My Fierce Highlander (25 page)

Stepping into the hallway, he presented her
with a parcel wrapped in a deep burgundy silk handkerchief and tied
with a ribbon. The richness of the wrappings surprised her. “No, I
cannot accept—”

“You don’t yet ken what it is. Open it.”

She couldn’t decipher his expression, but he
seemed hopeful, his anger from the night before not in
evidence.

Gwyneth glanced behind herself to make sure
no one watched, then tugged gently at the bow. She parted the silk
and found a tortoiseshell comb within the folds. “Goodness, I
cannot possibly take such an expensive—”

“Aye, you can. I didn’t buy it. It used to be
my mother’s, and now ’tis yours. You need it…for your hair.”

His mother’s? That made it an even more
extravagant and sentimental gift than if he’d bought it new. How
could he part with such an item?

The fact that he didn’t ply her with false
and flattering compliments shattered her defenses. Last night burst
into her consciousness—he had combed her hair with his fingers.

No one had given her a gift such as this in
many years. His thoughtfulness overwhelmed her to the point of near
tears. “I thank you, my laird.”

“You’re most welcome. And I pray you will
pardon my harshness of last night. Can you forgive me, m’lady?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Of course.”

“I’m glad.”

Though his gift meant more than she could
express, she knew it was a courtship gift, just like the rose he’d
tucked behind her ear…and which she’d pressed into a book so she
might keep it forever.

Obviously, he had hatched up a new plan to
draw her under his power and trap her and Rory in the Highlands.
Fool that she was, she was sore tempted.

Wishing to escape before Alasdair could cast
his spell upon her and seduce her yet again, she curtseyed. “I
thank you and I bid you good evening, sir.” She hastened to her
room.

Once inside, she closed the door and glanced
toward the bed where Rory slept. Cradling Alasdair’s gift in her
hands, she seated herself before the small fire in the hearth and
examined the brown tortoiseshell comb more closely in the
light.

How she wished things could be different,
wished Alasdair was not a Highland laird and enemy of Donald
MacIrwin. Wished clan warfare did not rule the Highlands.

***

“We have a visitor,” one of the maids
announced, entering the busy kitchen the next day just after midday
meal. “Some fancy Sassenach lord. He and his men will be needing
trenchers.”

Turning from her task of kneading bread
dough, Gwyneth dabbed a sleeve to her sweaty forehead. The heat of
the ovens and huge arched fireplace was getting to her. She
wondered whether Edward Murray had returned so quickly, perhaps for
the Midsummer’s Day feast. No, probably another of Alasdair’s old
schoolmates.

A second servant trotted down the steps and
into the kitchen. “The Sassenach’s asking for Lady Gwyneth
Carswell, he is,” she said in a dramatic whisper, and her round
eyes lit on Gwyneth.

“Faith! Me?”

The maid placed her hands on her round hips.
“Well now, you’re the only Gwyneth Carswell what lives here.”

Dread rose up within her. “What is his
name?”

The other woman shrugged. “Something
Southwick.”

Gwyneth’s breathing ceased. “The marquess of
Southwick? Maxwell Huntley?”

“Aye, I believe ’twas.” The servant bustled
to the other side of the kitchen.

Rory’s father
. “Oh, dear heavens!”
What could he possibly want? A thousand questions streamed through
her mind.

Where was Rory? She ran to the back doorway
and found him playing in the kitchen garden with other
children.

Alasdair stalked into the kitchen. “Someone,
please bring Lord Southwick some food and wine. I won’t have him
spreading rumors that we lack manners or hospitality here in the
Highlands.” He turned his fierce midnight gaze to Gwyneth and
lowered his voice to a murmur. “Why are you doing this kind of
physical labor?”

“What? I’m making bread…the festival.”

“I would have a word with you in here.”
Frowning, he motioned toward one of the pantries.

She blinked. Her world had just somersaulted
and nothing made sense. “In there?”

“Aye.”

She preceded him into the small windowless
room, and he closed the door. She found it hard to breathe with the
dust of flour and scents of spices thickening the air, not to
mention the near pitch blackness.

She wiped her sticky hands on her skirts.
“What is Southwick doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same
question.”

“Did he not say?”

