My Fierce Highlander (29 page)

He could see it was no use to argue with her.
If he didn’t allow her to go, she’d likely find a way to follow,
alone. That would be far more dangerous for her. She had slipped by
the guards before.

“You’re to keep up on your own. ’Tis for your
son we do this. If you hinder it, ’twill be your own fault.”

She stood straighter. “I will not hinder
it.”

“Very well, then. I’ll have one of the grooms
saddle a mare. Be ready within the hour.”

“I thank you, sir.” She curtseyed.

Alasdair strode away from her to give
separate orders to each of the five men and have Fergus convey his
apologies to the visiting clan chieftains and other guests for his
absence.

Gwyneth wanted to thank Alasdair a hundred
times over. Indeed, she could never show the depth of her gratitude
for his willingness to help her to this extent.

She glanced around at the milling crowd, then
a second later, realized she was looking for Rory. The hollow pain
in her chest widened.
Oh dear God, help me.

This was her own fault. If she had been with
Rory, telling stories, instead of with Alasdair, cavorting in the
garden, this wouldn’t have happened. She had been wallowing in the
depths of carnal pleasure at the same moment her son was stolen
away.
I am a horrid mother.

***

We will find Rory.

In the pre-dawn moonlight the seven of them
raced south, over moors and between mountains.

We will find Rory. Gwyneth ran the words
through her mind, silently repeating them, like an incantation or
prayer.

The horses’ hooves, rumbling against the
ground like never-ending thunder, combined with the rhythmic
movement, threatened to mesmerize her. But the cool, fresh air,
along with the scent of horses and leather, kept her grounded in
reality.

Her first instinct was to believe God was
punishing her for her sinful behavior. Yes, maybe He was. But her
regard for Alasdair was not evil. Her emotions were not evil; they
just
were
. Those same emotions had given rise to her desire
for the man riding before her. And that desire had allowed her
bright moments of joy such as she had not known possible.

Joy and love were not evil.

Love? Do I love him?

Yes, some jubilant part of her wanted to
shout. But she couldn’t allow him to find out, because her love for
him would change nothing about their present situation.

***

“Halt!” Maxwell Huntley, Lord Southwick drew
up in the darkness before a rushing stream.

His son, whom the other men had bound and
tied across one of the saddles, screamed and yelled. He called for
his ma and for Alasdair; he screeched out insults that would scorch
the ears of most soldiers. What the devil had Gwyneth been teaching
him? If the loud and obnoxious little terror was not his son…he
could not think of it. The lad simply had to be his.

“We don’t have time to stop now, Southwick,”
Lord Peterson said. “If we do, the MacGraths may catch up to
us.”

“I must see if this irritating little rascal
truly is my own flesh and blood,” he muttered, dismounting. If
Gwyneth had lied to him that day six years ago, he would be
murderously angry. “Bring the torch here. And take the lad off the
horse.” Once his guard had set the boy onto his feet, Southwick
yanked the sack from his head.

The boy’s hair was blondish-brown and
straight, much like his own.

“Take me back to my ma!”

“Rory. Is that your name?” Southwick
asked.

“Aye.”

He sounded like a damned Scot, and had a
Scots name besides. Southwick ground his teeth. He’d see about
changing both.

“What is your mother’s name?”

Rory struggled against the guard holding him.
“Gwyneth.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost six. Let me go, you toad-spotted
whoreson!”

Southwick clasped his hands tightly behind
his back. He was sore tempted to slap some sense into the lad, but
not in front of his men. “Cease! You will be quiet and mind your
manners. Has your mother taught you nothing?”

Rory merely narrowed his eyes and produced a
malicious glare. He would have to whip some respect into the little
hellion.

“When is your birthday?” Southwick
demanded.

“Why are you asking me daft questions? I want
to go home.”

“That’s exactly where we are going—home. Now
tell me when your birthday is.”

“July tenth,” he ground out between clenched
teeth.

That would put his conception at the time
when he and Gwyneth had a tryst. The boy looked like Gwyneth for
the most part, but he had the narrow, refined Huntley nose and chin
which gave him an aristocratic air, just as Southwick had himself.
The boy was dirty, with soot and ash on his face and worn
clothing.

