My Fierce Highlander (4 page)

Donald turned and left the cottage. “Search
yon wood,” he yelled to his men and pointed at the forest beyond
the byre. “They may’ve crawled off and died.”

One of his men moved toward the byre.

No! Let him pass by.
They simply could
not find MacGrath or they were all dead.

The man yanked the door open and stuck his
head inside.

After a long moment, he closed it and moved
on.

Thank you, God
. Gwyneth released a
breath, her knees threatening to buckle.

She forced herself to go about her outside
chores as usual, feeding the chickens and milking the cows, all the
while watching for Donald’s men from the corner of her eye.

About an hour later, they appeared to have
left the area. Concealing her items in a feed bucket, she carried
oat porridge, bread and ale into the byre.

“They’ve gone.” She approached the corner
where MacGrath lay and set the food on the ground.

“
Mo chreach
.” He pushed the blanket
and straw from his head. “I thank you for the use of your wee dirk,
but I’m wanting my dagger now.” He handed her the weapon.

“I’ll bring it to you. But you must eat and
regain your strength.”

“When I heard them open the door, I was
thinking I was a dead man for certain sure.”

“We’ve outsmarted them for now.” She placed a
rolled-up blanket beneath his head and shoulders so he might sit up
a bit. “Careful you don’t cause that wound to bleed again.”

His direct stare unnerved her. He seemed
intent on catching a glimpse of her thoughts—as if he wanted to
know her secrets.

“I thank you for your help,” he said, his
voice low and deep.

“You’re welcome.”

But he was the enemy, she had to keep
reminding herself. An enemy she had given a weapon to, and had it
returned. That connection of fledgling trust was something new to
her.

Gwyneth knelt beside him, picked up the bowl
and scooped a spoonful of oat porridge for him.

“I’m not so maimed I cannot feed myself,
m’lady.”

Stubborn male pride. “Don’t be silly. You’re
injured, and I would rather you didn’t spill porridge all over my
blanket.” She held the wooden spoon to his mouth. “Open.” If she
treated him like a lad, mayhap she wouldn’t see him as such a
tempting man.

He hesitated, but eventually complied. He
took the bite, chewed and swallowed. “’Tis verra good.” A hint of a
smile lightened his expression, but his perceptive gaze remained
steady upon her.

“Mora taught me her secret recipe,” she said
to fill the uncomfortable silence. She was certainly not accustomed
to men praising her cooking…or staring at her with such
attentiveness.

“Who’s Mora?” he asked.

“A good friend and a healer, also. This is
her byre, and Rory and I live in her cottage.”

“Ah.” He accepted another bite and swallowed.
“She trained you in the healing arts, then?”

“Indeed.”

“Not only are you a good cook and a gifted
healer, you’re lovely as a spring morn. You ken the kind—when the
sky is so brilliant and blue it hurts your eyes.” He winked.

Her face felt singed of a sudden. Good
heavens! Such extravagant words, she could not credit. The knock on
the head had addled him. But a wink from those darkly seductive
eyes was captivating and potent. She fed him quickly so he would
stop spewing nonsense. Men did not compliment her looks. Certainly
not her late husband, Baigh Shaw.

I’m glad he’s gone.
Time and again,
Baigh had mistreated Rory, and her as well. She was thankful they
didn’t have to suffer any more bruises at his hand.

“Tell me, m’lady, what is your name?”
MacGrath’s deep voice murmured the words in an intimate tone that
sent tingles down her neck. She was not even that close to him.
Though she did wonder what it would feel like if he whispered
against her ear. He watched her as a cat watches a sparrow before
it pounces.

“Mistress Carswell.” She hated the Scottish
custom in which the wife did not take her husband’s last name when
she married, but kept her maiden name. The children, at least, took
the husband’s name. That was the reason she’d agreed to marry Baigh
Shaw, so her son would have a name besides her own.

“And your Christian name?” MacGrath
asked.

She dropped her gaze to the bowl of lumpy
porridge and the spoon she stirred it with. Not near as appealing
as his visage, but safe. “It matters not.”

He tilted his head. “I but wondered if your
name fits you.”

She lifted another bite, trying to focus on
the spoon and not his enticing mouth. Not the amused quirk.

