My Fierce Highlander (19 page)

Och.
The lad needed a father, and
Alasdair did not feel worthy or capable of filling such a lofty
role. But at times like this, he wanted to try.

“A good eve to you, Rory.”

“Will you teach me to fight with a sword?”
The boy rushed forward, a small wooden sword in his hand and
anticipation brightening his eyes.

How was he supposed to refuse such an eager
request? The latest attack must have spurred the lad’s protective
instincts. And he truly did need to learn some weaponry skills, for
he’d be a man one day. And he’d need to defend himself.

“Very well. I’ll demonstrate a move or two.”
Alasdair removed his own basket-hilted broadsword from his
scabbard, held it aloft and waited.

The lad mimicked his stance.

“See, Rory, hold the hilt of your sword just
this way.” Alasdair showed him the correct grip. “Try it.”

“Like this?” Rory adjusted his grip on the
rough mock weapon that one of the older clansmen had carved for
him. The hilt was actually too big for his small hand.

“Aye, very good. Now, if one of the enemy
clan comes at you directly in front, thrusting straight toward your
chest, deflect the blow this way.” Alasdair showed him the simple
defense tactic.

The child repeated the move perfectly.

“Excellent! You’re a natural.”

His eyes alight, he grinned ear to ear.
“Truly?” He even did a little bounce on his toes.

“Aye. ’Twas perfect.” Och, the lad near
carved his heart from his chest at times. Maybe because he looked
so much like Gwyneth, with those blue eyes. Or ’haps it was because
Rory made Alasdair realize how much he missed his own son.

But he must not dwell on the past. Here and
now were the important things.

Rory stood beside him, awaiting the next
instruction.

Alasdair backed up to give himself room.
“Now, if the enemy is slashing from left to right, trying to take
your head off, you would block the blow this way.” He flicked his
blade at the correct angle.

“What are you doing?” the incensed female
voice echoed from behind them.

Alasdair turned. Gwyneth stood with her fists
propped on her narrow hips, her brows lowered, and her mouth
crimped into a thin line.

Now I’ve gone and done it.

“He’s showing me how to use a
claidheamh
mòr
.” Rory proudly demonstrated his new skills for his
mother.

She stiffened. “Why don’t you go find Little
John Ray and show him? I need to talk to Laird MacGrath.”

“Aye!” The boy ran from the garden.

“Do not run with that sword!”

“’Tis not real, Ma,” Rory said as if she were
daft.

“I know that, but you could still fall on it
and hurt yourself.”

Rory let out an impatient breath and walked
the rest of the way.

Gwyneth faced Alasdair again and crossed her
arms over her chest. He would like to kiss the tightness and
annoyance from her lips. But first he would, without doubt, have to
endure an unpleasant sort of tongue-lashing. He would much prefer
the other type, a flick of her tongue against his lips, inside his
mouth. Saints! He could not look at her without hot arousal
stirring his blood.

“I do not want you teaching my son how to
wield a blade,” she said firmly.

Alasdair returned his broadsword to the
scabbard at his hip. “And why is that, m’lady?”

Her face darkened. “Rory will not be a
Highland warrior when he grows up. You people fight over
everything. It’s your favorite pastime. I tell you, killing should
not be a pastime.”

“’Tis a matter of survival. Do you think we
invited the MacIrwins to burn the village? Nay. Every man must
learn to defend himself and those he cares about. I make sure all
the lads are trained so that when they become men, they can protect
themselves, their families and the clan. If Rory grows up without
knowing how to handle weapons, he will be at a disadvantage. If he
is attacked, he will be unable to defend himself. Is that what
you’re wanting?”

“No. I just don’t want him fighting, or using
weapons at all,” she said in a calmer but stubborn tone.

“You’re a woman, and English at that. I don’t
expect you to understand what it means to be a man of the
Highlands. But Rory has undoubtedly inherited his interest in
swords and protecting his family from his father.”

“From his father? That’s preposterous.”

“Baigh Shaw was ever a man who relished
battle and fighting.”

Gwyneth opened her mouth, then closed it.
Twice. For a moment she reminded him of a grounded salmon. Then the
skin of her face and throat turned that adorable pink color. He
wondered if her whole body blushed in just that way during
lovemaking.

