My Fierce Highlander (35 page)

“I do not want to!” she said in a low but
firm tone. “But if he won’t release Rory into my custody, what are
my choices? I have no means. I have nothing. Only Rory.”

“Gwyneth—” He shook his head. How could he
make her see?

“My own father won’t help me,” she whispered,
her eyes pleading with him to understand. “I have no pull with
anyone else. Except you. And I hate to say it, Alasdair, but we
both know King James does not hold Highlanders in high esteem.”

Indeed, he did not, but Alasdair’s family and
the whole MacGrath clan had always been on decent terms with the
Stuarts. And there was something Gwyneth had forgotten—Highlanders
were resourceful, tenacious survivors. One did not thrive in the
rough Highlands without being so.

“This is a very delicate situation,” Gwyneth
said. “I would not want to ruin Rory’s chances of possibly
inheriting property or even a title, but I cannot leave him alone
in the care of that snake.”

Aye, Rory’s future, that was the stumbling
stone. Otherwise, Alasdair could steal him back and be off to
Scotland. Since the situation was so complicated, he would have to
think on it more and come up with a strategy. He would engage the
help of Lachlan and the other men. Surely together they could find
a way to free Rory and Gwyneth from Southwick’s filthy talons.

Regardless, Alasdair had to make Gwyneth
understand some things. “There are two reasons you cannot marry
him.”

She looked startled and perplexed. “What are
they?”

“He doesn’t love you like I do. And I won’t
allow the bairn you carry—my son—to be raised by a Sassenach
bastard.”

Chapter Seventeen

Gwyneth’s mouth dropped open, and her lips
worked as if she had forgotten how to speak. “Good heavens. Have
you lost your mind?” she whispered. “I’m not carrying—” Her words
came to a strangled halt, and her face turned the color of Highland
snow.

“Aye, you are with child. I ken the signs.”
One part of him rejoiced, while another part stood frozen with
fear. Fear that she would reject him and refuse to see reason. Or
that she’d ignore his help and let Southwick dictate her future.
“The past few days you’ve been sick more often than not.”

“Because I was so worried.” Her words rushed
out. “And…and seasick.”

Must she always deny the truth? “Can you be
certain of that?”

“Well—” She frowned and pressed a fist to her
mouth.

“What if I’m right? You cannot marry
Southwick if you carry my bairn. Not only will I not let it happen,
Southwick won’t marry you if he kens of it. We must find another
way to fight him. Will you agree to it?”

“If I cause Rory to lose his inheritance, I
will never forgive myself. That’s his future. He would never have
to go hungry in winter. Or be cold. He would have incredible
freedoms and anything he wants, his whole life. And he wouldn’t
have to ask anyone for it. It would be his alone. He could easily
provide for a family of his own one day.”

Certainly Alasdair understood that. He would
not want to part with his title and lands, either. Not because he
was greedy but because his possessions gave him power over his own
destiny, as she said.

The situation was murky. But his feelings for
her were clear as a summer’s day. “M’lady, I’m wanting to hear how
you feel about me.”

She pressed her eyes closed. “Please do not
pressure me any more than Southwick is. I cannot consider more than
one thing at a time.”

“Well, you must, because there’s more than
one thing at stake here. When we made love, a new life was created.
We both knew it could happen. And I hoped it would, because I want
you for my wife. I love you, Gwyneth. He doesn’t.”

“I cannot leave Rory alone with him!”

Alasdair pulled her into his arms. “I’m not
planning to.”

She gazed up at him. “What will you do?”

***

A seething rage possessed Alasdair at his own
helplessness. And yet he couldn’t let his men see his desperation
and vulnerability.

Lachlan followed him into his room at the
inn. Alasdair slammed the door. “
Mo Dia!
I cannot believe
she’s spending the night with that whoreson!”

“She’s staying to be with Rory, not
Southwick.”

Something about Lachlan as the voice of
reason didn’t fit, but Alasdair didn’t let that stop his diatribe.
“She’s considering marrying the pile of
cac
!”

“What?” Lachlan frowned. “Why didn’t you tell
me this?”

Alasdair lowered his voice marginally. “I
don’t want the men to ken of it. Southwick is forcing her to marry
him if she wants to be with her son.”