“Nay. Only that he wishes to speak with
you.”

“Oh, heavens! I never thought to see him
again. I’m not sure I can face him.” She concentrated on evening
out her breathing and calming herself.

I have survived six years in the harsh
Highlands. I can face one whey-faced English lord. He’s a coward
who ran from responsibility. Not worthy to be called a man.

“What if—saints!” Alasdair muttered.

“What?”

He yanked her to him and took her mouth in a
hard-driving kiss—one that plunged down to her very soul. As if to
say to her,
you’re mine, and don’t be forgetting it.

Just as abruptly, he drew back. Gwyneth
swayed, trying to regain her equilibrium within the maelstrom of
emotions.

Alasdair steadied her. “Beware the fancy
Sassenach. He has the look of a poisonous viper about him.”

She grasped his sleeve. “Would you come with
me?”

“To talk to him?”

“Yes.”

He took her hand and kissed the back. “Aye, I
would be honored.” He opened the door, allowing light to flow in.
“You might don some of the clothing from the trunk.”

She glanced down at her bodice and skirts.
What a sight she was with flour and dough covering her faded and
near threadbare dress. What did she care? She had no more pride.
Southwick had striped it from her six years ago, just as he had
taken everything else.

“’Twill increase your courage,” Alasdair
said.

She nodded, taking in his beloved visage and
his caring dark eyes. The reverent way he looked at her gave her
far more courage than any clothing could. “I thank you.”

He gave a short bow.

Though Alasdair wanted nothing more than to
spend the afternoon kissing Gwyneth in the pantry, he knew he must
deal with Southwick in an appropriate fashion and find out what the
devil he wanted. Alasdair would not have allowed Gwyneth to visit
with the snake alone, but he was glad she’d asked him to accompany
her.

He watched Gwyneth scurry up the back stairs
before he returned to the great hall.

With a stiff posture, Southwick sat at high
table with two of his men. The skinny, weak-looking Sassenach
picked at his mutton stew with formal preciseness.

“How are the food and wine?” Alasdair asked,
forcing himself to be hospitable to the loathsome man. He’d
finished his own meal with the rest of his Highland guests a half
hour past.

Southwick glanced up with icy gray eyes.
“They will suffice.” He smirked and pushed the trencher away. “I
did not come here to dine. I am here to see Lady Gwyneth
Carswell.”

Partly fueled by jealousy, Alasdair’s temper
ignited like flame to straw, but he held himself in check. “And you
will in due time. If you’re finished eating, we can wait for her in
the library.”

Southwick and one of his cohorts rose and
followed Alasdair to the smaller, book-lined room.

“Have a seat.” Alasdair motioned and the two
men perched on a long bench.

He studied Southwick. The frail-looking man’s
skin was bright pink, obviously from unaccustomed sun exposure, and
he reeked of some sort of flowery, musky perfume.

What did he want to talk to Gwyneth about?
The dolt couldn’t want to marry her now, six years after the fact.
Too late, you bastard. Gwyneth is mine and I won’t be giving her
up.

“Would either of you care for sherry, sack or
whisky?”

“No, thank you,” Southwick answered with a
sniff. “So, why did you take Lady Gwyneth hostage?”

Alasdair forced himself to remain rooted to
the spot. “Where did you hear such a lie?”

Southwick let loose a soft snort and
exchanged a look with his friend. “Do you deny it?”

“Aye. She came here of her own free will.
Donald MacIrwin was trying to kill her.”

“How preposterous! He is her blood relative.
He would not want to kill her. And what of her son? Is he here as
well?”

Hellfire and damnation
. It wasn’t
Gwyneth he wanted, but Rory. She would be thunderstruck. A sick
feeling twisted Alasdair’s gut. “And why would you be caring where
he’s at?”

The marquess leveled a superior but menacing
look at Alasdair. “He is my son, and I will see him now.”

“Nay. You will not!”

Southwick’s mouth firmed and his face
mottled. “Dare you tell me
no
, you—”

“
Cừm do theanga, a mheapain
!” Alasdair
stepped forward and barely suppressed the urge to fling his newly
sharpened
sgian dubh
at the whoreson’s throat. “You filthy
Sassenach. Don’t think to come into my home and order me about! As
a marquess, you may be one step ahead of me, but you’re in the
Highlands now. And we hold no fondness for the English.”

