My Fierce Highlander (34 page)

He released a long-suffering sigh. “Such is
the lot of women.”

Alasdair shoved to his feet. “’Tis time to
go!” he growled and stomped across the floor.

Rooted to her chair and feeling torn, Gwyneth
shook her head. “I cannot leave Rory.”

His back to them, Alasdair halted and
clenched his fists at his sides. “M’lady, if we don’t leave now, I
won’t be responsible for my actions!” His accent thickened.

A knock sounded at the door, and the steward
poked his head in. “My lord, pray pardon. We have more visitors.
Scotsmen to be sure.”

Alasdair strode into the entry hall, the
steward scuttling out of his way.

Oh, please don’t leave me with these wolves,
Alasdair.

“What a ruffian,” Southwick muttered with a
grimace. “The choice is yours, Gwyneth. If I see fit, I can provide
for you beyond your wildest imaginings. You would never want for
anything. Perhaps we could even have a few more children.”

She quaked with revulsion. If he saw fit? He
would like as not send her to Bedlam to get her out of the way.

“Humph,” her father said. “Everyone knows you
cannot sire any more children since your
illness
.”

Southwick glared at Darrow. “How dare you,
old man?”

“Oh, I dare. I dare! You wretched little
peacock.”

“Upon my faith! That’s why you want Rory.”
Gwyneth leapt to her feet, but the arguing men ignored her. Rory
was Southwick’s last chance for an heir of his own loins. And she
knew his pride demanded nothing less.

“You two deserve each other.” Her father
shoved himself to his feet. “The whore and the unmanned peacock.
Perfect!” He strode from the room.

Red-faced, Southwick flicked his hand. “What
of it? I don’t need the crusty old earl’s backing. King James is
right fond of me.”

***

In the foyer, the earl of Darrow strode past
Alasdair and his men without so much as a glance. The crotchety
buffoon disappeared out the door.

“That bastard is Gwyneth’s father,” Alasdair
muttered to Lachlan in Gaelic. “But Southwick is a thousand times
worse. I swear, I want to kill him. He is naught but sheep
caochan
.”

Never had he been so possessed of a killing
fury and yet unable to act upon it. If he said or did the wrong
thing, he could ruin Gwyneth’s chances of getting Rory back
legally. He was willing to restrain himself for her alone.

“You must remain calm,” Lachlan said.

“Aye.” Alasdair tried to shake off his anger.
“I must go back in there. We will be out in a short while.”

After Lachlan and his men retreated out the
front door, Alasdair returned to the library.

Southwick jumped to his feet. Alasdair almost
smiled at the fear that shone on the Englishman’s face.

Aye, you’d best fear me, for I have plans
for you.
How dare the whoreson treat Gwyneth with such
scorn?

When Southwick had mentioned Gwyneth carrying
his Scots bastard, he’d wanted to strangle the swine. Aye, most
likely she did carry his bairn, but it would not be a bastard. He
would marry her before long, of that he was determined.

Gwyneth’s face was pale as blanched linen.
Wondering what had been said in his absence, Alasdair strode
forward and stood beside her near the fireplace. She darted him a
glance of gratitude. He hoped his presence made her feel marginally
safer.

Gwyneth crossed her arms over her chest. “I
want to see Rory now,” she said in a strong voice. Alasdair was
glad she was holding up so well.

“I will have your decision first,” Southwick
demanded.

Her decision? Was he back to the ridiculous
proposal of marriage? She had already told him she wouldn’t marry
him. He prayed she hadn’t said something to give the knave hope she
might change her mind. Alasdair’s own helplessness infuriated him.
He couldn’t command anyone to do anything, as he was used to.
Gwyneth had to make her own decision. And her only consideration
was Rory. Not Alasdair.

He hated himself for his selfishness. But he
couldn’t make himself stop loving her.

It seemed Gwyneth had been holding her breath
when she inhaled deeply. “I will give it to you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow! Damnation, you will tell him “no”
tomorrow!

Southwick sighed. “Very well. You can see my
son now, but I’m staying in the room.”

Gwyneth glared at Southwick as if she would
kill him herself.

Would you like to borrow my dagger,
m’lady?

Southwick opened the door and murmured a few
words to the steward. Two armed footmen entered, eyeing Alasdair
with trepidation, and stood guard. He sent them a snarl-like smile.
Southwick then sauntered across the room and poured himself a
drink.

