My Fierce Highlander (37 page)

He had forced himself to leave London. Great
dread of the dire and gloomy future had weighed upon him during the
journey north. Once he and his men had arrived back at Kintalon, he
had thrown himself into work. He could drown in either work or
drink, and he had never been overly fond of the drink. That would
show a distinct weakness. He refused to be weak.

Lachlan had remained at court in London, but
had promised to return before the first snow.

While they’d been gone, Donald MacIrwin, his
oldest son, and several of his men had been arrested and awaited
trial in Edinburgh a month hence. Apparently, Donald had gone so
far as to murder the messenger who’d brought the subpoena ordering
him to appear before the Privy Council. This act had raised his
noose several inches higher. Once the lairds who sat on the Privy
Council heard of it, they’d thirsted for blood. Several of the
MacGraths and MacIrwins were planning to testify against them.

Though Alasdair was glad to be home, this
place was not the same without Gwyneth and Rory. If the sun shined,
he didn’t know it. He was there for his clan. They needed him. He
liked being needed. That was one thing he understood.

If she didn’t love him, he would teach
himself not to love her.

***

Gwyneth stood gazing out the tall windows
into the evening. Birds flitted across the rain-drenched English
moor. The mist rolled, thick and gray, as if it had come down from
the Highlands to haunt her. The hilly landscape here reminded her a
little of Scotland.

It had been over a month since she had last
seen Alasdair. And each day one thing became more and more clear to
her—though she had made several mistakes in her past, turning away
from Alasdair was the biggest.

He had been right about many things,
including the fact that she carried his babe. But this was not the
reason she missed him. Indeed, Alasdair had burrowed his way into
her soul.

She had thought sacrificing Alasdair’s love
for Rory’s sake would sustain her. She had thought she could accept
life without truly living. But she’d been wrong. Alasdair occupied
her mind, morn ’til dusk. And after, in the darkest night, she
would wake from disturbing dreams and wonder if he were near,
protecting her from the nightmares. Sometimes he was so vibrant and
alive in her dreams that he seduced her and made her yearn for him
to make love to her. She swore she could smell his enticing male
scent and hear his Gaelic murmurs. How many times had she reached
for him in the darkness only to find the bed empty and cold?

She now realized she was the one who’d been
selfish. She’d wanted all these material things for Rory. But what
benefited Rory also benefited her. Now, they both had far more
monetary possessions than she had ever wished for. And it did not
complete either of them. Rory’s future was like the dawn of a clear
day, brilliant and full of promise, but the present was gloomy as
the rain-gray moors outside.

“Do you think Alasdair carved a warrior for
the wooden horse?” Rory asked.

Gwyneth turned from the window.

Her son slumped back in the chair before the
table covered with books. He asked her that question every day
without fail.

“I don’t know,” was always her answer.

“He said he would. And he doesn’t lie.”

“No, he does not.”

And, dear God, the things Alasdair had said
to her. Not lies, but truths so beautiful she was almost overcome
every time she recalled them. Words of profound love and fierce
passion such as she had never imagined. Words she did not deserve.
Her eyes burned with regret.

“I want to go see him,” Rory said.

“So do I, sweetheart. But we cannot right
now.”

“He said he would be my new da if you would
let him.”

Oh, goodness, that again. “Rory…someday you
will understand.”

“I don’t like it here!” he snapped. “There’s
nobody to play with.”

She sighed. They were wearing each other’s
nerves thin. In truth, he could not play with the crusty old
steward. And none of the servants brought their children to the
house.

“I have to go to Edinburgh at the end of the
month to testify against Laird MacIrwin. To tell them about the
horrible things he did when he killed Mora and burned our
cottage.”

Rory jolted upright, and his eyes flared
wide. “Will Alasdair be there?”

“I think he will.”

Rory leapt to his feet and hopped across the
floor toward her. “I want to go! I want to go!” He waved the wooden
horse about. “Can I go, please? Ma! Please!”

“Yes, you may.”

Rory dashed toward the door. “I’ll go pack my
trunk!”

