My Fierce Highlander (21 page)

Alasdair moved in front of her, tipped her
chin up and studied her. “I’ll tell no one. ’Tis our secret,
aye?”

She nodded and said nothing, though inside
she was screaming,
I should not have.

He pressed a quick, firm kiss to her lips,
then stepped back. “I’ll check the corridor and if no one is about,
you can slip away to your bedchamber.”

He peered out, then motioned to her. She
slunk along to her room, feeling like the lowest of thieves.

***

That afternoon, the sun beamed down brightly
as Alasdair oversaw the thatching of the last roofs of the
villagers’ cottages. He stood aside, away from the crowd, watching
his strong clansmen on the roofs, working hard, but laughing and
joking as was their habit.

But neither thatch nor jokes could hold
Alasdair’s attention. His mind drifted back to three hours earlier,
in his bedchamber.

Gwyneth.

How lush and lovely she was. Eager and
sensual.

Saints! He hadn’t expected to bed her today.
Or ever, in truth. He’d thought her resistance would prove
unmovable. Not so. ’Twas a flood of the best luck he’d ever
had.

His erection swelled, tingling for her again,
and he was glad for his sporran, preventing his plaid rising in
front. She was an astounding woman. So sweet and passionate. The
way she’d wanted him so badly compounded his own desire. He had
always loved bringing a woman to the height of ecstasy. That
Gwyneth had responded and experienced it so quickly had taken away
the last vestiges of his control and he’d gone hurtling over the
edge of delirious pleasure.

Though he could never give his heart to
another woman the way he had to Leitha, maybe taking another wife
would not be such a bad idea, as Lachlan had suggested. Perhaps
Alasdair should propose a hand-fasting to Gwyneth. He needed an
heir after all, and Gwyneth was obviously fertile, given that she
had Rory.

Planting his seed within her would be no
duty, but boundless pleasure. Och! He would relish bedding her
every night, and sometimes during the day, to make sure she was
pregnant. Imagining her carrying his child within her stirred up
all sorts of primal urges and he craved her again. Now.

***

Heaven help me, what have I done?

Gwyneth paced from the window to the cold
hearth in her room. She had fallen for a man’s charming seduction
yet again. She felt seventeen, just as vulnerable and stricken with
panic.

What if someone finds out? What if I’m with
child?

Only this time she had no naïve, romantic
illusions. She knew there would be no offer for her hand, and she
didn’t want one. She rather looked at it like England’s former
queen, Elizabeth—Gwyneth would never again subject herself to the
whims of a man.

Likely Alasdair would turn his back on her
now and treat her like so much gutter rubbish. It was the way of
men. Once they had their physical release and their curiosity
satisfied, they were off to more interesting, prettier women.

She had not even been able to keep her
despicable husband’s attention—which she was heartily glad of.
After three times, Baigh Shaw had shunned her and searched out his
favorite village whores. She imagined they’d shown far more
enthusiasm toward him in bed than she had.

But with Alasdair, she was afraid her
enthusiasm had been abundantly clear. How she had wanted him! She
could’ve eaten him up like a honey-drenched comfit. Hellish heat
burned her cheeks at the memory of her wanton abandon. She’d been
possessed of a wicked pleasurable release for several moments. Oh,
the noises she’d made. He would think her the most lurid of
whores.

Yet, she couldn’t forget the way he’d looked
into her eyes as he drove into her over and over, giving her
ecstasy so profound she must have imagined it. Unearthly.
Magical.

He’d been fully present with her, fully aware
it was she whom he was bonding his body with. His attention to her
own pleasure demolished all her feeble expectations. He was a man
who knew how to make love to a woman. A man who knew how to make
said woman daydream about him all day, wondering when she might let
herself be seduced again.

I’m a harlot. Not in name only this time, but
in truth.

She strode quickly to the village kirk and
prayed earnestly for forgiveness, her tear-stained cheeks burning
with mortification. Though when she returned to the castle an hour
later and saw Alasdair crossing the barmkin with a stranger dressed
in the English style, she knew she truly wasn’t sorry for her sin.
The temptation of Alasdair gripped her anew and refused to let her
go. Her body heated and she craved him.

I’ve gone mad.

