My Fierce Highlander (28 page)

The sounds came again, a soft male groan. Was
someone hurt? And then an answering giggle. Oh, dear lord, two
people were…making love in the garden. Gwyneth’s face grew hot as
the fire crackling outside.

“We must go,” she whispered.

“Nay. They will leave soon enough.”

His hand rested heavy on her waist, his
fingers stroking through her corset. Her nipples peaked and ached
for his touch, for his wet mouth, licking, sucking.

She tried to draw in fresh air to clear her
mind, to fight the effects of the spell he cast over her, but
instead inhaled the smoke that had seeped into his clothing along
with his clean male scent.

His hot breath fanned her hair. He sucked her
earlobe into his mouth. She gasped but he placed his thumb over her
lips. The thrill of him coursed through her, possessed her. She
flicked out her tongue against his thumb, then surprised herself by
sucking it into her mouth. She didn’t know why she yearned to do
that, but she wanted some part of him within her. Wanted to taste
him.

Alasdair hissed against her ear, moaned her
name. Shocking herself, she wondered what that other, very hard
part of his body would feel like against her lips.

Though she could scarce think, she knew the
other couple nearby in the garden continued with their mating,
oblivious that anyone was near. Their sounds of pleasure escalated.
The woman cried out. Was that how Gwyneth sounded when Alasdair
made love to her? She could only remember experiencing him in a
most earthly, carnal way that sent her flying toward the
heavens.

As the man in the garden groaned with his
release, Alasdair pressed his lips against Gwyneth’s throat and
trailed his tongue downward to her collarbone. The way she had
taken to sucking his thumb put lascivious images in his head.
Moving his sporran aside, he pressed his erection firmly against
her stomach.

He craved the woman in his arms more than he
craved spring in the midst of winter. And though it made him a
traitorous Scot, he yearned to cast his gaze upon her more than the
bonny hills surrounding him. He wanted to savor her and drink her
slowly like the finest whisky.

Her skin smelled of smoke and woman. Her
hands, fisted on his doublet and tugging him closer, spoke of
unfulfilled hunger. He knew of hunger, aye, indeed. The kind that
made his soul yearn and set his body afire.

The other couple in the garden finished their
tryst and left, but he was happy to see Gwyneth hadn’t noticed. He
enjoyed being the sole focus of her attention. And he reveled in
her earlier jealousy.

She melted and swayed against him with sighs,
inciting his arousal to yet a higher level. Taking his thumb away
from her mouth, he kissed her, full and deep, fed her erotic
kisses, and she ate. She flicked her tongue against his. Her
whimpering little gasps and moans made the aching pleasure in his
erection intensify, and he wanted naught more than to slide into
her tight, wet heat.

Loving the way she held him close, he yanked
up her skirts and petticoats. With his fingers, he relished the
softness of her thighs, the curve of her hip. Her silky skin stole
the last of his rationality.

Discovering the stone bench nearby, he sat
and tugged her to him, straddling his lap, facing him. He raked her
skirts up to her lap.

“Oh, Alasdair, I cannot,” she whispered in a
desperate tone.

“You must only do what you wish.”
Please
let me make love to you right here.
“I’m dying to have you,
a shùgh mo chrìdhe
.”

He spread his hand on her thigh, above her
stocking, and stroked it upward. He rubbed his thumb across her
mound, her soft curls and lower, gently through her moisture and
swollen female lips that made him ache. She gasped and jerked
against him.

With his thumb he massaged her wet, swollen
nub. She fell to his shoulder and moaned incoherent words. Aye, she
was loving that. But no more than he did. He was ready to ignite
like gunpowder.

She strained toward him, closer to his shaft.
He yearned to bury himself forcefully deep inside her, but he
wanted her to be the one to initiate the action, so she could not
deny how much she wanted him.

She tugged at his kilt beneath her, then
lifted herself off his lap, shoved his kilt up and captured his
hard shaft in her cool hand.

“Oh, saints, Gwyneth!” He barely curbed the
primal urge to thrust. “Take me inside you,” he whispered against
her lips.

By slow degrees, she lowered herself onto
him. Trembling with restraint, he forced himself to remain still as
he slipped deeper into her hot, drenched passage. Had he made that
growling animal noise? She took his humanity and control. He wanted
to ravish her like a rutting beast takes its mate, with wild
immoderacy.

