My Fierce Highlander (33 page)

“No. I would not have this lead to bloodshed.
We must work this out civilly.”

“As you wish.” His hand rested on the shining
silver basket-hilt of his sword at his left side. A sheathed,
brass-hilted dirk hung from his belt, and he had a smaller
sgian
dubh
hidden inside his doublet. The tension emanating from his
body told her he expected trouble and was ready for it.

“You do not think civility is possible, do
you?”

Alasdair lifted a brow and let his gaze
wander over the ornate furnishings and along the bookcases. “I
wouldn’t hazard a guess.”

After the whirlwind of travel they had
engaged in for the last week, the room around them was too still
and quiet.

She glanced up and found Alasdair watching
her.

“I thank you for coming with me.”

“I wouldn’t want you to arrive here alone. No
telling what Southwick will do.”

I must see Rory.
Was he terrified?
Hungry? Hurt? Her gaze kept darting to the door. She crossed her
arms over her queasy stomach. She had been truly sick with worry
since they’d left Edinburgh and had not been able to keep a bite
down.

“You’re lovely as heather in full bloom,”
Alasdair murmured.

His impulsive compliment created a burst of
heat in her chest. She caught the longing in his eyes. It too
closely matched that in her soul.

“Oh, heavens.” She surveyed the emerald
damask skirts and bodice she wore, pilfered from Alasdair’s wife’s
trunk. “I thank you.” She should say something to him in return, to
let him see a touch of the esteem and admiration she held for him.
“And you, sir, look very handsome and noble.”

A half smile tugged at his mouth. His eyes
gleamed with amusement and warmth.

What was Alasdair doing flirting with her?
Trying to distract her, help her relax? She appreciated his efforts
but she wanted this meeting over with. She wanted her son back.

“Good lord, I wish he would hurry.” She paced
across the multicolored Turkish carpet and back.

“If we don’t emerge within the hour, Lachlan
and the other men will be barging in.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The paneled oak door opened, and the steward
showed in Gwyneth’s father.

She snapped her gaping mouth closed and tried
to gather her composure in the face of Lloyd Carswell, earl of
Darrow. She had never thought to see him again after he’d disowned
her with scathing insults and glowers of pure loathing. His hair
had turned a paler gray in her absence, and the bitter lines about
his eyes and mouth were deeper.

“A good day to you, Father.” She
curtseyed.

“Gwyneth,” he said in a sullen tone. His gaze
darted over her shoulder to Alasdair.

“How are you? How is Mother…and
everyone?”

“Very well.”

The door swung open again and Maxwell
Huntley, marquess of Southwick pranced in like a peacock in bright
turquoise and yellow. “My most humble apologies for my late
arrival.” He gave a flourishing bow.

Gwyneth wanted to leap forward and strangle
him, but restrained herself. “Where is Rory? I must see him at
once.”

“He is well and fit.” Southwick’s gaze
strayed to Alasdair. “I see you have brought your mastiff
along.”

“You stole my son!”

Southwick smiled, resembling a blond,
pointed-chin weasel. “Ah, my lady, do calm yourself, if you
please.”

His disregard for her wishes to see Rory
magnified her anger.
I’ll kill him!

“You have developed a bitter tongue,
Gwyneth,” her father chided.

I have every right to my bitter tongue,
Father,
she wanted to shout. But doing so would not help her
cause. She must play the part of a ‘Lady.’

Her father’s gaze raked her in a disdainful
way, then shot to Alasdair. “And you must be MacGrath.”

“Alasdair MacGrath, earl and chief of
MacGrath,” he said in a commanding voice. He came forward and shook
her father’s hand.

“A Scottish earl?” Her father frowned. “You
neglected to tell me this, Southwick.”

Alasdair released Lord Darrow’s hand and
stepped back beside Gwyneth.

Southwick blew out a puff of air and flung
his hand upward. “It is of no import. As you can see by his
apparel, he’s a Highland barbarian.”

“He is no barbarian,” Gwyneth said with an
intentional bite to her genteel tone. “He is a far more civilized
gentleman than you.”

