My Fierce Highlander (8 page)

“Nay.”

She didn’t recognize the man who spoke. While
he had the same dark hair as most of his other clansmen, he was
fully-bearded and a decade older than the man she’d helped. She
felt disoriented. He wasn’t Angus, unless there were two men named
Angus in their clan, a definite possibility. “No, not him.”

“I’m thinking she means Alasdair,” another
man said.

“What were his injuries?” Fergus asked
her.

“A large knot on his head, a broken toe, and
several cuts. Did he make it back safely?”

“Aye, by the skin of his teeth. That would be
Chief MacGrath you’re speaking of. And grateful we are that you
helped him.” Fergus gave a brief bow.

“But he said….” As she’d suspected, he’d lied
to her about who he was. Indeed, he hadn’t trusted her. But could
she blame him?

Six horses charged over the crest of the
hill. Five riders sat in saddles and the sixth lay strung over his
horse’s back.

The men around her rushed forward to meet
them, and the one who’d held her captive released her.

“Campbell didn’t make it through the
skirmish.” A bearded man in trews swung down from his saddle.

“Nay!” Angus yelled and pulled the dead man
from the horse.

Gwyneth saw then that Campbell was very
young, perhaps not yet twenty. Big, tough Angus held the young
man’s body and sobbed.

“His eldest son.” The burly man who still
held Rory glared at her.

“Oh, no,” Gwyneth whispered. Because of her,
someone else had lost their life. A boy who had not yet had time to
live his life.

She rushed forward. “Are you certain he’s
dead? I’m a healer. Let me examine him.”

“He was stabbed through the heart.” A grim,
middle-aged man snarled. “Do you think we don’t ken when someone is
dead? All you Sassenachs think we Scots are daft.”

His words struck her like stones. “Pray
pardon.” She stepped back a respectful distance.

Watching Angus grieve the death of his son
was horrible enough. But when she imagined losing Rory in a like
manner, she pressed a fist to her mouth to quell the agony. This
was why they had to leave the Highlands. She did not want to be in
Angus’s shoes ten years hence, grieving the loss of her son in some
skirmish.

Rory broke away from the man restraining him
and ran to her. She knelt and hugged him tight. It could just as
easily have been her or Rory who had died at the MacIrwins’ hand.
Campbell had given his life for theirs.

“Take her to the tower and see if the laird
kens who she is. If he doesn’t, cut her throat,” bellowed the grim
man who had spoken last.

***

Gwyneth waited in the quiet, dreary great
hall with Rory in front of her. She prayed Alasdair was the true
name of the man she’d helped days ago. If not, she and Rory had no
hope. One of the men who’d marshaled her and Rory to Kintalon
Castle still stood behind them, a sword in his hand. The other man
had disappeared up the spiral stone steps to find his laird.

Fear constricted Gwyneth’s throat.
Please
let him be the MacGrath I know.

The delicious scents of bacon and freshly
baked oat bannocks drifted up from the ground floor kitchen, making
her empty stomach rumble and ache, but she would willingly go
hungry if only Rory could have some food.

Sunrise gleamed through the small windows cut
high into the thick stone walls. No fire yet burned in the
fireplace—so massive a person could stand upright within. Only a
few worn and faded tapestries depicting battle scenes served to
decorate the austere walls. Instead of filthy rushes on the floor,
clean rush-mats lay here and there. While they waited, servants and
clan members entered to set up trestle tables for breakfast,
casting a few curious glances her way.

Many tense moments later, a man limped down
the steps on a regal-looking cane, his kilt hastily pleated. With
her first glimpse of his familiar face, she whispered a prayer of
thanks and gripped Rory’s shoulders. She dared not even draw breath
for several seconds.

Laird MacGrath moved closer and gazed down
into her eyes with solemn concern. “Are you well then, m’lady?”

“Yes. I thank you.” She couldn’t help the
unevenness of her voice that betrayed the rush of relief flooding
through her.

He glanced at the men behind her. “Aye, this
is the woman who saved my life. Tell the others she and her son
have safe haven here.”

