Lachlan approached, his face black and his clothing bloody. “’Tis because of her that they attacked.”
His brother’s sharp gaze and hardened jaw surprised Alasdair. “What are you blathering on about?”
“Mistress Carswell.”
Alasdair drew back, frowning. “Nay, the MacIrwin’s attacked because I escaped their clutches almost a fortnight past.”
“Aye, you would deny it! Fergus told me of the message—the MacIrwin wants her back.”
“You would have me send her to her death! Along with her innocent son?”
Lachlan inhaled a deep slow breath and continued in a calmer tone. “Nay, but you must send her away, mayhap back to England.”
“Nay! Don’t challenge me, Lachlan.”
“Surely you see what she’s bringing down on our clan.”
Alasdair loved his brother, but at the moment, he felt like slugging him in the jaw. “She has nowhere else to go. Her family disowned her. Her father sent her to the MacIrwin, and the bastard will kill her if he has a chance. She saved my life and I will return the favor as many times as I must.” Aye, that’s how grateful he was for what she’d done for him, endangering her own life and losing a friend in the process. Gwyneth deserved someone to protect her.
Lachlan sighed. “You should find her a place far from here.”
Alasdair shook his head. He knew not why, but something deep inside him said her place was with him. “We had conflict with the MacIrwins long before she came to us. In case you forgot, they killed Da six years past.”
“How could I forget?” Lachlan snapped, his scowl severe. “It happened right before my eyes.”
“And they burned the village once before, nine years ago. Will you blame that on Gwyneth, too?”
“Nay. I’m not—”
“Lachlan!” cried a female voice.
They turned to find an elderly woman hobbling toward them. Alasdair couldn’t recognize her with so much soot on her face.
“’Tis Mary Anne! She’s dead!” The woman wailed.
Mary Anne was the mother of one of Lachlan’s children. A stricken look crossed his face. “Are you certain?”
“Aye.” The woman wiped her eyes, smearing soot.
“Where’s Kean?” Lachlan strode away with her.
Alasdair propped his hand against his saddle while the horse hung its head and nosed at the trampled grass. Then he remembered—Gwyneth had been carrying Kean last night when she’d left the village. She’d saved the wee lad’s life.
What was he going to do about her?
Lachlan was right of course, Alasdair should send her away. As long as she remained here, she would draw the MacIrwin’s attention. She’d said she would like to find a position as a governess. Maybe that would be the best solution for them all. Except for him. But being the clan chief had required more than one sacrifice on his part.
***
Sharp sunlight gleamed over the peaks of the blue-purple mountains to the east. A stiff summer wind carried away the scents of smoke and blood, of war and violence that Alasdair hated. He ignored the aches and pains of his own body, and forced himself to concentrate on what could be salvaged rather than what had been lost. He must give his clan hope of a brighter future. They looked to him for support and encouragement and he would not let them down.
While some of his men transported the bodies of the dead MacIrwins to the borders of Donald’s holdings, others carried the three injured MacGrath warriors up to the tower. He’d posted several guards around the grounds in case the MacIrwins returned.
As soon as Alasdair stepped into the great hall, Gwyneth appeared beside him and grasped his hand. So thankful was he that she was unharmed, he wanted to yank her into his arms and embrace her so tightly he might crush the breath from her. But he forced himself not to and squeezed her hand instead.
“You’re not hurt?” Her frantic gaze searched him, then fixed on his torso. “You’re bleeding.”
“Nay, ’tis not my blood. I only have a few scratches and bruises. Since you are a healer, I wondered, could you help these three men?” He motioned to the side. “Our village healer is busy with the others.”
Releasing his hand, she turned her attention toward the moaning or unconscious men being carried in. She directed where they should be laid in the great hall. She then set to work examining them and telling the women which herbs and supplies she would require.