“The p-point is…I will not allow Rory to
learn to fight or go into battle. I am giving him an education, and
he will one day find a good position in a safe place. He could be a
scholar, perhaps a professor at university, or even a
physician.”

She had a grand dream for her son, and there
was naught wrong with that, except it might not be what Rory
wanted. When he grew up, he might wish to join the king’s army
instead. But Alasdair wouldn’t deepen her anxiety. “Aye, I ken your
meaning. No parent wants to think of their child in a dangerous
circumstance.”

“You’re not a parent, so you cannot grasp the
import of it.”

Her words flayed him like the sharp edge of a
blade. “You’re right. I’m not a parent because my son died before
he could be born.”

Gwyneth pressed her eyes closed for a moment,
and when she opened them, managed to look most contrite. “Pray
pardon, my laird. I did not mean that,” she said softly.

He didn’t respond, but tried to lock his
emotions away again. He didn’t like them breaking free at the least
provocation, nor did he wish to speak harshly to her.

“I only meant that, I don’t want anyone to
encourage Rory in his interest in swords,” she said. “He’s always
fighting mock battles with imaginary people. I usually try to
divert his attention to something else.”

“’Tis a good habit. But you must realize the
lad has a lot of Scots blood in him, and making him lose interest
in fighting or weaponry will be a task. ’Tis natural. He was born
to it. I was the same way as a lad. I was always hacking away at
something with a wooden sword, as were my brother and cousins.”

“That’s fine. I’d just prefer you didn’t show
him any more techniques for killing people.”

“I wasn’t showing him how to kill people. I
was showing him how to block the blows of blades coming at him,
moves that could one day save his life.”

She stared at the ground in silence and
rubbed her forehead. He hoped she would think that over thoroughly,
because a grown man who couldn’t defend himself was as good as
dead.

“He but wants to protect and defend his ma,”
Alasdair said.

“Did he tell you that?”

“Aye. When I was hurt and in your byre, he
said he would protect you from the MacIrwin.”

“I see.”

He wasn’t sure she did. “Even then, Rory knew
Donald was evil and that you were afraid of him. Rory’s a bright
and canny lad, m’lady, and he’s but trying to develop the skills he
needs to be a man.”

“He’s only five,” she said, her voice low and
vulnerable.

Alasdair restrained the urge to take her into
his arms and hold her, to soothe away the tension and fear. “He’ll
be six soon, but it doesn’t matter his age. He’s a lad without his
da, so he feels ’tis his job to protect the women of his
family—you.”

“I must take him from the Highlands.” She
locked her determined gaze onto Alasdair’s. “I’m sure Lachlan won’t
be back for weeks with news of a position in Edinburgh. Have you
thought of a family I might find a position with?”

Here it was again, the task he didn’t want to
push forward with. It created too much turmoil within him. He’d
already told her he didn’t want her to leave. But it would be best
for Gwyneth, Rory, and the MacGrath clan if she did. Still,
Alasdair knew he was a greedy, selfish bastard. He wanted…

What did he want?

“I have thought on it some. But I know very
few Lowland families. None come to mind with young children.”

“What about your in-laws?”

“I’ve had little contact with them for some
time. Perhaps one of Leitha’s brothers or sisters would be in need
of a governess. I’ll send a letter.”

Her face brightened. “I would be in your
debt.”

And what he would like in payment was a kiss.
But how ridiculous he was—like a green lad on the edge of becoming
a man, gazing at a pretty lass.

How he would love to be the cause of the
happiness she now showed. But it was the prospect of leaving the
Highlands—of leaving him—that filled her with joy.

“I thank you for your recommendation, Laird
MacGrath.”

“You’re welcome. And ’tis Alasdair,” he
corrected for the thousandth time. After the intimate way he’d
touched her in the library, he couldn’t believe she would address
him so formally, especially when they were alone. Clearly, she was
trying to push him away.

She sobered, a guarded expression falling
into place. “Very well, Alasdair.”

He shouldn’t have said anything. He preferred
her smiling and carefree. She had the look of a very young lass
then.