“God’s teeth, man, you cannot mean it.”

“Aye. Never should I have imagined a future
with her. Hell, she should marry him—the father of her child. She’s
English like he is. ’Tis where she belongs!”

Lachlan gave him a long, skeptical stare.

Alasdair turned away. Something fierce and
rebellious tore through him. “But I cannot let it be so! She will
be miserable with him. He will beat her and mistreat her. The son
of a bitch! He is a coward of the first order.”

“
Muire Mhàthair!
For a wee bit there,
brother, I thought you’d gone daft. Glad I am that you’re not
giving up.”

“Why do you care?” Alasdair growled. “You
found her employment. Either way she isn’t with me.”

“Marrying this hell-hated Southwick is far
worse than her becoming a governess in Edinburgh, because you might
be able to marry her one day, if Donald is imprisoned or
hanged.”

“It matters not. She can marry a murderer
like Baigh Shaw and ’haps even the cowardly bastard Southwick. But
I’m not good enough. I’m but a fool.” How could he have let a woman
delve so deeply under his skin? Even into his very bones. He had
lost control…of everything.

“We must think this over rationally,
brother,” Lachlan said in a calm voice. “Southwick is forcing her
to marry him. ’Tis not her choice. If she had a choice, I wager she
would marry you.”

“She wouldn’t when I asked her at Kintalon,
before Rory was stolen away. She wishes him to grow up in England
or the Lowlands, far away from the Highlands and the feuding. And
me.”

“Damnation.”

“Another thing I haven’t told you, I think
Gwyneth is carrying my bairn. And if she is, I won’t allow her to
marry anyone but me. Southwick already suspects it, and has said if
she is, he won’t marry her and will not let her see Rory.”

“What a gnarled mess you’ve gotten yourself
into.”

Alasdair glared at his brother. “Are you
thinking I don’t ken that?”

Lachlan lifted his brows. “Well, ’tis not
over yet. We will think of something.” He poured wine into a pewter
goblet. “Sack?”

“’Twill suffice, but I would prefer
whisky.”

“Aye, but we must think clearly.” Lachlan
handed him the wine, then took a chair by the cold hearth.

“’Haps Southwick isn’t as upstanding as he
appears,” Alasdair said.

“’Tis rare to find anyone who is. I have
acquaintances, contacts here in London. Some in high places…and
some not so high. Mayhap Southwick has enemies.”

“He must, considering how cruel and full of
himself he is. A man who ran off to France to avoid marrying the
lady carrying his child must have done other dishonorable
things.”

“Aye.” Lachlan looked abashed for a moment.
“Hell, I’m as bad as he is.”

“What?”

“I didn’t marry the lasses who carried my
bairns.”

This was the first time Alasdair had seen his
brother in a fit of conscience. “’Tis not legal to marry two women
at the same time in this kingdom.”

Lachlan’s brows lifted. “That’s a right good
excuse. ’Twas impossible to choose between them.”

Alasdair drank a long swallow of the wine. “I
wager, one day ’twill come back and bite you on the arse.” Or at
least he hoped it would. He’d relish seeing Lachlan lovesick,
considering the number of hearts he’d broken.

“Forsooth.”

“I hope you don’t have to endure the pain of
love lost. ’Tis worse than any battle wound.” Aye, he hoped if
Lachlan did find love, he would be happy.

“Aye. Which is why I’ll never fall in
love.”

Alasdair snorted without humor. “If it
happens, you won’t be able to stop it. You don’t get to choose.
Either it happens or it doesn’t.”

Lachlan grimaced. “I don’t care for this
subject. And you haven’t yet lost Gwyneth’s love. Now, about
Southwick, I shall go visit some friends. Are you with me?”

“Aye.”

***

Gwyneth trusted Alasdair and believed in his
ability to get things done. But what would he do? Would it be
legal? Would anyone get hurt? She lay in the huge bed and held
Rory’s hand. Her son snored in the darkness but she had not closed
her eyes in this malevolent place. She stared through the shadows
at the canopy overhead.

At least she had gotten to tell her son a
story this night. And she made sure he ate well and then gave him a
hug. Yet, despite this small comfort, she felt emotionally drawn
and quartered.

If she now carried Alasdair’s babe, Southwick
would not let her stay with Rory. She would do almost anything to
avoid marrying Southwick…except give up Rory.

