I refuse to regret it.
“Are you well?” His dark brows furrowed with concern.
She nodded.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head. What he’d made her feel was far from pain, but now…
His worried gaze lingering on her, he stepped away and stuffed his shirttail beneath his kilt and fastened the top portion with his brooch.
She faced the door and waited for him to finish. Upon my faith, what have I done? Any woman who followed her body’s urges was full of folly, was she not?
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.
Why had Gwyneth not told him about Rory’s natural father? Was it because she was ashamed of the scandal, or did she not trust Alasdair?
Something else still nagged him in the back of his mind. Her situation with Shaw matched up too conveniently with Alasdair’s father’s murder. What was it? He had a gut feeling something wasn’t right. He must ask her.
He strode out of his chamber and down the corridor toward the room Gwyneth used. He pounded a fist against the door.
After a moment, Tessie opened the door, and her eyes near popped out of her head. “Laird MacGrath!”
“Aye.” He spotted Gwyneth in a wooden bathtub set before the fireplace. “Leave us.” He strode forward, inhaling a whiff of the floral and herb scented steam that arose from her bath.
Gwyneth gasped and started to sit up, but then grabbed her smock and spread it over the water to further shield herself. He didn’t know why. He’d been deep inside her yesterday morn. And he wanted that again. Now. Arousal flooded him, heating his blood.
He glanced back and found Tessie fidgeting in the doorway.
“Tell no one I’m here.”
“Aye, m’laird.” At his stern glare, she scurried out and closed the door with a click.
After locking the door, he dropped the key into his sporran and turned his attention back to Gwyneth. He would not have her leaving before he had his answers.
“Won’t you at least allow me to dry off and dress properly?” She sat, red-faced and huddling beneath the smock.
“No need. I but want a minute of your time.”
Her ice-blue eyes glittered. Good, he liked getting her passions worked up.
Moving closer, he placed his hands upon his hips. “Why did you
lead me to believe Baigh Shaw was Rory’s father?”
Her mouth dropped open. “What? How did you—?” Her eyes narrowed. “That Englishman who left this morn, earl of…something.”
“Aye, Hennessy. Edward Murray. He’s a Lowlander.”
“Well, I assume he told you everything, so there’s nothing left for me to say,” she stated in her haughty Sassenach accent. “I shall leave in the morn.”
“What are you blathering on about? You’ll be staying right here.” The mere thought of her departing twisted his gut.
“I will be an embarrassment to your clan.”
“No one knows, save me. And even if they did, what of it? The Highlands are full of bastards. So is England. Some even accused your former queen of illegitimacy, aye?”
Gwyneth’s face reddened. “At least Rory has a name besides mine own,” she said softly.
“Your name would be preferred to Baigh Shaw’s,” Alasdair growled.
“You are a man. You cannot understand what it is like for a woman in my situation.”
“Nay, but I’m not daft. Why Baigh Shaw?” Why not anyone but that outlaw whoreson?
Gwyneth stared down into the water. “He was the only man willing to give my son a name. I didn’t marry him until Rory was three months old.”
“And exactly how old is Rory now?”
“He will be six next month.”
Alasdair did the calculations in his head. If Rory had been born in July, and he was three months old when Gwyneth married Shaw, that would’ve made it October. Shaw had murdered Alasdair’s father that same month.
Shaw was naught but a commoner and an assassin. And he would not have been worthy enough for Gwyneth to wipe her slippers on before she was expelled from her family and social position for her indiscretion. Gwyneth was a beautiful woman. Shaw likely lusted over her and, of course, had no concern for any scandal in faraway London. To marry so far above his station would’ve been an added reward.
“Tell me,” Alasdair began, “how did your marriage to Shaw come about?”
“What do you mean?”
“You needed a name for your son. And what did Shaw need?”
My Fierce Highlander Page 16