My Fierce Highlander (11 page)

Silence descended and all eyes turned to him
where he stood, tall and commanding, upon the dais.

“Someone has injured Mistress Carswell.” He
motioned to her, standing a few feet to the side. All eyes shifted
to her, and she stiffened. Now they would hate her even more.

“First, I would have you ken that Mistress
Carswell well and truly saved my life a few days past, when I was
injured on MacIrwin land,” he said. “If not for her kindness and
healing skills, I would be dead now. For me, she put her own life
in danger, as well as that of her son and her friend. Because of
this, she deserves the highest regard and gratitude from us
all.”

Bless him.
Tears pricked her eyes.

He glared at the rapt crowd. “Now, tell me.
Who took it upon themselves to stab Mistress Carswell in the arm? I
require that you step forward now.” Alasdair’s gaze raked over the
group of women servants who had been in the room with Gwyneth when
she’d been injured.

Everyone stood frozen. Her own elevated pulse
thumped in her ears and shot pain through her wound.

“I didn’t expect that you would. If anyone
kens who did this, speak up now!”

The long moment of silence stretched
Gwyneth’s nerves to near breaking point. Who wanted to kill her and
why?

“Well then, you’re protecting someone with
nary a qualm about murdering. I have no choice but to release the
lot of you from your positions within my home.”

Gwyneth frowned. Was he mad? His household
could not function without the female servants.

“Nay!” several women cried. Much jostling and
whispering ensued. They shoved a thin young woman forward. “’Twas
Eileen,” they announced.

Gwyneth didn’t recognize her.

“Eileen MacMann, why would you want to harm
Mistress Carswell?” Alasdair asked.

“I didn’t want to, Laird MacGrath. Mistress
Weems forced me to. She said I would lose my position if I didn’t
do as she bid.”

This bit of news didn’t surprise Gwyneth in
the least. Weems had not liked her from the moment she laid eyes on
her. She suspected the housekeeper saw her as a threat to her
position. Gwyneth couldn’t believe how far the other woman would go
to see her gone.

“Nay, the wench lies!” the housekeeper
bellowed.

“Silence!” Alasdair thumped his cane on the
floor, his expression hardening. “Weems, step forward.”

The housekeeper waddled forth and blinked her
beady black eyes at Gwyneth, then turned her full attention to her
laird.

“Why would you want to injure Mistress
Carswell?”

“I don’t want to, Laird MacGrath. Eileen is
lying. ’Twas all her doing, alone.”

Eileen shook her head, tears dripping from
her red-rimmed eyes.

Alasdair scrutinized Weems for a long moment,
then turned his attention to another servant. “Tessie, what do you
think?”

“Me, m’laird?” The girl swallowed hard and
her gaze searched out Gwyneth. She nodded at Tessie to give her a
bit of courage. Both Alasdair and Weems could be
intimidating—Alasdair put her on the spot and Weems could make her
life miserable.

“Aye. The truth please.”

She flicked a nervous glance at Mistress
Weems. “I think what Eileen says is true.”

The housekeeper turned and glared at her.

“Do you now?” Alasdair asked.

Tessie nodded.

“Does anyone else agree with Tessie? Raise
your hand if you do.”

Several hands went up tentatively.

“They’re liars, the lot of them,” the
housekeeper yelled.

“Mmph.” Alasdair stepped down from the dais
and limped toward Gwyneth. “Has Mistress Weems shown any ill will
toward you?” he asked in a low tone.

“A little. But I don’t know why.”

He paced before the servants again. “Very
well. Mistress Weems and Eileen, both of you will spend some time
in the dungeon until I decide what to do with you. I won’t tolerate
such aggression within my own household. If you wish to wield a
blade, you can ride into battle with the men during the next
skirmish.”

The male servants and clan members cackled at
that. The wide-eyed females whispered amongst themselves. Eileen
covered her eyes and cried, while Mistress Weems, with her
red-faced snarl, appeared angry enough to slaughter ten warriors.
Her glare bore down on Gwyneth, but she again refused to look away.
She would not be intimidated by the bullish woman. Not that Weems
could do much damage to anyone while in the dungeon, except
Eileen.

“Laird MacGrath,” Weems said, drawing his
attention again. “The MacIrwins killed my husband years ago, when
you were no more than a wee bairn. And she’s a MacIrwin.” Weems
pointed a condemning finger at Gwyneth.