“And if my name doesn’t fit? What am I to do,
pick another one?”

He smiled with a flash of strong white teeth.
“Aye, and why not?”

A grin formed on her lips, but she squelched
it. This was the senseless banter of a flirtation. Ridiculous here,
in a Highland byre. This was no dance in a great hall or fine
castle. No need to be coy.

“Gwyneth is my name.”

“’Tis Welsh, not English.”

His astuteness impressed her. “My mother
spent a few years of her youth in Wales. She had a close friend by
that name.”

“’Tis a bonny and fitting name for you as
well.”

“I thank you.” She lifted a small chunk of
bread to his mouth. He opened and took it. Her finger grazed his
lip, the silkiness and heat intensifying her awareness. Her hand
was much less steady as she lowered it.

MacGrath chewed and swallowed. “’Tis you I
must thank. I cannot remember when I’ve had better porridge and
bread. Or someone with such a gentle hand to tend my wounds.”

He was a charmer in the guise of a whiskered
barbarian, and unfortunately, she was not immune.

She gave him the wooden cup of ale, gathered
her wooden utensils and stood. “You’re welcome. Now, you must rest
so you can heal.”

He drank, then handed her the empty cup. “I’m
hoping you’ll hurry back afore long. I’m enjoying your
company.”

Ignoring his last statement and the engaging
look in his eye, she hurriedly said, “I’ll bring your supper later,
sir.”

“And my dagger, too, aye?”

“Yes.” Disliking the heated sensation that
covered her body, she strode out the door and closed it before he
could utter any more sugared compliments. She’d felt this way years
ago when a dashing lord had asked for a dance. Now she knew no good
could come of it.

Not for her. Not ever for her.

Her two older sisters had been more fortunate
and wiser than she, and they’d married well. She didn’t yet know
whether her three younger sisters were married; she hadn’t seen
them in six years. She had no doubt her only brother was doing well
at university. He was their father’s favorite, after all, his heir,
and would never want for anything.

Best not to think of her family, England or
men. All were beyond her reach. And she was glad she didn’t have to
bow down to a man’s wishes anymore. She now had the greatest
measure of freedom she’d ever had, thanks to Mora. If her friend
hadn’t taken her in, Donald might have married Gwyneth off to
another of his wretched friends.

No, she would never marry again and be under
a man’s command.

***

Alasdair shifted, trying to make himself more
comfortable on the hard packed floor. With his belly partway full
and his mind floating with images of a lovely lass, he was as
content as could be expected. His foot, his head, and various other
spots pained him, but he tried not to think on it.

Instead, he closed his eyes and forced his
thoughts toward his own safety and that of his clansmen. Did they
think him dead? Would Donald MacIrwin return?

Something poked his arm, and his eyes sprang
open.

The lad jumped back and clutched a weathered
wooden sword to his chest. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Not with you poking at me like that.”

Rory’s sky-blue eyes remained round.

Alasdair smiled, hoping the lad would lose
some of his fear. “’Tis a nice sword you have there.”

He held it out and looked at it. “I found it
in the wood.”

“Did you now? That was a bit of luck.”

“What’s your name?”

“Angus.” Alasdair hated to lie to the child,
but ’twas safest for him. “And you’re Rory?”

“Aye. Are you a warrior?”

“I suppose I am.” Though fighting was not
something he chose. He would much rather simply lead his clan in
peace.

Rory glanced at the door and lowered his
voice. “Will you teach me to be a warrior, too?”

“You’re a mite young.”

“Next month I’ll be six.” His eyes lit with
excitement. “One time I got to watch the laird’s men practicing
with their swords and pistols and axes. I want to do that. Someday,
I’ll be a great fighter.”

“That you will, lad. I’ve no doubt of
it.”

“Watch this.” Rory launched into some fancy
footwork and thrust his sword about.

Fine entertainment, but Alasdair dared not
laugh. He maintained a solemn expression, and when Rory, breathing
hard from the exertion, halted and looked to him for reaction,
Alasdair nodded. “Well done indeed. I see you already ken a few
things.”

Rory came forward, curious eyes examining
him. “What kind of sword do you have?”

