My Fierce Highlander (9 page)

“Of course. M’lady, I’m thankful you and Rory
made it here safe and sound. Don’t blame yourself for Campbell’s
death. ’Twas his choice to ride into the skirmish. He had trained
for many years, since he was a wee lad, and was as prepared as he
could be, for his age. Lives are oft lost in such situations. He
was a warrior, and defending the clan his job.”

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she
agreed.

“In fact, I must blame myself for the trouble
you’ve had.” His expression contrite, Alasdair studied the carved
wooden handle of his cane, shaped like a falcon. “As I was crossing
from MacIrwin land to MacGrath, they near caught me. I’d knocked
out one of their men and borrowed a horse and sword. We had a wee
skirmish. After that, I feared they’d backtrack me to your
cottage.” His gaze locked onto hers. “I ken ’tis my fault Mora was
killed, and I’m deeply sorry.”

Gwyneth’s throat ached and tears stung her
eyes, both because Mora was dead and because Alasdair seemed truly
remorseful for any indirect part he’d played in Mora’s death. Never
had she known a man who felt remorse for anything.

“I must take part of the blame as well,”
Gwyneth said. “When you were hurt, I was determined to help you,
even though she cautioned me against it.”

Why
hung in the air for a few seconds
as he gave her a dark searching look laced with some emotion she
could not identify. She hoped he wouldn’t ask. The peace
treaty—that was the reason she would give.

“M’lady, that wouldn’t put the blame on you,
but on me once again.” His voice softened. “’Twas my life that was
saved, and hers that was lost.”

Renewed outrage rushed through her over
Mora’s death. “No. ’Tis Donald’s fault. All of it. He is the very
devil!” Never had she wanted to strike him down so badly. And she
had never been a violent person.

“Aye, I won’t argue about that.” Alasdair
leaned back in his chair and laid the cane across his lap.

The kilt ended at his knees, leaving a goodly
portion of his legs bare. She had been in the Highlands long enough
to grow used to seeing that much naked, male skin, but she took
more notice than was prudent of Alasdair’s golden skin, with its
sprinkling of dark hairs, and his pleasantly muscled calves. She
knew his thighs to be just as thick with muscle from when she’d
examined his injured body.

He had succeeded in distracting her. The heat
of her anger had turned into a different kind of heat, shameful and
inappropriate at a time like this, when lives had been lost and her
own likely still in danger. But Alasdair’s vitality embodied life
and passion. She could not look at him without seeing this.
Everything about him, his masculine beauty, his physical power,
shouted
I’m alive
. And sometimes she thought if she could
only touch him, he would imbue that same strength of life in her as
well.

“Tell me what happened after I left. I’m
wanting all the details,” he said.

Gwyneth recounted everything she and Rory had
seen and experienced, from spending the night in the woods, eating
roots and berries, then crossing the treacherous moor at dawn.
Alasdair listened intently, nodding from time to time and making
comments.

“You must be near exhausted, m’lady. You
should’ve been sleeping, not working in the kitchen.”

His concern was a novelty that caressed her
like soothing fingers. “I thank you, but I couldn’t sleep.”

A knock sounded at the door, then it opened
and a tall man stuck his head in. He grinned.

“Lachlan, come on in, then.” Alasdair
motioned the kilted man forward. “M’lady, I would like for you to
meet my brother, Lachlan.

”The man’s tawny, golden-brown hair was long
as a pagan’s and hung halfway down his chest. His amber-brown eyes,
several shades lighter than Alasdair’s, held her own in a
startling, direct manner. Waves of magnetism emanated from Lachlan.
She suspected no lass he set his sights on would retain her virtue
for long.

“Mistress Carswell is the MacIrwin fairy I
told you about who saved my life.”

Both men grinned at her—a devastating
picture, to be sure, with their virile good looks.

Gwyneth’s face heated with the ridiculous
comment.
Fairy, indeed
.

She stood and curtsied. “’Tis a pleasure,
sir.”

“I assure you, m’lady, the pleasure is all
mine.” He bowed. Coming forward, he grasped her hand and pulled her
upright. “Alasdair, I believe your words were ‘bonny MacIrwin
fairy,’ and I must agree with you. Ne’er have I seen such lovely
blue eyes.” Lachlan kissed her fingers.