At her suggestion, Alasdair gave whisky to the ones who were awake and in pain. She removed a lead ball from his steward’s shoulder, and after cleaning the wounds, stitched up the cuts and gashes of the other two men, Angus and Padraig.
Alasdair watched her work tirelessly for more than an hour and assisted by turning the men over when she asked. The blood and gore did not appear to bother her. She had a backbone of tempered steel and more courage than a lot of men he’d seen. Yet, she possessed the gentle and caring touch of a guardian angel.
The uninjured warriors ate and rested, preparing to take their turn at watch. Tomorrow, the clan would hold the funerals and bury the dead. The next day, they would look toward the future and start to rebuild the village. In the meantime, everyone pulled together and consoled one another.
“’Tis time you ate something, then rested,” Alasdair told Gwyneth. The dark circles beneath her eyes showed she was as exhausted as he.
She nodded, rose and went in search of food, he hoped.
Alasdair cleaned himself up in his bedchamber, changed clothes and then found Lachlan in the great hall. He also looked a mite better without the bloody clothes and the soot.
“What is it you’re wanting to tell me?” Lachlan asked in a surly tone once they were inside the library. The cheerful sunlight slicing through the two narrow windows clashed with Lachlan’s dark scowl, and Alasdair’s own mood.
“I’m sorry about Mary Anne,” Alasdair said in a calm voice that he hoped conveyed his sympathy.
“Aye, we all are. Now my son has no mother.”
“But he has a father—as we did growing up. He will come here to live in the castle if you wish it.”
His brother propped his fists against his waist. “That won’t change the fact that your fine Lady Gwyneth caused all this.”
“Gwyneth saved Kean’s life.”
Lachlan looked as if someone had hit him broadside with an ax. “What?”
“Aye. She came down to the village during the fighting, looking for Rory. A MacIrwin on foot was chasing Kean while I was trying to fight off another one on horseback. She jumped out and grabbed Kean. He could’ve been trampled beneath the horses’ hooves or killed by the enemy. I didn’t ken who either of them were at first. But when Gwyneth turned back, I saw her face. And I also saw Kean in her arms.”
Lachlan froze for a moment, then released a harsh breath. “Merciful God, I must thank her.”
Alasdair stepped forward. “I’ll go with you.”
“I appreciate your trust in me,” Lachlan said in a dry tone, his expression easing.
“I ken how you like to show your gratitude to the ladies.”
Lachlan’s abashed grin appeared, and he clasped hands with Alasdair in a quick, fierce handshake. “Aye, you ken me too well, brother, but I value my neck too highly to dally with that one.”
Alasdair ignored his brother’s thinly veiled reference to his possessiveness. “Later, I wish to talk to you about going to the Privy Council in my stead. We’ll bring charges against the MacIrwins for the attacks.”
Lachlan nodded. “’Twould please me beyond measure to see Donald MacIrwin kicking the wind.”
They found Gwyneth in the great hall, again watching over the injured, seeing that they drank broth and herbal teas. He would indeed have to order her to her bed and force her to rest.
Alasdair stopped close beside her. “M’lady, if you please, we would have a word with you in the library.”
Gwyneth drew back, her confused gaze darting back and forth between them. But Lachlan’s sligh
t grin must have put her at ease. Alasdair followed her into the smaller room, and Lachlan closed the door behind them.
His brother dropped to one knee and grasped Gwyneth’s hand in his. He feared Lachlan went too far when he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.
Gwyneth froze, her wide eyes beseeching Alasdair.
He smiled, attempting to reassure her that his brother had not been stricken with lunacy.
“M’lady,” Lachlan said. “I thank you, and I owe you a grand debt of gratitude for saving the life of my son.”
She frowned down at him. “Your son?”
“Aye. Kean is my son—the wee lad you rescued from the village last night.”
“Oh. I didn’t know,” she said softly.
“Surely, you are an angel sent from heaven.”
“No, not at all.” Face flushing bright pink, she gently tugged her hand from within his. “I simply acted on instinct.”