But he did savor the sound of his name on her
lips. More than that, he wanted to savor her lips, feel them open
beneath his, the way they did when he’d kissed her. She had invited
him inside with warmth and ardor as if unable to control herself.
Would she do that again now?

His expression must have changed for when her
eyes met his, a sudden look of alarm crossed her features. “I must
be off to see what Rory is into.” With a swish of her skirts
Gwyneth turned and left.

He thought about calling her back but knew it
would be folly. It was best that he not touch her again.

***

At midmorning several days later, Alasdair
returned to his bedchamber to retrieve an old dagger he wished to
let one of the villagers borrow. He halted when he found Gwyneth
making his bed.

The sight of her bending over, touching the
linens that had lain next to his naked skin the night before jolted
him.

“You’re not a chambermaid.”

She spun around. “You startled me!”

“I only wished that you oversee the servants
and make sure they do the work. Not do it yourself.” He could not
abide watching her do household chores. He knew not why, but
something about that felt very wrong.

“Willamena is sick, and I’ve taken over her
chores,” Gwyneth said.

“You should’ve assigned it to someone else.
You’re a lady.” He knew, without doubt, she was from the
aristocratic class, though she refused to admit it. He could not
fathom why.

She frowned and her eyes glinted with
mysterious pain. A pain he yearned to get to the bottom of. What
had happened in her past?

“I will earn my keep as well as my son’s,”
she said with fierce pride.

“You’ve more than earned it with your healing
skills. You saved my life and, to me, that’s worth a hefty
sum.”

“Nevertheless…”

He paced toward the chest, trying to remember
why he’d come. His attention strayed to Gwyneth as she approached
the door.

“Um,” he said, hoping to stop her before she
left. Why? He wanted to look at her a bit longer, listen to her
soothing voice.

She turned. “You wanted something?”

Aye, I want something.
Alasdair held
himself back from suffocating in the blue of her eyes, bright as
the loch reflecting the clear sky. “You must have been avoiding the
garden of late.”
And the kisses.

Her face flushed, but she held his gaze. “I
would not wish to…cause a problem.”

“’Twould not be a problem, lass.” The only
problem was that he wanted to kiss her again, but she’d made
herself scarce. He longed for her cool hands to stroke over his
naked skin, both inciting and soothing at once. He yearned to know
what lingered in the depths of her thoughts. What did she want and
need? What did she feel when he kissed her? Did she hunger the way
he did?

She swallowed hard and stared at something
behind him.

“Gwyneth.” Just saying her name aroused him
as it would have to trail his tongue up her neck.

Her eyes darkened when she gauged his
expression. He knew his desire must be written on his face. It had
been a long time since he’d invited a woman into his bed, and his
body was rebelling from the lack.

“What say you?” he asked.

“About…what, Laird MacGrath?”

She was attempting to remind him of his
place, but he didn’t want to remember. He wanted only to be a man
for a few minutes, and she a woman.

“What would you say if I locked the door
and—” He inhaled a ragged breath, unable to vocalize what he
wanted. So much.

She gasped. “No, you must not,” she
whispered. “’Tis not proper.”

“Nay, not proper at all.” The fantasies
playing through his mind threatened to render him senseless. Images
of her naked beneath him, on top of him…squirming, arching bodies.
The slide of her bare smooth skin across his. He was famished for
the sweet, female taste of her. He wished to fill all his senses
with naught but her.

“But ’tis beyond appealing to think about,”
he murmured.

“Appalling, you mean.”

“Oh, nay, m’lady.” She didn’t mean that; she
couldn’t. ’Twas obvious she’d relished those earlier kisses as much
as he had.

She eased toward the door again, but he moved
quicker and closed it in front of her.
Hell.
What am I
doing? I should let her go.

His hand on the door, he tried to calm his
need.
Have I lost my mind?
He wouldn’t do anything except
touch her face, kiss her. Then he would stop. He would not dishonor
her. He but wanted to cherish her for a moment. One stolen moment
in time…for him and for her, amid all the thousands of hours of
duty that devoured his time. Did they each not deserve a moment to
enjoy something exquisite?