Good heavens!
What silver-tongued
charmers these MacGraths were. Heat rushed over her.

Alasdair cleared his throat, and Lachlan
released her.

Gwyneth’s gaze locked with Alasdair’s, which
harbored a glare, and his brother stepped away to stand at the
mantel. Something unspoken had passed between the two men. And
something possessive in the way Alasdair watched her now held her
captive.

Oh dear.

Her knees going slightly weak, she reclaimed
her seat.

“I’m forever in your gratitude for saving the
life of my beloved brother,” Lachlan said over his shoulder. She
glimpsed a hint of a smile and wondered the reason for it, though
she thought she knew.

“I assure you, it was the least I could do,”
she said.

“’Twas a brave thing to defy your laird in
such a way.”

“I’m no longer loyal to my second cousin in
any way. He is a brute.”

“Donald MacIrwin is your cousin, then?”
Lachlan turned and studied her. “I was thinking you’d married into
the clan.”

“I was married to Donald’s friend, Baigh
Shaw.”

A moment of tense silence stretched out in
which Lachlan’s expression turned hostile. “Baigh Shaw?” he
growled, then darted a glower to his brother. “You knew of
this.”

“Wait for me outside, if you would please,”
Alasdair returned calmly, but with a hard look that brooked no
argument.

Lachlan clenched his jaw, flicked another
brief glare her way and stalked out.

Shock and icy fear rushed through her. “What
was that all about? What did Baigh do?” she asked.

Alasdair rose and limped across the room on
his cane. “’Tis of nay importance now. The man is dead.”

Gwyneth sprang from her chair and followed
him. “It’s important to me. I want to know. Your brother had the
same reaction you did when you learned my late husband’s name.”

“I don’t wish to speak of it now,” Alasdair
said firmly, his back to her.

“When will you tell me? I have the right to
know. I’m being judged for something my husband did.”

Alasdair turned and cast her a dangerous look
with ten times the potency of his brother’s. Gwyneth backed away.
She’d learned in recent years what pain angry men were capable of
inflicting.

“Do you ken what meadow saffron is, m’lady?”
he asked in a soft but deadly voice.

She blinked for a moment, trying to
comprehend his unexpected change in subject matter. “A poisonous
plant.”

Alasdair’s gaze skewered her to the spot as
if he didn’t care for her answer. “Do you recognize the name Callum
MacGrath?”

“No.” She could scarce breathe as she waited
for his meaning to become clear.

“Are you certain Shaw didn’t mention the name
to you?”

“Yes. Why should he? He told me naught of
what he did or who he had dealings with.”

Alasdair paused, scrutinizing her in a
foreboding manner. She had been subjected to such by her father
over six years ago—the cutting gaze judging her as a lower life
form, an animal with no morals.

“Callum MacGrath was my father. And Shaw
murdered him.”

“What?” She stiffened.

“Aye. ’Twas the meadow saffron he used. I was
away at the time, but Lachlan was here. Donald MacIrwin, Shaw and
some others from your clan came here for the signing of a peace
treaty and a meal. Shaw was seated to my father’s right during the
meal. Though we have nary a drop of proof, one of the servants said
she might’ve caught a glimpse of Shaw slipping the powdered herb
into Da’s drink. Needless to say, Da died the next day. I was on my
way back from Edinburgh, and barely arrived in time for the
funeral.”

Gwyneth stood frozen. Baigh had murdered this
man’s father? Her mind reeled, unable to comprehend…. Maybe
Alasdair was mistaken. Though Baigh had not been a pleasant man,
would he have murdered someone in cold blood? A man who’d welcomed
him into his home for a meal. Such treachery, breaking the Highland
code of hospitality.

Or was she simply the most naive person on
earth?

“When did this happen?” she asked.

“Six years ago this October.”

That was around the time she’d married
Baigh.

“I ken you were married to him at the time.
Rory told me he’d be six next month.”

Gwyneth opened her mouth to disagree, but she
couldn’t without revealing she’d had a child out of wedlock.
Alasdair didn’t know yet, and she wouldn’t be able to bear the
judgmental look of censure he was sure to cast her way—as everyone
did.