Surely she had. What other explanation could
there be for repeating the same behavior that had destroyed her
life six years ago?

What devastating effects would it have on her
life this time? If she already carried Alasdair MacGrath’s babe
within her, what would he do? Shun her? Take his child from her and
send her away? Would looking at her disgust him? He wouldn’t marry
her—that much she knew. He was an earl after all, a peer, though
not as stuffy as those who lived in London. A nobleman didn’t take
a fallen woman to wife.

Do not even think of it. He will turn his
back on you. He will have no respect for you. You are a weak,
sinful woman.

***

“My good man, your cook is improving.” Edward
Murray, earl of Hennessy, sat to Alasdair’s right during the
evening meal. The squat man, a Lowlander who fancied himself
English, had attended university with Alasdair in Edinburgh. Edward
had holdings in the Highlands and was passing through on his yearly
inspection of them.

“I’m glad to hear it.” In truth, Alasdair was
so distracted he could hardly hold a coherent conversation, or
taste the delicious beef roast Cook had prepared. His encounter
earlier in the day with Gwyneth was still impressed like a searing
brand on his memory.

The moment she entered the great hall, he
knew it, and his eyes followed her with a will of their own. How
lovely she was, enigmatic. Innocent-looking, yet with a depth of
passion he could hardly fathom. Small and soft and affectionate but
with an inner strength of steel.

He yearned for her by his side, now and
always, to take her meals with him so that he might enjoy looking
into her eyes and talking about nothing in particular. He wanted
her close enough that he might touch her anytime he wished. He
would make her smile and laugh as she had during their lovemaking.
She needed happiness and he would do everything in his power to
provide it.

“I say, is that Lady Gwyneth Carswell?”
Edward watched her with bulging eyes, his jaw slack. “What is she
doing here?”

Alasdair experienced a moment of silent
shock. Edward knew who she was? “She is in my employ. Why? What do
you ken of her?” He hated the way Edward gaped at her.

The man covered his mouth with a napkin and
coughed as if the astonishment of seeing her had near strangled
him. He took a long swig of ale.

“I know her family well.”

Alasdair sensed he was about to learn more
about Gwyneth than he’d ever expected to. “Is that so?”

“Indeed.” Edward lifted thin brown brows. “I
wonder, did she ever marry?”

“Aye, to Baigh Shaw.”
The fiendish
whoreson.

Edward’s pale eyes rounded. “So she found
someone to marry after all. Shocking.”

Alasdair frowned. “Why would it be shocking
that she marry?”

“You don’t know?”

“Mayhap you should enlighten me.” Alasdair
ground his teeth, his mood growing darker.

Edward leaned forward and lowered his voice
to a near whisper. “Well, you see, a few years ago at a masque in
London, she placed herself in a most compromising position with a
higher up peer, the marquess of Southwick to be precise. He escaped
to the continent, and she was left carrying his bastard.” Edward
cringed melodramatically.

Numbness settled over Alasdair. It was much
better not to think or feel.

“A tragedy really,” Edward went on. “Her
father disowned her and sent her, I believe, to live with relatives
here in the Highlands. But that would not be you, would it? I had
no idea you were related to the earl of Darrow.”

Alasdair barely shook his head, unable to
comprehend what all of this meant. Rory was not Baigh Shaw’s son,
but some English marquess’s? Of that he was glad, strangely. Why
had she not told him? And Gwyneth was the daughter of an earl? He
had been right about her noble upbringing, but he hadn’t imagined
the rest of it. No-nonsense, uptight Gwyneth, who blushed at a mere
glance or a smile…ah, but she was indeed a sensual woman, and
tempting to any man. Perhaps a rogue much like himself had seduced
her. He couldn’t imagine her as the butt of such a widely known
scandal. How painful that must have been for her.

“Alasdair, are you quite well?” Edward
glanced over his shoulder. “Do not tell me a specter has passed
behind my chair.” He laughed.

Alasdair’s mind worked overtime, trying to
put together all the missing links. “I am providing her protection
from her cousin, the MacIrwin. He’s trying to kill her because she
saved my life. I was wounded in battle on MacIrwin land. She is a
healer and came to my rescue.”

“My lord, man. Damned astonishing! Are you
fully recovered?”

