayhap his
clothing had given him away. Or his ring—the weight of it was
missing from his finger, but he dared not ask her about it. He
studied her curious expression. For his own protection and that of
his clan, he must seem like an unimportant person. She might
deliver him to the MacIrwin if she knew his true identity.

“Nay, I’m the cousin of the chief.” Since he
had a cousin named Angus MacGrath, he’d simply pretend to be
him.

She surveyed him with narrowed eyes.

“Disappointed, are you, that I’m not the earl
and chief?”

Gwyneth studied the smirking Scot, unsure
whether to believe him. She’d been almost certain he was the chief.
He’d had the seal ring, fine clothing and the treaty on expensive
parchment. If he were trying to mislead her, she’d let him think
he’d succeeded, while she figured out what he was up to. Maybe he
feared she’d turn him over to Donald.

The longer Angus MacGrath talked to her, the
more flustered she felt. He had a noble, pleasant way about him
that should’ve put her at ease. But it didn’t.

His steady eyes were unreadable, penetrating
and mysterious. Dark as she’d imagined. And at times amused and
gleaming with sensuality. If she had to be in his presence much,
such a man would be dangerous to her sanity and soul. Not wanting
him to see into her thoughts, she erected that familiar defense
wall about herself. The wall that had protected her from Baigh Shaw
or any other man who thought to intimidate her.

“I ken you must fear your cousin will find
out I’m here,” he said. “I owe you my life, so if anything happens,
I’ll protect you.”

What was wrong with the big lout? He couldn’t
even rise to his feet, much less defend her. “A lot of good that
will do me now. If they show up, I’ll have to protect you.”

“You would do that for me, m’lady?” His dark
brown eyes twinkled, teasing yet still suspicious. His strong
accent turned lady into
leddy
, an address she’d only been
called with a derogatory slur while in the Highlands.

“I’d prefer you not call me that.” Though
still a lady in truth, she didn’t think of herself as such, nor had
she for six years.

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth,
shadowed by a new growth of black whiskers. She couldn’t gaze at
him overlong. His eyes had a look in them she didn’t trust, a look
of mischief and interest she dared not think about.

He sobered and shifted his gaze away. “Our
clan didn’t come here to fight. We were to meet with the MacIrwin
and establish a peace agreement. He invited us to his home, and
then attacked us. His word means naught.”

“Are you saying Laird MacGrath wants peace?”
She suspected it was true, but she wanted confirmation.

“Aye, m’lady. Above all else, he wants peace
for the clan.”

A hint of relief flowed through her. “I found
the peace agreement in your doublet,” she confessed.

“’Tis not worth a wee pebble in the River
Spey now. Burn it if you will. ’Haps it will provide fine heat to
cook your porridge.”

How could he be so pessimistic and give up so
easily? “Will you not try again for peace?”

He snorted. “’Tis useless. There is no peace
to be had with Donald MacIrwin. They ambushed us—fired pistol shots
at us from the cover of the brush, then came out with their swords.
As you can see, ’tis the reason we fight. They understand no other
language. We must protect what is ours—our clan, our land, and our
cattle. We won’t let him run roughshod o’er us.”

“Of course not.” She well knew how ruthless
her cousin was. He had always dealt with her in a wretched manner.
Without a doubt, if she did something to displease him, he would
have no qualms about killing her. That was why she now questioned
her judgment in helping a MacGrath.

How many of those tales of the cold-blooded,
murdering MacGraths were true? If what this man said was true,
Donald and the MacIrwins were the ones who kept the blood feud
going. Which meant she was more in danger from her own clan than
this enemy.

“You must leave here as soon as you’re
able.”

“Aye, I won’t argue about that.” He glanced
aside. “Come on in, then. Don’t be bashful, lad.”

She followed his gaze to the door and found
her son standing there, white-faced and wide-eyed.

“Rory, please stay in the cottage.”

“I heard horses—lots of horses coming.”

She froze. “Oh, dear God. ’Tis Donald!

Chapter Two

“The MacIrwins will be here in a matter of
minutes. I need my dagger.” With a growl, MacGrath moved to get up
from the dirt floor of the byre. A grimace contorted his
features.

Gwyneth rushed to him, icy anxiety knotting
her insides. “There is no time, sir. I must hide you. Rory, go stay
in the cottage with Mora, and don’t say a word. I’ll be there in a
moment.”

Her son sprinted away.

“I won’t play the lamb to his slaughter,”
MacGrath said between clenched teeth, fierce determination
emanating off him in waves.

“I’ll cover you in straw and they’ll not see
you, even should they look in here. You must trust me. There is
nowhere else for you to hide now.”
Please, God, make him listen
to me.

His stark gaze speared hers. “You should’ve
let me keep my dagger.”

“Here, take mine.” She pulled the small dirk
from the busk of her corset and handed it to him.

“This? ’Tis naught but a wee toothpick!”

“That’s all I have. Do not move unless you’re
certain they’ve found you.” Hands trembling, Gwyneth covered
MacGrath from the top of his head to his toes with the blanket,
then piled more straw over him until the blanket was hidden.

On the way out, she pulled the door closed
behind her. Thank God, Donald wasn’t in sight yet. She ran toward
the cottage. The rhythmic staccato of hoof beats grew loud like her
own pulse.

Inside the cottage, she met Mora’s worried
gaze. Why was Donald paying a visit? Did he suspect something?

May God protect us.

“Rory, sit over here and…shhh.” She pointed
to a short stool, then clasped her trembling hands together.
“Remember what I said? Not a word about the man in the byre.”

Rory nodded. His rounded eyes told her he
knew if he said the wrong thing, something terrible would happen.
She hated that her son had to grow up in this harsh way of
life.

Pounding hooves drew closer, the sound making
her stomach ache. If Donald and his men discovered MacGrath….
Heavens. She didn’t want to think of the consequences.

The horses snorted and kicked up rocks
outside the cottage. Donald and his men talked in Gaelic as they
dismounted.

Inhaling a deep breath, Gwyneth approached
the open door and faced her cousin.

“Did you happen to find Robert or Red John in
yon glen?” Donald MacIrwin asked in an ill-tempered tone.

“No, we didn’t. Why?” The stench from
Donald’s stocky body forced Gwyneth to breathe through her mouth.
His shaggy brown and gray beard contained a few crumbs from his
last meal.

“We couldn’t find them after the skirmish
yester eve. The MacGraths must’ve took them hostage. Cursed
mongrels.” He spat upon the ground.

“Why did the MacGraths attack?” Pretending
ignorance, she hid her clenched fists in the folds of her
skirts.

Donald’s mouth turned to a snarl, and she was
unsure whether he was disgusted by her bold question or the subject
matter.

“Are you thinking they need a reason? Nay!
They’re outlaws, the lot of them, wanting to steal more of our
land.” Lowering his bushy brows, Donald stepped across the
threshold and glanced about the room, even peered into the two box
beds, neatly covered with woolen plaid blankets.

Surely he didn’t expect to find his men
there. She dared not move a muscle or even breathe too hard.

Donald’s gaze lingered a bit too long on Rory
where he sat like a tiny gentleman on a stool by the fire in the
center of the floor.

“The wee bastard’s shooting up like a weed,
aye? I’ll see to it he starts training with a sword and targe in a
year or two. I’ll be needing a few more fighting men.”

Upon my faith, you will not get your hooks
into my son!
Gwyneth clenched her teeth until they ached.