“Well, I’m sure you know how very
civilized
he is.” Southwick sniffed.

She glanced aside and found Alasdair’s fierce
gaze stabbing toward the smaller man. She sensed the tightening of
Alasdair’s muscles, as if he were barely restrained from launching
himself at Southwick, blades flying.

“Let’s get to the point,” her father
interrupted. “I must be on my way. Shall we sit down,
Southwick?”

“By all means.” With much drama, he waved
them all toward a sitting area. His strong, perfumed sweat odor
wafted to her, and she wanted to hold her breath.

Alasdair claimed the high-backed bench with
Gwyneth. The other two men occupied individual leather cushioned
chairs.

Gwyneth’s father glared at her. “Against my
sound advice, Southwick wishes to claim and support your
bastard.”

She fought back the flush of mortification
that crept up from her chest. She would not let her father’s
judgmental disdain affect her. “I know that, and I have nothing
against Rory inheriting if you wish to give him property, but he is
too young to leave me now. I propose that I raise him until he is
at least twelve, then he can go to boarding school.”

“Twelve? Good lord.” Southwick snorted. “That
would be much too late to begin his training. He is no longer a
babe. And indeed he has shocking and ghastly manners and speaks
like a barbaric Scot. He requires a proper education if he is to
live up to my expectations.”

His expectations? As if
his
expectations were the only ones that mattered. What about her
expectations of him, which he’d miserably failed in, abandoning her
to poverty like the coward he was.

“I’m providing Rory with an excellent
education. When he is old enough, he will be prepared for
university.”

Southwick smirked. “That is simply not
enough. He requires proper clothing and such.”

“I have provided for him for almost six
years. And as you can see, he’s in fine shape. I can continue to
provide for him until he is older. I have full legal rights to keep
him until he is at least seven.”

“A future English marquess should be raised
in England, to learn the English way of life. He cannot learn that
in Scotland.”

What could she say to that? She wanted Rory
to be raised in England, but not by Southwick. How could she
extract herself from this pit?

Gwyneth’s father snorted. “Southwick, I
daresay you will have a devil of a time convincing King James to
accept your bastard as your heir.”

“Do not worry over that, Darrow. Rest assured
I have the king’s ear.” Southwick turned to Gwyneth. “I understand
you are a widow now. Did your husband leave you any money or
property?”

She almost gave a bitter laugh at that
ridiculous notion. “No. The point is not what material possessions
I can give my son, but the love and care I can give him. Which you
cannot.”

“My lady,” he said in a condescending tone
and flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “I have enough money
to hire ten governesses to care for him if that is what’s required.
You would have him grow into a tender mama’s boy.”

“No, he is strong and brave. Laird MacGrath
has provided him with swordplay lessons.” Though she’d hated the
lesson she’d interrupted, she felt at liberty to use it now to
plead her case.

“Of the barbarous Highland variety, no doubt.
That will not serve him well when he is marquess of Southwick. He
must learn the skills and manners of an English nobleman.”

She clenched her fists on her lap. No
argument she had was sufficient for them to see her side. “Rory is
illegitimate. Therefore you have no say over him! You didn’t claim
him when he was conceived, and now it is six years too late.”

“Well.” Southwick lifted his pale brows and
smoothed his slim fingers over the turquoise silk taffeta of his
sleeve. “You could marry me.”

Chapter Sixteen

“
Marry you?
” Gwyneth couldn’t believe
what her ears heard coming out of Southwick’s mouth.

“Have you lost your senses, Southwick?” Lord
Darrow demanded.

Her father hated her. He believed her such a
horrible person that he would question the marquess’s sanity for
wanting to marry her. She couldn’t stand to look at her own father
a moment longer, and switched her gaze to Alasdair.

He had turned to a statue of marble beside
her, and yet through his eyes she saw a destructive storm rampaging
inside him. She feared he might slay Southwick where he sat.

“My wife died six months ago,” Southwick
said, eyeing Alasdair with a bit of concern. “I don’t feel like
marrying a flighty young chit. Gwyneth, you are my son’s mother. It
is only right.”

“Why did you not do this six years ago when I
told you I was with child?” She could not comprehend how different
her life would have been. Not better, but different.