She covered his face with kisses. Emotion
ached in his chest, and suddenly with bright clarity, he knew what
it was.

Mo dia, I love her.

He froze for a moment, savoring the
realization. How had that happened? He knew not. The only thing
certain now was he would never let her go.
Never.

He drew her upward, then lowered her again.
Her tight body clenched and caressed him.

Watching her eyes, drifted closed in bliss,
he taught her the rhythm. She placed her feet on the ground and
rode him with eagerness and abandon as if she could not stop. Sweet
heaven, she desired him.

Marry me, Gwyneth.
Nay, he could not
say the words again. Not now. Her mouth would tell him
no,
even as her body said
yes
.

When she cried out in release, she squeezed
him so tightly he near lost his mind. He took her mouth with a deep
kiss.

His patience and control at an end, he picked
her up easily. Still buried inside her, he wrapped her legs around
his waist and leaned one arm against the high rock wall. His other
hand beneath her hips, he held her steady and thrust up into her,
slow and gently at first, but with increasing need and strength, as
his body demanded. Waves of heat and pleasure coursed through
him.

He breathed against her mouth, watched her
eyes half-closed with female bliss. She gasped and whimpered her
encouragement. When she flicked her tongue against his lips, he
lost himself. His release crashed down upon him with the force of a
boulder. But instead of unbearable pain, unimaginable rapture sang
along his nerve endings. It went on and on, spun out and ricocheted
in echoes.

For a moment, he feared they might both sink
to the ground. Still holding her, he stumbled backward and dropped
to the bench. “Dear God, Gwyneth, you have taken away my
strength.”

She held his face between her palms and, in
the dimness, gazed into his eyes with a most solemn expression.
“And you have taken away my control.”

He smiled.

“Give it back,” she whispered.

“Nay. Never.”

“Then I shall keep your strength.”

“Delilah.”

Loving the affectionate grin that spread over
her face, he kissed her once again, slow and deep and sweet.

Shouts, running footsteps and a commotion
erupted outside the garden gate.

“What the devil is going on?” Alasdair helped
her stand, and their clothing fell back into place. Taking her
hand, he led her to the small garden gate and opened it.

All manner of clan members ran through the
main barmkin gate.

“Alasdair!” Fergus shouted and strode toward
him. “Some MacIrwins slipped in, but we don’t ken to what
purpose.”

“Where were the guards?” he asked.

“I’m thinking there were too many people here
for the festival, strangers and people in costume.”

“We caught this one, trying to escape!” Angus
and Busby dragged a struggling captive through the gates and into
the barmkin. They threw a hood back to reveal a woman.

“They took Rory!” Matilda shouted from the
castle portal. “’Twas one of the mummers in a mask.”

Chapter Thirteen

Someone took Rory?
Cold steel scraped
down Alasdair’s spine.

Gwyneth looked like a lost specter. In a
trice, she dashed out the barmkin gate.

“God’s wounds. Gwyneth!” By the time he
reached the open gates, she approached the hill’s edge. “Crawford,
stop her!” he yelled to the guard. But she had already passed
him.

Thank God, Crawford caught her halfway down
the hill. Gwyneth screamed. Her arms and legs flailed as she fought
and kicked. Damnable woman! Could she not think before she acted?
The burly guard hauled her off her feet and carried her back toward
Alasdair.

“No! They took Rory!” Gwyneth screamed.

The guard set her on her feet. Alasdair
grasped her upper arms with a strength he feared was too harsh.
She, at least, was safe. If Gwyneth ran onto MacIrwin land, death
was sure to follow. He could not lose her.

She jerked against his hands. “Bastards! They
took Rory!” The tears streamed down her face.

“Gwyneth. Listen to me.”

She latched her fists onto his doublet and
tugged. “They’re getting away! We must get him back!”

“And we will. Just calm yourself.” In truth,
he wanted to charge onto MacIrwin land himself and bring the lad
back, but he had enough rationality about him to realize it would
be suicide without a plan and a large force of men.

“We don’t ken yet who took him, Donald or
Southwick.”

Gwyneth sagged against him and sobbed.
“Southwick,” she said almost incoherently. “I wager it was the
knave.”