Goodness, the trial wasn’t for three more
weeks. Anticipation energized her at the thought of seeing Alasdair
again. “I think I’ll start packing, too,” she murmured into the
silence and rushed toward her bedchamber.

***

Alasdair sat with Fergus at a small table in
the public room of a coaching inn in Edinburgh, the same one they’d
stayed at two months before, on Grassmarket. Candles lent the room
a dreary atmosphere. The scents of ale and roasting mutton were
thick in the air, but he had no appetite for them. His clansmen,
scattered about the room, and the inn’s other patrons produced a
murmur of conversation around them.

The trial they would testify at tomorrow
would lead to the one thing Alasdair had wanted his whole life.
Indeed, what his father and grandfather had wanted their whole
lives as well. Peace between the MacGraths and the MacIrwins. He
and Donald’s second son, Carbry, who was next in line to become
chief, had already come to a genuine peace agreement—one he had
confidence in, because Carbry was of a completely different nature
than his father.

Aye, this was what Alasdair had dreamed of,
yet he felt no happiness. No satisfaction. Those things he had not
experienced since he’d left Gwyneth in London two months past. Now,
each night was too long. And once he slept, the morn and the
memories arrived too soon to once again cast bleak clouds over his
day.

He’d had his steward send her a missive about
when the MacIrwin trial would be. He’d had no response and didn’t
expect to see her face again outside England.

The possibility she carried his child was a
double-sided coin—one side agony and the other joy. He would see
her again; he promised himself that much.

The wide door to the inn opened with a loud
squeak, and he glanced up. The vision he saw there was both too
beautiful to believe and too painful to look at.
Gwyneth
.
Dressed as he had never seen her, in fine fabrics sewn into the
latest fashion. Her hair styled to perfection. The epitome of a
stunning English lady. And with her, three servants—a middle-aged
maid, a snobbish-looking graying man, and a tall younger maid
carrying the sleeping Rory. His gaze locked on Gwyneth, talking to
the chamberlain about rooms for her party. She seemed a dream-like
illusion. He could not draw breath.

“What is it?” Fergus glanced behind himself
toward the door. “Och, good lord.”

Indeed.

Fergus gauged his reaction. “Are you going to
go speak to her?”

Speak to her? Hell, he wasn’t even certain he
could stand or form a coherent sentence. He stared at the tankard
of ale between his hands. “Nay.” He had tried to tell himself he’d
only imagined how much her rejection had hurt. But it was not his
imagination.

A moment later, rustling silken skirts
stopped by the table. Shimmering blue fabric and the scent of fresh
flowers. But even those things did not dazzle him. It was Gwyneth’s
smile and the vague hint of moisture in her eyes. “Laird MacGrath.”
She curtseyed.

God’s teeth, man, say something.

“M’lady.” He gave a mock bow but remained
seated. He did not trust himself to stand without overturning the
chair or some other such blunder.

“It is good to see you again,” she said with
extreme politeness.

“Likewise.” Though in truth, this was not
good for his heart since it now refused to beat properly. And his
soul shriveled into a tight ball against the torture of looking at
her.

“Could I speak with you?”

Though he was determined not to have a
conversation with her, curiosity won. “Aye. Here?”

She darted her gaze about the crowded room.
“In private.”

Hell and the devil! What is she up to?
He could not tolerate much more of her torment.

“Come.” He rose from his chair, and without
waiting for her, proceeded up the narrow stairs. One part of him
prayed she wouldn’t follow, that she’d find him crudely insulting
and scurry the other way. Another part of him waited, breath
suspended, as if it would suffocate without her presence.

Along the dimly lit corridor, he opened the
door to his chamber, stood back and waited for her to enter.

She swept past him. Her wide skirts brushed
silk against his legs. Refusing to think or feel anything, he
followed her inside and closed the door.

Her French perfume overcame his senses. And
yet she did not smell like his Gwyneth of smoke and sex, making
love to the glow of a balefire. She was a different Gwyneth.
English Gwyneth. The woman she was meant to be from birth. A woman
who knew how to wear privilege and wealth like the finest
clothing.