He shrugged. “It did not suit me at the
time.”

Such was the marquess’s good fortune in life.
He did not even feel compelled to come up with a decent excuse for
his cowardice.

“You were greedy, wanting a duke’s daughter
instead.”

Southwick sent her a smirking half-smile.
“Yes.”

“Marrying me now will not make Rory
legitimate.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Of course she wouldn’t marry the snake. But
what would he do about Rory if she refused him?

Gwyneth slid another glance toward Alasdair
where he sat in silence. This time his gaze locked upon her. The
full impact of how he felt was clear on his face. He had asked her
to marry him. In his native tongue, he had told her he loved her.
She loved him, as well.

Of course, she had never loved Southwick.
That had been a stupid, childish infatuation. But the emotion
Alasdair stirred up inside her had a life of its own. He loved her
in truth. Not just in the heat of passion.

“It will do you no good to look to your lover
for his approval. He will not want to share you, I don’t
imagine.”

Alasdair turned his cutting glare toward
Southwick. “The lady is capable of making her own decisions.”

“I thought you worked for him,” her father
bellowed, his glare filled with disdain.

Whether she was Alasdair’s paramour or his
servant, she knew it was all the same in her father’s eyes. She
could sink no lower.

“I did. I was his temporary housekeeper. And
I’m grateful to him for allowing me to earn my keep.”

He grunted with disgust. “You should’ve
stayed put at the MacIrwin’s holdings. He is your blood kin, and
that’s where you belong.”

Dare she say she didn’t belong anywhere in
the Highlands? She belonged here in England with her family. But
no, that was her fault. Everything was. “Your illustrious cousin
Donald wanted to kill me, and Laird MacGrath provided me
protection.”

“Why should MacIrwin want to kill you? I’m
paying him for your upkeep.”

“I knew it!” Why else would her barbaric
cousin allow her to live on his lands? He would do anything for
coin. The money was likely from her dowry.

“And you’re showing precious little gratitude
for it,” her father grumbled.

Gratitude? Why should she be thankful for
being outcast and exiled to the remote and barbaric Highlands,
never to be seen again…at least she was certain he’d hoped never to
see her again. She was equally certain he’d hoped she would die
from the elements or starvation and her bastard with her.

“What did you do to enrage MacIrwin?” her
father asked.

“I saved the life of his mortal enemy, Laird
MacGrath. After Donald and his men left him for dead.”

Her father’s glare shifted to Alasdair.

“Ah. How sweet,” Southwick mocked. “They’ve
saved each other’s lives. I do believe they are in love.”

Gwyneth dropped her gaze to Alasdair’s fist,
clenched by his leg, and tried to fight down the embarrassment that
both her father and Southwick knew the true nature of Gwyneth’s
association with Alasdair.

“’Tis not your concern,” Alasdair
seethed.

“It is my concern if my future wife now
carries a Scots bastard. And she better hope she does not, or she
will never see Rory again.”

How dare Southwick say such? “I do not! I am
not with child!” Gwyneth said.

Alasdair’s fury became palpable, his muscles
tense and his breathing faster. She was thankful for his control
but feared he might lose it at any moment.

“Good.” Southwick’s speculative gaze darted
back and forth between her and Alasdair. “If you want to be with
Rory, you will marry me,” he said nonchalantly. “I will be
petitioning the king to claim Rory as my heir and to obtain full
legal custody. You had best cooperate because you do not have a leg
to stand on, my
lady
.”

“You cannot mean it!” Even her arms and legs
ached with the emotion and denial. “He is my son alone! You
disowned us both. You would have nothing to do with us. Not until
it’s convenient for you. You destroyed my life, and now you want to
take the last thing I have left! The
only
thing that matters
to me.”

Southwick steepled his fingers before him and
observed her with urbane coolness. “I do not think Rory is the only
thing that matters to you. If he was, you would be falling on your
knees at my feet, thanking me for proposing.”

“What have I ever done to cause you to hate
me so? I refuse to marry you because you have treated me lower than
gutter trash. You cast me aside when I needed you most.”