Low mutterings and grumbles issued forth from
the crowd, and a cold surge of dread arose within Gwyneth.

“Silence!” Alasdair demanded. “Weems, you may
be older than me, but I’ll tolerate no insolence from you!” He
paused and let his glare slide over the people. “Most of us here
have had a loved one killed by the MacIrwins. But Gwyneth Carswell
didn’t do any of that. She grew up in England and has only lived in
the Highlands a short time. Because she helped me, the MacIrwins
want to kill her, too. That puts her on our side.”

The room remained quiet.

“Now, does anyone else have any ill will
toward Mistress Carswell?” he asked. “Anyone else here going to pin
all the MacIrwins’ misdeeds on her?”

Several heads shook negatively in response.
And a few murmured, “Nay, m’laird.”

“If you do, you’ll have me to answer to, and
I won’t be so lenient with the next offense.” He turned toward two
men, guards carrying swords and outfitted in metal studded leather
armor, and spoke quietly to them.

Now that she was fairly certain the clan
wouldn’t lynch her, Gwyneth tried to calm herself, despite her
knees being a bit unsteady. She was most thankful to Alasdair for
defending her. Still, she was concerned for Eileen and bewildered
by her. She feared the girl wouldn’t be safe in the cell with
Weems.

The two guards escorted the women through the
ranks of the silent clan. And Alasdair headed toward her.

“Come with me, m’lady,” he murmured as he
passed her. She could not fathom the way he switched from calling
her ‘Mistress Carswell’ in front of his clan, to a more elevated
form of address in private. He had deduced too much about her,
insisting on using a form of address she no longer claimed. But
because of the way he said it, almost as a friendly endearment, she
could not bring herself to ask him to stop.

Urging Rory before her, she followed Alasdair
up the stairs and down a short corridor, past his room. He flung
open a door. “You’ll both use this room. ’Twas cleaned earlier
today. I hope you’ll find it to your liking.” Without waiting for
her to answer, he limped in and lit a candle with his own.

The meager light revealed a spacious room
with a large, heavily-draped poster bed in the corner and a thick
Turkish carpet before it.

“Oh, I cannot take this room,” Gwyneth said,
taken aback by the finery. “Don’t you have something smaller, less
ornate?”

“What’s wrong with ornate?” An almost
imperceptible grin quirked his lips. “I would wager, m’lady, that
when you lived in England you had a room far grander than this
one.”

She stared at the floor, refusing to reveal a
glimpse of her past to him. What he said was too close to the
truth, and she did not wish to take a step back in time. Rising
above her station for a brief time and enjoying such luxury could
only be more painful in the end, when she had it no longer.

“Did you not?” Alasdair asked.

Gwyneth was glad when a panting Busby stopped
in the open doorway.

“Mistress Carswell, I have the herbs. Seri
was out birthing a bairn, but one of her daughters said these would
be what you’re wanting.”

Gwyneth rushed toward him and took the tiny
sacks of crushed herbs. She sniffed them, their distinct pungent or
bitter aromas confirming their identities. “I thank you. If you
would be so kind, could you ask Tessie to bring me some fresh,
clean water and whisky?”

“Busby, also please tell MacDade to come up
as well. I would have him guard,” Alasdair said.

“Aye, m’laird.” Busby scurried away.

Alasdair stood at the mantel, his back to
her. “You’ll be needing a fire in here. ’Tis chill.” He set about
building one himself. Why would he not have a servant do that?

Gwyneth turned down the fine linen and wool
covers on the bed. “Get in, Rory.”

Her sleepy son complied.

Minutes later, she wondered how long Alasdair
would stay. Did he want to oversee the care of her wound?

He stood, his attention still cast toward the
small fire he’d built. “If you should require other clothing, you
shall find some in that trunk in the corner.” He nodded to his
right, still without looking at her.

“You are too kind. Whose clothes are
they?”

A long moment of silence stretched between
them, and she thought he wouldn’t answer. The fire caught the
tender and popped.

“They were my wife’s,” he said in a
monotone.

“Your wife’s?” He’d never mentioned a wife
before. Was this the Leitha whose name he’d murmured in his fevered
sleep several nights ago?