“Aye. I owe her my life, so I will provide
her and her son protection as long as needs be.”

“Her son, yes. Is that him there?” Edward
pointed toward the table in the far corner where servants and
children sat on benches. Gwyneth placed a bowl of food before
Rory.

“Aye. He’s a fine lad, sharp and canny. He’ll
be good with a sword one day.”

“’Tis indeed fortunate for her that scandal
doesn’t carry this far north.”

“I don’t care what kind of scandal is
attached to her name. She is a good woman who saved my life.”
Annoyance simmered in his blood.

Edward seemed impervious to his brusque tone.
“And you are a good man, Alasdair. A noble man. Would that there
were more like you in Scotland. And England.”

Alasdair didn’t know if Edward was being
sincere, nevertheless he had to treat him as an honored guest. “How
long will you be staying with us, then, Edward?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to stay
tonight and be on my way in the morn.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,
of course, beyond Midsummer’s Day if you wish it.”

“Highland hospitality is always impressive,
especially yours, Alasdair. But I have business in London, and I
must hie back as soon as I can. You must come to visit sometime. I
daresay you would enjoy London.”

“No offense, but ’tis doubtful.” Alasdair
forced a dry smile. There was naught he hated more than the stench
and crowds of big cities. The fresh, crisp Highland air and
beautiful scenery were what he loved.

Edward laughed and clapped him on the
shoulder. “I know—you prefer the rustic life up here in the middle
of nowhere.”

“God’s country,” Alasdair corrected.

“True, true! But you must remember, our own
king is of Scottish birth, and he much prefers London.”

“Our own king lacks a certain fondness for
Highlanders. He would have our Gaelic tongues ripped from our
mouths if he had his way.”

“Indeed, but that, my friend, will never
happen. Highlanders are far too stubborn to give up something so
important as their language. Hell, they will not even give up a
dram of whisky.”

“Och, there you’re wrong!” Alasdair grinned.
“I’ll give you a hundred drams if that’s what you’re wanting.”

“I could accept one or two.” He nodded
eagerly.

Alasdair took Edward to the library, filled
him with whisky and pumped him for more information on Gwyneth’s
family and the scandal.

“Gwyneth’s father, I tell you, he is the
staunchest Protestant you shall ever care to meet.” Edward slumped
back on the couch and gulped the whisky as if it were water and his
tongue near parched. “He won’t go near anyone who’s been touched by
scandal. And he gives the king himself a wide berth. Doesn’t care
for his friends and favorites.”

“I don’t care if I ever see London again,”
Alasdair said. “One visit ten years ago was enough for me.”

“One visit?” Edward cackled, obviously well
on his way to cup-shotten. “You are even worse off than I
thought.”

“Tell me more of Southwick,” Alasdair said,
ignoring his friend’s ribbing.

“Maxwell Huntley,” Edward pronounced in a
haughty tone. “
Sixth
marquess of Southwick, mind you. As
pompous as a prince. Got most of his money from the duke of
Watley’s daughter, whom he married shortly after the scandal. She
died several months ago. I assume he is sniffing out another
heiress to refill his coffers and provide him an heir.”

“Sounds like a right whoreson bastard.”

Edward burst out laughing. “Indeed! Indeed,
my good man!”

So what had Gwyneth seen in Southwick? Had
she been in love with him? Or was she a light-skirt and he
particularly persuasive. He hated thinking of her with a horse’s
arse like Southwick. This was almost as bad as imagining her with
the murdering Shaw.

He would get to the bottom of her lies and
deceptions soon enough. And he would not suffer her to hold
anything back from him.

***

The next evening after dark, Alasdair paced
before the cold fireplace in his bedchamber. Only a tallow candle
on the mantel lit the room to a dim gloom. Before Edward’s
revelation, Alasdair had near decided to ask Gwyneth to marry him,
or at least hand-fast. No doubt of it, he’d compromised her, and a
bairn might be the result. He would protect her and provide for
her, and Rory as well. He didn’t truly want to get himself into the
position again of having a wife he could come to love and then
lose. But, unthinking, he had followed his own instinctive urges.
Urges he could not resist when she’d shown she wanted him as much
as he’d wanted her. Their attraction was irresistible and
spellbinding.