“None at the moment. I’m guessing someone
took my favorite sword and made off with it. But I shall get
another. A basket-hilted broadsword is a good weapon, for you can
wield it one-handed and hold your mount’s reins or a targe in the
other hand.”

“I want a great two-handed Highland sword.”
Rory stepped back, clasped his small sword in both hands and slung
it about as if fighting an invisible enemy.

Alasdair almost laughed. “Aye, another fine
weapon when you’re wanting to mow down a few dozen of the
enemy.”

Rory paused, mouth agape. “Have you done
that?”

“On occasion.”

“How many men have you killed?”

“I didn’t keep a count, lad. Doing battle is
a lot worse than you’re imagining. ’Tis not anything to be happy or
excited about. ’Tis simply a sad and gruesome necessity to protect
the clan.”

“Aye,” Rory mimicked his accent and pressed
his mouth into a solemn line. “I’m going to protect my ma and Mora
from Laird MacIrwin.”

A cold frisson ran thorough Alasdair. “Why is
that? What would he do to them?”

Rory frowned and thought for a moment. “I
don’t know. But he’s mean.”

“Make sure you don’t tell the MacIrwin or any
of his men I’m here.”

“I know. He would kill you on sight.”

“That he would.” Canny lad. Alasdair wondered
whether he might spill the information his mother had denied him.
“Tell me, Rory, what was your father’s name?”

“My da? Baigh Shaw.”

Saints! The man who murdered my
father?
Alasdair could scarce draw breath for a moment. Surely
he’d misheard.

“In truth? Baigh Shaw?” He tried to keep his
voice calm, when all he wanted to do was yell.

Rory nodded. “But I don’t remember him. He
died in battle.”

“Rory,” Gwyneth scolded from the doorway.
“Come out of there at once and leave Master MacGrath alone.”

Slumping, Rory shuffled toward the door.

The child was innocent of any crime his
father had committed. But his mother might be a different matter.
“He’s not bothering me.”

“You must rest. Come now, Rory.”

“Yes’m.”

Alasdair listened to the two walk away even
as he pushed himself up. Pain wracked his body but determination
made it bearable. He had to get out of his enemy’s pocket. Grasping
the blanket around his waist, he stood and limped along the byre’s
stone wall. With each step, his big toe throbbed as if a hammer
pounded it. Dizziness almost overwhelmed him, and he staggered.
When the blackness abated, he continued onward.

“I must find my clothes and shoes,” he
muttered to himself.

“What are you doing up?” The demand came from
behind him.

Turning halfway, he glared at the
woman—Gwyneth. “Your porridge has worked a miracle. I’m near
recovered.”

“You are not.” She stamped forward, treating
him as she would Rory. “You must lie down, sir.”

“Nay, I don’t wish to lie down.”

“I knew Rory would upset you.”

“I’m not upset!” he growled. Upset?
Damnation, he wanted to destroy something.

“Very well.” She took several paces back. “I
was but trying to help.”

He froze, realizing she feared he would hit
her. Nay, he would never strike a woman, even when angry. With a
deep breath, some of his rage slipped away. “Pray pardon.”

She surveyed him with wide eyes for a long
moment. “May I examine your wound?”

“And which wound would that be?” He turned
fully toward her, holding the blanket in place at his hips. He
still couldn’t believe it. She was the widow of a murderer, the man
who had poisoned Alasdair’s father in his own home. Perhaps she had
even helped, given that she was a healer who knew about herbs and
their properties.

She bent and examined the stitched cut that
smarted and burned on his lower abdomen. “As I suspected, you are
bleeding again.”

He couldn’t help but watch her. She was so
close to him, her breath fanned against his stomach. His
imagination turned wicked and he visualized her brushing her lips
over the skin beneath his navel, kissing him, moving lower. No
matter that he could barely walk, he felt himself tingling,
hardening, wanting her. He had not experienced such keen desire in
many a moon.

“Devil take it,” he muttered under his
breath, hating his uncontrollable reaction to her. She was a woman;
he was a man. That was the only explanation. No matter that she
might have concocted the poison that killed his father more than
five years before.

Indeed, it did matter. He fought back the
nausea gripping him.

“Where are my clothes and shoes?”