“Would either of you care for sherry?” he
asked Gwyneth and Alasdair.

They both declined.

But I will be happy to shove the bottle up
your arse.

Southwick raised his small crystal glass to
them and downed a large swig.

Gwyneth pressed her eyes closed and held her
face in her hands as if she had a terrible headache.

“Are you feeling well?” Alasdair murmured to
her. Of course she wasn’t, but he wanted her to know he was there
for her. Though he could do naught at the moment like he wished to,
he understood what she felt.

Her eyes met his. Her raw fear showed through
clearly.

“You two stop whispering and making moon eyes
at each other. You sicken me!” Southwick said.

“
A mhic an uilc,
” Alasdair said,
wishing he could tell him exactly what he thought in the tongue he
understood.

“I allow no swine language spoken in my
house.”

“
Cac. Bidh ceannach agad air.
”

Before Southwick could whine any further
about his use of Gaelic, the door creaked open and Rory stuck his
head around the door. “Ma!” The wee lad bounded forward and leapt
into her arms.

“Oh, Rory, I missed you so.” She caught and
held him tightly. Tears glistened on her cheeks.

Fortunately for Southwick, the lad, dressed
in English style garments, didn’t look any worse for wear.

“I missed you too, Ma! I want to go home.”
Rory then noticed Alasdair. “Laird Alasdair!”

He moved toward the lad.

Rory clamored into his arms, and Alasdair
held him like he might his own long lost son. He fought back the
tightening of his throat. “How are they treating you, lad?”

“I don’t like it here,” Rory declared in his
high-pitched voice. “I want to go home, back to Kintalon.”

That the lad considered Kintalon his home
clutched at Alasdair’s heart. “Aye, I know you do.”
And I will
be taking you, all in due time.

Rory glared at Southwick. “I don’t want him
to be my da. I want it to be you, Alasdair.”

“Och.” The tenderness he felt for the lad
intensified. Rory liked him that well? This was almost more than he
could comprehend.

“Why, you little—” Southwick slammed down his
glass and took two steps forward.

Rory tightened his arms around Alasdair’s
neck.

“You won’t hurt the lad!” he warned, just
wishing the weasel would try it. That would give him a good reason
to finish him off now.

“Or you’ll what?”

“He’ll run you through! You English
whoreson!” the lad said.

“Rory!” Gwyneth gasped.

Southwick’s face turned purple. “I see what
the fine Scot is teaching him!”

Alasdair bit back a grin at the lad’s
courage. “Nay, he taught me that one.”

Rory smiled at Alasdair and the first ray of
happiness he’d felt that day shined through him.

He mussed Rory’s hair. “He’s a good lad. The
best I’ve ever seen.”

“Put my son down,” Southwick commanded, but
Alasdair ignored him.

“He does not know you,” Gwyneth said.

“Well, I intend to get to know him. That’s
why I’ll have custody. To teach him some manners. And teach him how
to be English.”

“He has manners. But you’ve scared him. You
haven’t treated him with kindness, as Laird MacGrath has.”

“We are good swordsmen, are we not, Rory?”
Alasdair asked.

“Aye.” The lad beamed at him. “
Cho luath
ri seabhag.
”

As fast as a hawk, indeed. Alasdair
grinned.

“I will not have my son talking like a
filthy, heathen Highlander!” The words exploded from Southwick’s
mouth.

Rory jumped, his wide eyes focusing on the
marquess.

And you are a dung-covered mongrel,
Alasdair wanted to retort, along with several other worse insults,
but ’twas best to hold his tongue in front of the lad.

“I will have your answer to my marriage
proposal in the morn. Come, Rory.” Southwick held out his hand.
“And why the hell did you give him such a name as
Rory
?”

Gwyneth narrowed her eyes at the man. “I was
banished to the Highlands, and I wanted my son to fit in.”

Alasdair set Rory on his feet, but the lad
clung to him, then hid behind his leg. “I don’t want to go with
you. I want to stay with Ma and Alasdair.”

“Rory, do not make me angry.” His face red
and jaw clenched, Southwick gave a false smile.

“Come, we will take you to the room you’ve
been using. Show us the way.” Gwyneth held out her hand to
Rory.