“Let me see your hands and feet.”

“No.” The lad stood sullen.

Southwick bent to remove a primitive leather
shoe himself.

“No!” Rory kicked Southwick’s shin.

He grabbed the child’s chin. “Listen to me,
Rory. You will show me respect. I am your father.”

“No, you’re not! My da is dead!”

“That wasn’t your real da. I am. You may call
me
Father
.”

“No! I won’t.”

Rage crawled along Southwick’s nerve endings.
And then he realized Rory was acting like a Huntley. Most of the
men in his own family were stubborn and determined to get their
way. Quick tempered. They hated being taken advantage of.

Smiling, Southwick drew in a deep breath,
calming himself. Indeed, this barbaric wild child was his son. In
London, when the boy was cleaned up, Southwick would teach him
about manners and respect.

“Put my son back on the horse. We ride.”

***

A few hours after daybreak, Alasdair,
Gwyneth, and their party reached Aviemore. The muddy streets were
filled with Scots dressed in their Midsummer finest, plaids of
every description. She searched throngs of people for Rory and
Southwick. Her anxiety vibrated to a higher pitch with each minute
that passed.

“Did you see a half-dozen Englishmen and a
lad ride through this morn?” Alasdair called to a grizzly-faced man
in front of the livery stable.

“Aye, no more than three hours past. They
traded for fresh horses.”

Good lord, a three hour lead! How will we
catch up?

They quickly left Aviemore behind. Gwyneth
rode in the middle of the group, beside Padraig. This trip through
the countryside reminded her too much of when she’d first arrived
in Scotland, alone and terrified, six years ago. The fear was worse
now, despite the fact she was no longer a naïve girl.

Long before they reached Pitlochry, sunset
gleamed over the land in bright orange rays. The gently sloping
land here was not as majestic or dramatic as the Highlands.

Alasdair slowed his horse to a walk, and the
rest followed suit. He stopped in a secluded spot near a stream and
swung down from his bay. “We wouldn’t be able to catch up to them
even if we were to ride all night. And ’tis apparent Lady Gwyneth
may fall out of the saddle soon.”

“No, I will not.” She had promised him she
would keep up with the men, and she meant to do it—even if it
should kill her.

“The horses need rest as well.”

She was disheartened that they hadn’t yet
spotted Rory or the knaves who had abducted him. How far would they
have to ride to catch up to them? All the way to London? She prayed
that would not be the case.

The other men dismounted and started
unloading the packhorse to make camp.

Alasdair approached and stroked her mare’s
muzzle. “Are you ready to dismount?”

“Yes.”

He reached up to her, placed his hands at her
waist and lifted her from the sidesaddle. Her feet ached and
prickled once set firmly on the ground. She wiggled her numb toes
within her leather slippers.

Sunset lit the depths of Alasdair’s eyes to
rich brown. “Are you well, then, m’lady?” His low, intimate tone
turned her insides to sweet plum pudding.

“Yes, are you?”

“Aye.”

Awareness of him threatened to fluster her.
“I thank you for doing this favor for me. ’Tis a grand service,
indeed.”

“You have done more than this for me.” He
cupped her neck and stroked a thumb over her ear. “You risked your
life to save mine when you dragged me off that battlefield.”

Alasdair’s eyes grew too intense, and she
dropped her gaze to that vulnerable, sensual hollow at the base of
his throat. Had she ever kissed him there? No, she didn’t think so,
but she wanted to.

Nonsense. I must not kiss him anywhere,
ever again.
She glanced aside.
I must think only of Rory and
getting him back.

She had to believe he was safe. Surely
Southwick would not injure his son, though he might not treat him
well. He might hit him or starve him as punishment. Rory was a
little warrior and he might anger Southwick with attempts to escape
or fight back. Southwick probably had him tied up and thrown across
a saddle. Her sweet child was likely terrified beyond reason.

She wanted to take her dagger to
Southwick.

***

Later that night, Alasdair lay in his bedroll
looking up at the stars, thankful it was not raining. Except for
Boyd, who took his turn at watch, the other men snored nearby—as
well they should. It had been hours since they’d all gone to
bed.

Rory and Gwyneth disturbed Alasdair’s
thoughts. He prayed the lad was unhurt. No matter what it took, he
would return him to his mother.