A memory came back to her. When she still
lived in Donald’s home, an ancient crumbling castle, one night
she’d overheard Donald and Baigh talking about some kind of bargain
in which Donald would allow Baigh to marry her if Baigh came
through with his part. The two had left and returned two days
later. A short while after that, she had married Baigh. At the
time, he’d seemed benign enough. Later she’d found how wrong she’d
been.

What if murdering Alasdair’s father had been
Baigh’s half of the bargain? Had she been payment for services
rendered?

“You were going to say something?” Alasdair’s
words brought her immediately to the present.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” was all she could
choke out.

His gaze turned piercing. “You ken all about
herbs.”

Was Alasdair accusing her of helping Baigh
kill his father? Prickles chased over her skin.

“Not at that time. I only learned about herbs
after I moved in with Mora, three years ago. After Baigh died.”

Alasdair eyed her in silence.

“Do you truly think I helped them kill your
father?” She tried to keep the anger from sharpening her voice. Men
were forever judging her as less than nothing. She was not
trustworthy, not an honorable person. They saw her as a whore…and
now a murderess.

Bastard.

She turned and strode toward the door, but
before reaching it, she whipped around to face Alasdair again. “If
you would be so kind as to have someone escort Rory and me to
Aviemore, I will not impose upon you any further, Laird
MacGrath.”

“Nay, you will stay here, Mistress Carswell.”
His words were a gentle but firm command.

“I cannot stay in the household of a man who
thinks I poisoned his father. I helped save your life—risking the
life of my son, causing my only friend to be killed—and now you
think I’m a murderess? You are like all other men in this
godforsaken kingdom! You think women are less than human and have
no honor or nobility. No morals or intelligence.”

Alasdair limped forward. “I didn’t say
that.”

Unable to bear the betrayal she would see on
his face, she refused to look at him. She’d thought him a good man,
the only one she’d ever met. But it wasn’t so. He was like
Baigh—appeared benign at first, and then his true nature
emerged.

She stared at the floor. “You didn’t have to
say it. ’Tis very clear to me how you feel. You think I provided
the meadow saffron. No matter that I wouldn’t have known what it
was six years ago.”

“M’lady,” he said in a soft, desperate voice,
almost like an endearment.

She stood numb and unmoving. She did not know
this man, did not understand his changeable moods. He was far more
complex than the other men she knew.

“Look at me.” He tilted her chin up.

The too-intimate touch of his roughened
fingertip quickened her pulse. In the dimness, she stared at the
white linen shirt covering his chest and the bronze falcon brooch
pinning his plaid in place.

His warm fingers spread, cupping her face. He
trailed his thumbs along her jaw and cheek on both sides and
tingles cascaded in the wake.

Her breath halted. Heavens! He should not
touch her thus. And yet, she couldn’t draw away. She was trapped
like a bird within his big, gentle hands.

His fingertips slipped downward to brush over
her pulse and the tender skin of her neck. Something in her chest
fluttered in a crazy dance of delight.
Insanity.

She lifted her gaze to his heavy-lidded eyes.
Their dark depths focused on her eyes, then shifted to her
lips.

Dear lord, surely he will not kiss me.

Chapter Five

Alasdair feared he might give up the whole of
his lands and title to claim one fiery kiss from Gwyneth right
here, right now. Not that he would have to give up anything. But it
was not something the earl and chief of the MacGrath clan, should
do with a lady under his protection.

For a certainty, he had never felt skin as
velvety smooth as that of her face. He wanted to brush his lips
over her throat, her soft breasts and breathe her woman scent. Live
on it.

Her eyes did not reflect fear. Instead, they
glinted with waning anger, and a mixture of confusion, wonder, and
excitement. Her pink lips looked innocent enough, but when she
licked them—as he hungered to do himself—arousal tightened his
loins.

If he were more like Lachlan, he might have
her begging him to lift her skirts, here within this library, and
satisfy their deepest carnal yearnings, perhaps yearnings she
didn’t even know she possessed until that moment.

But he was not his brother. Alasdair had to
think of his position, always. He refused to take advantage of
those subordinate to him, like a man of less honor would do. Though
he craved her, he did not want her to think his help came with a
price. Because it certainly didn’t.