He refused to release Alasdair’s hand and the
two led him from the room and across the foyer. They climbed a wide
oak stairway to the second floor.

Alasdair felt he had a family of his
own—Gwyneth his wife and Rory his son. He couldn’t let Southwick
steal them away from him when he’d only now realized they were a
family.

“I slept here last night.” Rory released
their hands and opened a wide door. The bedchamber was so large it
would stretch half the length of the library they had been in. And
the monstrous four-poster bed was sure to swallow the lad.

“’Tis a fine room, Rory.” Alasdair tried to
sound happier than he felt.

“I don’t like it. There’s naught to play with
and I can’t go outside.”

That reminded Alasdair…he dug into his
sporran and pulled out a small wooden horse. “I carved this for
you.”

Rory beamed and took the animal. “Oh, I thank
you, Alasdair.” He bounced on his toes, then knelt and galloped the
wee horse across the floor.

Gwyneth glanced back at Alasdair, affection
and raw emotion in her eyes.

He shrugged. He’d needed something with which
to occupy his time the last few nights, when all he’d wanted to do
was sneak into her bed. As well, he had worried about the lad and
how he was faring.

“I’m going to name him Tasgall,” Rory
said.

Gwyneth faced forward again, and Alasdair
clasped her shoulders in his hands. He had yearned to touch her for
two days but had refrained. Now, his hands savored the delicate
feel of her. She was too thin, her shoulder muscles too tense.
Gently, he dug his fingertips into them. A quiet sigh escaped her
and she dropped her head forward. That she allowed him access,
silently asking for more, made him feel even more possessive.
You are mine, Gwyneth, whether you acknowledge it or not.
He
caressed the sides of her slender neck, wishing he could kiss her
there instead. Her skin was smooth as finest ivory silk…beyond
tantalizing.

“Can you carve a warrior to ride on Tasgall’s
back? Holding a sword?” Rory’s words jolted Alasdair from his
reverie.

He stilled his hands but left them lying on
Gwyneth’s shoulders. He could not yet bear to break the contact.
“Aye, that I will, lad.”

Rory stood before them, his innocent yet wise
gaze darting between Alasdair and Gwyneth. “You like my ma, do you
not?”

Now what was he about? Playing the wee
matchmaker? “Of course, I like her.”
Indeed, I love her.

“You could be my new da, could you not?” The
lad’s tone of voice, hopeful yet so vulnerable pricked at
Alasdair’s heart.

“Rory, I would be honored to call you my son,
but ’tis up to your mother.”

Within his grasp, her shoulders shook, and
she pressed her hands to her face. Perhaps what he’d said wasn’t
fair, considering how Southwick had her suspended over an abyss. If
she would but give Alasdair the word, he would take command of this
situation and Southwick would regret having ever come up with the
idea of stealing Rory away.

“Don’t cry, Ma.” Rory stopped in front of
her. “You like Alasdair. And you could let him be my da, ’cause I
never had a real one that I can remember.”

God’s teeth.
If the lad didn’t close
his mouth they would all be blubbering into their sleeves.

Gwyneth sniffed. “It isn’t that simple, Rory.
I’m sorry.”

Rory hung his head.

Gwyneth knelt. “How has Southwick treated
you? Has he struck you?”

The lad shook his head. “I don’t like
him.”

“Why?”

“He talks mean and yells,” he said on a
sullen tone.

“Did he give you enough to eat?”

Rory nodded. “But I didn’t like it.”

A footstep sounded outside the door, and
Alasdair glanced around. One of the marquess’s men stood out in the
gallery, guarding Rory from the background.

“I must talk with you alone,” Alasdair told
Gwyneth.

“Rory, we will be in the gallery having a
discussion,” she said. “Leave the door open, and I’ll be back in a
moment.”

“Very well.” He knelt and resumed playing
with the wooden horse.

Once in the gallery, Alasdair discovered that
Southwick had sent three guards this time—armed footmen of short
stature. He could take them all if he wanted.

He guided Gwyneth away from the men, then
stopped her before a tall, stained glass window. Afternoon sunlight
blazed through. The colored glow lit the shimmering, golden-brown
highlights in her hair and lent unnatural azure tones to her pale
skin. Anguish shadowed her eyes.

“You cannot marry Southwick,” Alasdair
whispered.