So overwhelmed was she by his words, she
could not hear the other men’s response for the blood pounding in
her ears. She wanted to throw her arms around him in gratitude,
press her face to his chest and cry her eyes out. But she would
never demonstrate such a loss of control, no matter how drawn to
him she was or how thankful for his compassion.

She swallowed against the constricting
emotion. “So, in truth, you are
Laird
MacGrath?”

“Aye. But you may call me Alasdair. I found
it necessary to lie to protect myself. I didn’t ken whether I could
trust you or not.”

“And you’re still not sure, are you?”

A slight smile lit his eyes. “Nay. But I’m
hoping I can.”

His friendliness conspired to put her at
ease, but she still had to be sure of his intentions. “You will not
turn me over to Donald’s men, will you?”

“Nay.” He frowned. “You didn’t turn me over
to them. Why would I be doing anything less?”

She gave a curtsey. “I thank you, my
laird.”

“I’m glad you and your son are here. I was
hoping to see you again…to thank you once more for saving my life.”
His intense midnight gaze held her. He’d looked at her thus before,
days ago. Though he exuded male interest, there was naught
insulting in it. Instead, she sensed deep-seated fascination, as if
he were loath to glance away from her.

Rory stood silent before her, staring up
wide-eyed at Alasdair. She understood her son’s fascination and
hero worship for she felt the same, though with a woman’s
appreciation.

“You are welcome, of course. I’m very sorry
about Angus’s son,” she said.

“As am I. I must go see to them. In the
meantime, break your fast.” He motioned toward the trestle tables
with benches where women were assembling food and wooden
tableware.

She curtseyed again. “I thank you.”

He bowed. “Later, I’ll be wanting the whole
story of how you came to be here.”

Before he left, he spoke quietly to one of
the women servants. She stared at Gwyneth and nodded.

Seeming much too solemn for her satisfaction,
Alasdair sent her one last glance and limped out on his cane.

One of the youths of his clan had lost his
life. Would he blame her for it?

***

After breakfast, Rory played with the other
children, while Gwyneth busied herself by assisting the servants
clearing away the meal and working in the kitchen. Sunlight shining
through two narrow windows near the vaulted stone ceiling and the
lingering fragrance of oat bannocks helped calm her nerves. The
plentiful food she’d eaten soothed her stomach.

Though her eyes were scratchy with exhaustion
and her muscles sore, she was too tense to sleep. Besides, no one
had offered her a bed. Thankfully, they had allowed her to wash
herself up a bit before breakfast and loaned her clean clothes. Her
own had been covered in black mud from the moor.

Making herself useful to the household was
the only way to keep her worries, as well as her grief over losing
Mora, at bay. But even washing the wooden bowls reminded her of her
dear friend, because they had often shared this task.

“What’s taking you so long, Sassenach?” the
housekeeper, Mistress Weems, bellowed.

Gwyneth glanced up at the rotund, middle-aged
woman with her snarling face. Though no longer above the other
woman’s social station, Gwyneth refused to be intimidated and met
her gaze squarely. Weems glared for a moment, snorted, then
barreled toward the other side of the kitchen.

“Pay her no mind,” the girl beside her said.
“She’s a right auld hag.”

Gwyneth smiled at the girl. A
kerch
held her red hair back, but small locks curled about her face.

“I’m Tessie.” She appeared to be three or
four years younger than Gwyneth’s twenty-three years, and the
kerch
indicated her married state.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Gwyneth.”

“I ken it. Everyone’s talking of you.”

Uneasiness crept in on Gwyneth. “What are
they saying?”

Tessie cast her a nervous glance. “That
you’re English and an enemy MacIrwin.”

“I am English, true, but not an enemy.” She
couldn’t deny her distant blood link to the MacIrwins, but she
could refuse to accept them as true family. “Anything else?”

Tessie studied the bowl she was drying.
“Well, some are saying if not for you traipsing onto MacGrath land,
Campbell might yet live.”

Gwyneth had feared as much. And indeed she
carried a heavy weight of guilt for the boy’s death. “I wish he had
never ridden into the skirmish. He was too young. I had no other
choice but to come here. It was either flee to MacGrath holdings or
be murdered by my own second cousin. I had to protect my son.”

Tessie nodded. “I understand, mistress.”

“Please, call me Gwyneth.”