Lachlan rose. “Nevertheless, if there is ever anything I can do for you, I will. Just let me know.”
She curtsied. “I thank you.”
Lachlan gave her a bow and let himself out.
Gwyneth darted a glance at Alasdair. “If that is all—”
“Nay.” The word popped from his mouth, perhaps too quickly, but he enjoyed being alone with her too much to allow her to leave so soon. Had it only been yesterday evening when he’d kissed her? It seemed a week ago, so much had happened since.
He’d had no time to think about the kiss and what it had meant—that he was far more drawn to her than he should be. And that he wanted another kiss. Wanted more than a kiss. But aside from that, nothing else had changed. Sending her away would be the best solution for her and the clan. Besides, it was what she wished. But he wouldn’t do it now. He had to find her a safe and suitable place first, and at the moment, they needed her healing skills here.
“Yes, my laird?” Her blush was still in evidence, and it lent her a charming quality.
“I wish to thank you, as well, for saving Kean’s life and those of my men.”
“I could do nothing less.”
Though modest, she had the proud posture and regal bearing of a lady, which could not be concealed beneath her dirty, bloody clothing.
“When I saw you in the village during the worst of the fighting, I wanted to throttle you for putting yourself in such danger.” He’d meant to speak the words in a harsh, angry tone, but couldn’t quite manage it. Instead he simply sounded…desperate. Desperate to keep her safe.
She lifted courageous eyes to his. “And what about the danger you were in? Going into battle already injured.”
“My toe is much improved. And ’twas my responsibility. Not yours.”
Blue fire lit within her eyes. “Rory is my responsibility, and I would go through hell itself, if I had to, to save his life.”
He nodded. “Aye, of course. You are a brave lady, to be sure. And I admire that.” In truth, he admired far too many things about her.
She glanced away as if dismissing his words. He wanted to hold a mirror up to her, to show her what an incredible woman she was. He wanted to show her how she should value herself. Too many men had put her down and treated her poorly, instead of giving her the care and attention she deserved.
“You’re always taking care of others,” he said. “I wonder, who takes care of you?”
She looked at him straight. “I’m not too proud to accept the help of others, but I take care of myself for the most part.”
Indeed, she did. She was independent, too, flexible as a willow. A survivor. He could not recall a woman he admired as much—well, except for his Leitha, of course. Still, Gwyneth was stronger. But she needed someone to take care of her from time to time. Someone to lean on and cling to in the storm.
One part of him craved to be that person. Another part of him rebelled at the very thought. He could never again be that close to anyone. It hurt too much when they abandoned him. He reinforced the icy wall around the most vulnerable part of him, but it did not stop him from craving everything about her.
“I thank you for looking out for Rory and sending him up safely with Fergus,” she said.
“Of course, ’twas the least I could do.”
The village had been crawling with MacIrwins, any one of whom wanted to see her dead. A careless flick of a blade and her life would’ve been forfeit. Drained away, as Leitha’s had, leaving him regretting that he had not done more. ’Twas a tragic thing to realize you were too late.
Acting on naught more than the fierce and perplexing feelings raging inside him, Alasdair stepped forward and pulled Gwyneth into his arms. “Pray pardon, m’lady. I must hold you for a minute.”
“Oh.” The wee surprised sound was no more than a breath from her.
He pressed his face against her silky hair and inhaled the smoke scent mixed with a hint of herbs and whisky with which she’d medicated the injured. But most of all, her own unique female scent held him spellbound. He remembered it from when he’d kissed her and that little window to paradise had opened.
Her small frame against his own much larger one soothed his battle-ravaged soul. The vital warmth of her reassured him she was indeed alive—that they both were.
Her body was still taut with tension, but her arms crept around his waist and held him just as tightly. He savored her touch and her embrace, afraid to move. Afraid he would frighten her away. After a moment, her body relaxed within his arms. Aye, this was the way it should be. Naught had ever felt so right. Relishing the lithe, sensual feel of her, he tried to absorb her calmness and peace into himself.