“Aye, she died two years past. She was a wee
lass, much like you are, so I’m thinking the clothes may fit.
Anyway, you came here with naught more than the clothes on your
back. You’ll be needing something else to wear.”

“I thank you.”

“’Tis the least I can do.”

Gwyneth wanted to disagree. What did this
cost him? Had he loved his late wife so much that giving away her
clothing pained him? Or did he have no emotional attachment to
her?

At any rate, he was far more generous than
her father or her late husband had ever been, but discussing such
matters did not seem appropriate. The atmosphere of the room
already felt too intimate by far. She stood in a bedchamber, in the
middle of the night, with a handsome man who dangerously lured her
without even trying. One glance from him could draw forth the
sensual side she tried to keep bound and hidden.

Her son snoring in the bed, along with the
pain in her arm, kept any shameful thoughts at bay.

“Have a seat, m’lady, afore you fall down.
You’re pale as a specter.” Alasdair motioned toward a chair, then
paced to the door. “Where is Tessie?”

Gwyneth sat. “I’ll wait for her. Please, you
should go back to bed. It is late.”

“Nay, I cannot sleep now anyway.” He rubbed
the back of his neck. “I should’ve let Mistress Weems go years ago.
She’s a right
olkeyr
.”

Gwyneth wasn’t sure what an
olkeyr
was, but it didn’t sound pleasant.

“She was in the employ of my father,” he
continued. “I feared she wouldn’t be able to find another position
at her age. I’ve a feeling she’s terrorized more than one of the
maids.” He was silent for a long moment. “What she had Eileen do is
unforgivable.”

Unforgivable? Did he mean to have Weems
killed? And Eileen—she’d practically been forced into her actions.
In Gwyneth’s experience, men often judged women too harshly.

“What will you do to them?” Surely he wasn’t
the sort of man who would execute women for injuring someone.

“Let them stay in the dungeon for a few days
while they worry about what I
might
do to them. As for after
that, I haven’t decided.”

“I think Eileen is as much a victim as I am.”
Gwyneth hoped he would show her some mercy, at least.

“In a way, aye. But she should never have
carried out the stabbing. She should’ve come to me instead of
believing Weems. And if any of the other servants or clan members
get it in their heads to stab someone, outside battle, they will
know I’ll dole out a just punishment.”

Tessie trotted into the room with the water
and whisky, then upon seeing Alasdair, halted and bobbed a curtsy.
“M’laird. Mistress, I’d have been here sooner, but I had to draw
fresh water from the well.”

“It’s all right.”

Tessie helped her clean the wound again with
the whisky. Gwyneth mixed the herbs with the water and applied a
paste, and then a bandage, while Alasdair watched from the
background. She could scarce believe he had so much interest in her
wound. The concern in his eyes made her feel self-conscious. She
was afraid his clan would notice and whisper speculations behind
their hands. That was all she needed, to be the focus of another
scandal.

Once Tessie finished and left, Alasdair
glanced into the corridor and spoke to the large, dark-haired man
who waited there. “MacDade, you are to guard Mistress Carswell and
her son. Don’t let anyone pass through this door without checking
with me.”

“Except Tessie,” Gwyneth said.

“Aye, if you trust her.”

“I do.”

“Very well, then. I’ll be next door if you
should need anything.”

“Many good thanks, my laird.”

He gave a brief bow, and his troubled gaze
lingered on her until he closed the door between them.

His kindness confused her. Was he simply
repaying the favor since she’d helped save his life days ago? Or
was it something else? She didn’t know how to interpret his
actions. In her experience, men were only kind to women in the
presence of others, or when they wanted something. Such had been
the case in her parents’ marriage when she was growing up.

Gwyneth paced to the bed and observed Rory
sleeping. He looked pale and exhausted after the turmoil of the
last few days. The dark circles beneath his eyes concerned her.

She was not the least bit sleepy. The sharp
pain in her arm remained strong.

In the dim candlelight, she glanced around at
the luxurious room. Green velvet curtains draped the bed. Indeed,
the featherbed was the softest she’d ever touched. Rory had never
slept on something so fine. If the man who’d sired him had taken
responsibility, Rory would have slept on a bed soft as this from
the time he was a tiny babe. And she would’ve been a marchioness.
But such things were of no significance now.