“As you wish.” Tessie’s smile disappeared
when she glanced over Gwyneth’s shoulder. Heavens, what could be
behind her?

She turned to find Alasdair limping across
the suddenly quiet kitchen. Goodness! What did he want? Given the
servants’ reaction, she suspected he didn’t visit the kitchen very
often, and his imposing form seemed out of place.

His penetrating gaze touched upon her with
much familiarity and connection. “I would have a word with you
upstairs, Mistress Carswell,” he said in a formal but kind
tone.

“Very well.” She wiped her hands on her
skirts and preceded him toward the spiral staircase. She felt all
eyes boring into her, speculating what their laird wished to speak
to her about in private. She prayed that whispered rumors would not
start. The last thing she wanted was another scandal.

“We shall talk in the library.” His voice
echoed when they entered the empty great hall. His cane pecked
along the stone floor as he kept pace beside her.

Alone? In a private room? It wasn’t that she
didn’t trust him. She did. But there could be much speculation from
the clan.

How singular and strange this seemed, to be
strolling along with such a handsome laird. She must remember her
manners. “How are your toe, your head and your other injuries,
Laird MacGrath?”

“Please, I would have you call me Alasdair.
My foot is mending by the day, and the lump on my head no longer
causes me dizziness. As for the cuts, they no longer bleed.”

“I’m glad.”

“’Tis to your credit I’ve healed so
quickly.”

She started to argue, but they entered the
library through an impressive carved oak door, and he closed it
behind them. She glanced about in wonder at the book-lined room.
The MacGrath clan must’ve indeed been more fortunate and prosperous
than most. The musty scent of books reminded her of the small
library in the manor house where she’d grown up. A moment of
nostalgia transported her back to a time and place where she’d
laughed with her sisters and read stories.

Oh, if only she could read some of these
books to Rory. She wanted to pull one from the shelf and leaf
through it, but restrained herself.

“What a lovely library,” she whispered.

“My thanks. Do you read?”

“Eh, yes.” Although she was revealing to him
her former social station—because usually only the wealthy or the
titled read—it could not be helped. Her mother had educated her and
her sisters.

“You may use it whenever you like.”

“I thank you. I am teaching Rory to read.”
She was also grateful he didn’t ask more questions about her past
because they always led to the scandal. And that, he could not find
out about.

This room was smaller than the great hall
here at Kintalon, and clearly a newer addition, with a lower
ceiling and chairs and benches in groupings. Her toes itched,
wanting to dig into the rich plushness of the Turkish carpet spread
across the center of the floor. A small fire crackled in the
fireplace, topped by a carved walnut mantel. She had not seen such
luxury since she’d left England. This was a fitting place for a
noble laird such as he was, certainly better than a byre.

“Have a seat, if you please.” His voice was
but a murmur in the cozy room.

She chose a wooden chair and sat, focusing
her attention on the business at hand. “How is Angus?” Her heart
ached for the poor man.

“Bearing up. ’Tis no easy task to lose a
son.” Alasdair sat across from her.

“No, of course not.” Guilt gnawed at her
vitals. “I cannot tell you how awful I feel about it. I suppose if
I hadn’t come, Campbell would still be alive. It was my fault, I
know, and your clan is right to blame me.” She simply prayed he
could forgive her.

“What?” He frowned. “This was not your fault,
m’lady. And the clan doesn’t blame you.”

She kept her mouth sealed tight, wishing that
was the case but….

“Do they?” he asked, his gaze sharpening.

“I’m not certain. But if they do, I can see
why. In truth, I had no other choice but to flee and come here.
Donald and his men must have discovered that Mora and I had helped
you. When I came back from gathering herbs, the day after you left,
I found them burning our cottage.” Gwyneth’s throat closed up and
her vision blurred, but she swallowed and continued, determined
that everyone know how evil Donald was. “They stabbed Mora in the
back and left her lying in the yard.”

“By the saints. What a barbarian he is!”
Alasdair blew out a long breath. “I am sorry.”

His response gratified her and, she had to
admit, surprised her. She could count on one hand the number of
times a man had come to her defense. “I knew if any of them saw
Rory or me, they’d kill us both.”