Southwick’s face paled, and his eyes
narrowed. “Are you—” He cleared his throat. “Are you threatening
me?”

“Nay.” Alasdair couldn’t help that his mouth
formed a smirking grin. “Just stating the facts,” he said in his
most civil tone, yet he was sure his glower told them something
altogether different. He would protect Gwyneth and Rory with his
life.

Southwick clenched his hands together and
glanced about. “I will be sure King James hears of this.”

“’Haps I will scribe a missive and tell him
myself.” Keeping the two knaves in his peripheral vision, Alasdair
poured himself a dram of sherry and sprawled in the chair behind
his desk. Though he wanted nothing more than to slice Southwick
limb from limb with his claymore, he held his temper in check and
affected nonchalance.

Perhaps Southwick hadn’t heard tell of the
Sassenach lordlings who’d been known to disappear without a trace
in the Highlands.

***

With a little help from Tessie, Gwyneth put
on an outfit from the trunk that held Alasdair’s wife’s clothing.
Gwyneth’s thoughts flew and scattered in all directions. Her
fingers trembled so badly she couldn’t manage to tie anything. She
only noticed the clothing was green and gold and of fine material.
It shouldn’t matter what she wore, but she didn’t want Southwick to
know she was indeed penniless. It would put her at a
disadvantage.

“Will you watch Rory?” Gwyneth asked
Tessie.

“Aye, of course.”

Minutes later, her drumming pulse drowned out
all other sounds when she knocked at the library door. Finally,
Alasdair opened the door for her. She focused on his familiar form
for a moment, tall and dark, clothed in a belted plaid. She hoped
he would be her calm within the windstorm. And indeed his presence
allowed her a small measure of comfort.

Two men, dressed in English hunting clothes,
rose when she entered. Her gaze locked on the hateful visage of
Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick. What struck her immediately
was how much he had aged since she’d seen him last. Though his
normally pale skin was bright pink, he appeared sickly, with sunken
eyes and hollow cheeks. The malicious gleam in his frigid gray eyes
caught her attention. How could she have ever imagined herself in
love with this man? Had he changed so much, or had she?

“Lady Gwyneth, I am pleased to see you.”
Southwick stepped forward, took her hand and kissed it.

Though she wore gloves, her skin chilled.
Genteel manners deserting her, she snatched her hand away. His
strong, familiar perfume—a blend of musk, rosewater and civet—mixed
with his sweat odor, nauseating her. The last time she’d seen him,
to tell him she was carrying his child, he had slapped her down and
called her a lying whore.

“Lord Southwick,” she forced herself to say.
“Are you well?”

“Indeed, I am.” He sent her a tight-lipped
grin, then gave a deep bow. “And I pray that you are.”

Nodding, she studied his eyes and the deceit
behind his facade.

“I’m glad you agreed to see me so that we
might talk privately.” When no one moved, Southwick cut a brittle
glare at Alasdair.

“Laird MacGrath stays,” she said.

“Ah.” Southwick lifted his thin blond brows
as if reading something lurid into their association. “Well, if you
insist,
my lady
.” Southwick’s gaze trailed down over her as
if she were a woman of ill repute. He stroked his pointed, thinning
goatee. “I’ve come to talk to you about my son.”

His
son?

“I want to make you a deal,” Southwick
continued. “You have taken care of him these last few years alone
and with little funds. Now, I would propose to take him off your
hands for the duration.”

Chapter Twelve

The walls of the library shrank in on
Gwyneth. She could not comprehend the meaning of Southwick’s words.
I would propose to take him off your hands for the
duration.

He would take Rory away?

She felt as if someone had struck her chest
with a hammer. Alasdair grabbed onto her before she realized she’d
swayed.

She pulled away from him and steadied
herself, called upon some reserve of strength deep within. “Have
you gone mad?”

“Hardly.” Southwick lifted a brow. “He is my
son, is he not?”

She shook her head, denying he had any right
to call Rory his son. Denying Southwick could touch him.
Denying….

“I am offering him his heritage. He will one
day be the seventh marquess of Southwick and he requires a proper
education.”