“If Southwick took him, he won’t kill him.
He’s wanting an heir.”

“He’s my son! Not his! He will hit Rory. I’ll
kill that bastard if he harms my baby.”

“Aye, and I’ll help you. But first, we must
go back to the tower and question the MacIrwin woman who was
captured. Then we shall round up a party and go after him.”

She nodded and wiped her eyes.

Guiding her steps, Alasdair helped Gwyneth
back to the barmkin. Every ten seconds she glanced back over her
shoulder through the darkness toward MacIrwin land. His soul ached
for her for he knew what it was to lose a son, and he intended to
do everything in his power to return hers to her arms.

They passed the still-burning balefire, then
strode through the gates. Gwyneth tore herself away and ran toward
the MacIrwin woman, whom Angus and Busby still held near the castle
wall. Alasdair caught up with her.

“Who took my son?” Gwyneth demanded.

The woman hung her head.

Gwyneth grasped her hair, yanked her head up
and stared into her face. “Ruth? Your name is Ruth, is it not?”

“Aye.”

“Who took my son?”

“Answer!” Alasdair bellowed at the woman when
she remained silent too long.

She shrank back and gaped at him, mute and
wide-eyed.

“Do you ken what it feels like to have a
noose around your neck?” he asked.

The woman’s face scrunched into a horrid
expression, and she collapsed into blubbering tears. “’Twas the
MacIrwin. Don’t kill me! I beg of you, don’t kill me.”

“Why was he taken?” Alasdair demanded.

“A fancy Sassenach lord said the lad was his
son. He paid us to rescue him.”

“Oh, dear lord!” cried Gwyneth.

“Southwick. ’Tis as I suspected. Where are
they meeting the Sassenach with him?” asked Alasdair.

“At the south border. He was wanting to be
away, toward London, afore the morn.”

“London. I will kill him.” Gwyneth wiped a
hand over her tear-drenched eyes.

“How many men were traveling with the
Englishman?” Alasdair asked.

“A half dozen or so.”

Alasdair glanced around to find most of the
clan gathered behind them. “I need five able-bodied men ready to
ride south within the hour to recover Lady Gwyneth’s son.”

He was proud to see two dozen of his
strongest men step forward.

“I cannot believe you would do this, Ruth,”
Gwyneth said. “You have a son of your own. How would you feel if a
vile man stole him away from you?”

Ruth hung her head.

“Take her to a cell below,” Alasdair told
Busby. “Tell the guard to give her bread and water twice a day
until I return.” He turned to the group. “I need to see all the men
in the hall now.”

Once inside, he noticed Gwyneth disappearing
up the stairs. Where the devil was she going?

When the clan was assembled, Alasdair
motioned his cousin onto the dais with him. “Fergus, I’m leaving
you in charge.”

Fergus nodded and gave an abbreviated
bow.

Alasdair turned his attention to the rest of
the men who packed the great hall. “’Tis possible Donald MacIrwin
will think I have followed the Englishman with a large company of
men. He will assume he has an advantage for attack here. But he
doesn’t. I will only need five to ride with me. The rest of you
will stay here. Be vigilant, armed and ready for battle.”

He glanced at the men in front who had
volunteered. “To ride with me, I will need Padraig, Angus, Boyd,
Tomas, and Sweeney. As for the rest of you, I’ll need your skills
here to defend the clan and Kintalon. I thank all of you for your
willingness to help.”

He stepped off the dais and found Gwyneth
descending the stairs from her bedchamber. She had changed back
into her old clothing.

He narrowed his eyes and tugged her toward a
corner to talk privately. “You’ll stay here. We will return as soon
as we have Rory.”

“I must go with you.” Steel resolve echoed in
her quiet tone. She threw the large sack she carried onto her
shoulder. What was that, her clothes?

“Nay, ’tis too dangerous.”

“He’s my son. I have to be there.”

“You’ll slow us down. If there’s a skirmish,
’twill be difficult to protect you.”

“If that happens, I’ll hide and use my
sgain dubh
. And I’m a good rider, either sidesaddle or
astride. What will you do if Southwick gets all the way to London
with him? I am Rory’s mother. I have legal rights to him. You do
not.”