It was easier to think of her as a stranger.
Perhaps then the abyss that always yawned before him would be a
little further away. But she spoke.

“I missed you so.” This was his Gwyneth’s
voice, the Gwyneth he knew in the Highlands. The one who saved his
life and made his bed. Before he took her upon it. And her eyes,
vivid blue as a clear spring day when the snow melts, they were his
Gwyneth’s eyes.

He looked away. “Indeed?”

“Yes. I’ve come to say how sorry I am.”

Sorry. Aye, he kenned it well.

“And I wanted to tell you—” She wrung her
hands and then crossed her arms over her breasts. “Goodness, this
is harder than I’d thought.”

He was in no mood to wait upon the delicate
sensibilities of a woman. Especially one who had hacked his heart
from his chest with an ax.

“Just say it.”
So we can both go about our
lives again.

“Well, Alasdair…”

Good lord, she was getting intimate with his
name. Perhaps his glare had not been cold enough.

“You were right about everything.”

What the devil was she talking about? He
watched her carefully. Her gaze darted about.

“And I realized I was afraid to take what I
wanted…which was you.” Her eyes softened upon him. Her lips lifted
a wee fraction.

A twinge of warning shot through him.

“From the moment I saw you lying on that
battlefield with a peace treaty, I knew you were something else.
Something I had never encountered before. I feared to hope for
anything. I never—” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “I
never believed a man like you could love me,” she whispered. “I
didn’t believe love existed. It was more a fairytale than those
stories I tell Rory. And yet, you are real.” She took his hand,
lifted it to her face, and kissed his palm. Her warm tears wet his
thumb.

His ears would not listen to her words. He
was afraid he might misunderstand them. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you, Alasdair MacGrath.
And the love I have for you is not bland or mediocre. It is a love
so grand it consumes every part of me. I have not lived for the
past two months. I have existed in a world of gray mist and
nightmares, with nothing but the memory of your face to sustain
me.”

Was it really him she was talking to?
“Forsooth. Am I dreaming?” Maybe he missed her so bad, he’d lost
his grip on reality.

She smiled, and yet tears streamed unchecked
from her eyes. “Can you still love me? Will you marry me?”

He took her face between his hands, stepped
close and ran his fingers over her brows, her nose, her chin. He
had to assure himself she was real. “You don’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do.” She cupped his face in her hands
in a like manner. “I love you, Alasdair. I’m asking you to marry
me. I want to live with you forever at Kintalon and have your
bairns.”

His throat tightened. “Gwyneth, don’t toy
with me this way! Tell me, in truth.”

She tugged his head downward toward hers and
pressed her lips to his. It seemed in that moment his cracked heart
shattered and fell into a thousand pieces. Yet that was only a
shell around his real heart—born anew and pounding like a war
drum.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips.
“I want to be with you.”

“But what of England and safety? What of Rory
and his title?”

“Donald and his men are arrested. And Rory’s
title means nothing if we do not have you. I thought I would be
happy with Rory safe and his future so bright with promise. I
thought I could sacrifice my heart, my love for you. I knew it
would be painful, but I thought I could withstand it. I was wrong.
Rory and I were both happiest at Kintalon, with you and your clan.
That was home to us both. As for living in England, it doesn’t
matter if Rory behaves like an English lord fifteen years hence, if
he is so miserable now he cannot drag himself off the chair.”

A ray of hope shined into the bleakness of
his soul. “Rory missed me?” For some reason, it was easier to
believe Rory had missed him. Maybe because he’d convinced himself
Gwyneth hated him.

“Yes, but not as much as I did.” She stroked
his face, his chin, with gentle fingers. “Do you believe me?”

“Aye. But you must understand you ripped my
heart out by the roots.”

Tears filled her eyes again. “Pray, forgive
me. I will make it up to you, I swear, even if it should take years
to prove to you how much I love you.”

“You’ll never abandon me again?”

She shook her head. “I won’t. I promise.”