And Gwyneth…by the saints, at some point, she
had become as important to him as his next heartbeat. It had
nothing to do with her saving his life over a month ago, and
everything to do with the way she’d burrowed into his soul.

In truth, he was the greatest imbecile for
letting her steal his heart away. He’d never wanted to feel such
depth of emotion for a woman again. When Leitha died, he’d almost
died with her. A long time passed before he’d felt alive again.
Maybe he hadn’t truly reclaimed his life until Gwyneth saved
it.

To look at her was to want her in every
way—in his bed, in his life, in his heart. Though he knew he was
foolish for wanting her love, that was the thing he craved
most.

“Alasdair,” Gwyneth whispered in the
darkness, almost as if conjured by his thoughts.

He sat up. The dim light of the dying fire
revealed her standing in the opening of her tent, not twenty feet
away. She wore a glowing-white smock with her
arisaid
draped
over her shoulders. She looked like a dream come to life.

“Aye. What is it?”

“I cannot sleep.”

“Nor can I.”

She shivered and rubbed her arms. What was on
her mind? Did she want to talk? Or something else?

“Come. Cover up here.” Alasdair lifted the
edge of his woolen blanket.

He would welcome her into his bed by any
means, fair or foul. He craved the softness of her skin and the
whisper of her words.

She glanced at the men lying closer to the
fire.

“They’re asleep.” Alasdair darted a look
toward Boyd where he stood watch on the far side of the small
clearing. His back was to the fire, and none of them moved.

Now that the tempting idea of her sharing his
bed had invaded his consciousness, Alasdair had to fulfill it,
whether she wanted innocent sleep or something deliciously
naughty.

Gwyneth crept toward him and slid beneath his
plaid. Happiness and arousal flowed through him with the warmth of
fine whisky. She snuggled up against him, pressed her face to his
chest…and burst into tears.

Damnation.

Alasdair wrapped her in his arms. “Och,
Gwyneth, I ken how hard this is on you.”

“Yes.”

After a few moments, she wiped her eyes and
nose on a handkerchief she’d brought with her and apparently tried
to calm herself with deep breaths—warm breaths that fanned against
his bare chest and teased him.

He didn’t know whether he was relieved or
irritated that he now wore trews. ’Twas more convenient if he had
to rise in a hurry. But not convenient for spontaneous
lovemaking.

Gwyneth was an emotional woman needing
comfort and reassurance that her son would be safe. But he was an
aroused man wanting the woman he cared deeply for—nay, indeed, the
woman he loved.

“’Twill be all right.” He stroked a hand over
her back and up into the silkiness of her loosened hair. “I’ll make
sure of it.”

“We must get Rory back. He’s all I have.”

“Aye, and we will. You’re needing a wee bit
of faith.” Though he was certain Rory meant more to her than anyone
or anything, he wasn’t
all
she had.
Can you not see that
you have me as well? If you would but open your eyes.

“What if we don’t? Southwick is a powerful
man. The courts will always side with the man.”

“But Rory’s illegitimate. ’Haps that will
give you the advantage.” Alasdair hoped what he said was true.
Regardless, he needed to reassure Gwyneth and take away some of her
worries.

“Why can Southwick not simply marry someone
else and have legitimate children?”

“’Twould be the best solution. But mayhap
there is a reason he didn’t tell us.”

“He doesn’t even know or love Rory. I’ve
raised him almost single-handedly. He’s
my
son. The reason I
push forward every day.” Her whisper held the fierceness of a
tigress protecting her cub.

“You’re a good mother,” Alasdair murmured.
Aye, why could you not be the mother of my own children?

“I wager you’re the only one who thinks
so.”

He kissed her forehead. “It doesn’t matter
what other people think. We both ken the truth. You’re the most
devoted mother I’ve ever seen.” He stroked his fingertips over her
cheek and chin, relishing the feel of her velvety skin. “Aside from
that, you’re a healer. You oft ignore your own needs to care for
others. Even strangers, like me, when you saved my life. You didn’t
ken whether I would be friend or enemy when I awoke, but you didn’t
let that scare you. You’re a strong woman, Gwyneth. The bravest I
ever met.”