Against her cool hair, his lips formed a kiss. Saints! How he treasured her and wished to kiss her all over. Without thought, he brushed his lips across her forehead, then pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks. She pulled in a shaky breath, drawing his attention to her lips he hungered to taste again.
Tilting her flushed face down and to the side, she withdrew her arms from around his waist. Disappointment besieged him, though in truth he didn’t know what the devil he was doing kissing her face in such a way. Had he gone mad? He immediately released her.
With much hesitation, she glanced up at him with darkened blue eyes. “I must go see to the injured men.”
Shoving away the ardent feelings that now filled him, he focused on her words. “Nay. You are to go get some sleep yourself, afore you fall down.”
“But—”
“I won’t be hearing an argument about it. Off with you now, to your room.”
Maybe if he treated her like a child, she would lose some of her womanly appeal. But he doubted anything would cool his body’s heated interest in her.
***
Having washed away all traces of soot, blood and grime, and wearing fresh clothing, Gwyneth paced from one end of her chamber to the other, past the ostentatious bed, where her freshly bathed son lay snoring within the downy mattress. She paused by the narrow window with its wavy glass. She was not sleepy in the least. Tired and shaken, yes, but not relaxed enough to sleep. She was glad Rory had agreed to a nap.
The events of the past few hours replayed through her mind over and over. The fires, the violence, the death.
The fear.
Fear for Rory’s life and for Alasdair’s.
After she’d found Rory and held him in her arms, her worries had turned to Alasdair. She’d feared his broken toe would cause him to make some small mistake in battle and get himself killed.
But he was alive, thanks be to God.
Alive and warm and strong. When he’d held her for those few shining moments in the library—heavens! She’d almost broken down into sobs. Why? Not sadness. No, with thankfulness, and joy and a hundred other emotions that crashed in on her when he touched her.
The intensity of his dark brown eyes and the firm grip of his arms told her he’d needed to hold her. That his regard for her went beyond a man’s physical need for a woman. He had felt the same concern for her safety that she’d felt f
or his. And the way he’d kissed her forehead, her cheeks. With affection. With passion that went beyond the physical. She’d been near shaking with emotion for him by the time she’d left the library.
Always, he looked at her with such admiration—she could not fathom it.
He wasn’t like his charming seducer brother, but Alasdair was nonetheless charming and seductive, in a more subtle way. Mayhap in a more cunning way that gave her a false sense of security, until she was well caught in his trap…and then she would be a gone goose.
“No. No, I must not,” she whispered. “I must go away from here.” For the sake of Rory’s life and her own sanity.
But the prospect didn’t hold the appeal it once did.
Chapter Eight
“May I have a word with you?” Gwyneth asked Lachlan later that afternoon when she found him in the noisy great hall. Normally she would not have asked anything of him, but she was desperate.
His brows lifted. “Indeed.” He followed her to the less crowded side of the huge room where they might have a bit of privacy.
“I searched you out as soon as I heard you were going to Edinburgh,” she said.
“Aye, Alasdair is sending me to petition the Privy Council on his behalf. He kens of how charismatic and diplomatic I can be.” Lachlan smiled and winked.
The man should learn to rein in his effortless seductive charm. No more than a flick of an eyelid from him, and she felt like an awkward young girl. Not that she was attracted to him—certainly not in the way she was attracted to Alasdair—but Lachlan constantly left her in a state of discomfiture.
“You said if I ever needed your help to ask,” she reminded him.
“Aye.” He watched her warily, his countenance turning serious. “What would you be needing help with? As I said, I’m in your debt for saving Kean’s life.”
“I want to leave the Highlands.”
He frowned and glanced about. “Aye, but I don’t think you should travel with me this time. I’m in a wee hurry.”
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