She loved Alasdair, but she couldn’t let him
know that. That would make it all the harder for them both when she
had to let him go.

Alasdair had not wanted her to stay here the
night, but she had insisted. Surprisingly, Southwick had let her.
Of course, he’d left four guards stationed in the gallery just
outside the door. Several more probably lurked outside the window
in the back garden.

And this way, the knave could harass her for
her answer to his proposal first thing.

Dear lord! What if I have to marry
Southwick?
What if Alasdair didn’t come through with his
miraculous solution?

Though she was certain she couldn’t sleep,
she must have. A banging noise woke her from a nightmare.

A pistol fired downstairs. Running footsteps
and shouts moved toward her. She sprang upright in bed, her pulse
thumping in her ears.

What in heaven’s name?

Someone burst into the room and slammed the
door. Chills covered her body. She pulled her sleeping child close,
her gaze darting about. The darkness prevented her from seeing
who’d entered. Breathing loudly, the person dragged a heavy piece
of furniture in front of the door, the wooden legs screeching over
the floor.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

“Is Rory awake?” Southwick’s voice was
high-pitched, panic-stricken.

“Why? What’s happening?”

Something pounded against the blocked door.
“Open up, Southwick! I ken you’re in there!”

Alasdair?

“Stay back or I’ll kill Gwyneth!” Southwick
shouted.

Survival instincts kicking in, Gwyneth
dragged Rory toward the edge of the mattress, onto the floor and
pushed him under the bed.

“Ma?”

“Shh, you must be quiet,” she whispered. The
dust beneath the large bed irritated her nose as they crawled
toward the center. But if Southwick had a pistol, hiding under the
bed wouldn’t benefit her or Rory. He surely wouldn’t risk killing
his son by shooting at her. She put Rory behind her and lay facing
outward.

All remained quiet out in the gallery. What
in heaven’s name was Alasdair doing? Why was Southwick running from
him and threatening her life?

“Gwyneth,” Southwick muttered through his
teeth in the darkness. Something thumped. “Oomph. Devil take it!”
He hopped across the floor.

Weak light from a freshly lit candle
illuminated sections of the wooden floor and Turkish carpets in her
narrow range of vision.

“Where are you, wanton whore?”

A crash exploded at the door, as if it had
been knocked from its hinges. She jumped, her heart rate
accelerating. The large piece of furniture slid aside, tipped over
and slammed onto the floor.

Be careful, Alasdair.

“Scots swine!” Southwick shouted.

“Where is she?” Alasdair strode across the
floor.

Blades clashed with deafening clangs.

Rory clamored from behind her. “That’s
Alasdair. He came to get me. I knew he would.”

“Shhh.” She grabbed Rory and pulled him into
her arms. They watched the feet of the two men in the throes of
swordplay. Dancing back and forth, advancing, retreating. They
hurled insults at each other in both English and Gaelic. She
covered Rory’s ears, lest he hear more curses and insults he might
use.

Another piece of furniture smashed against
the floor. Metal objects from it clanged and slid across the room.
Glass shattered.

“Coward! What did you do with Gwyneth,
a
mhican uilc
?” Alasdair yelled out the window. “
Iosa is Muire
Mhàthair
,” he muttered. “Go after him while I look for Gwyneth
and Rory.”

“Aye!” Two of his men, whom she had not
noticed standing near the door, ran into the gallery.

Alasdair strode across the room and threw
open the dressing room door. “Gwyneth? Rory?”

Loosening her paralyzed limbs, she scooted to
the edge of the bed and found Alasdair alone in the room. “We’re
here.”

“Thanks be to God!” He sheathed his sword and
pulled her to her feet with a strong grip that bit into her
arms.

“What is happening?”

“You and Rory are free.” He grinned in
triumph. “I told you I would find a solution. With plenty of help
from Lachlan, of course.”

She could scarcely breathe, fearing this was
a dream. “But—how?”

“That mongrel Southwick is at the center of a
conspiracy to assassinate the marquess of Buckingham, George
Villiers.” Alasdair laughed as if this were the best news in the
world. “When we informed the king of it, he sent his best guards to
bring Southwick in. And Southwick ran because he’s guilty, of
course. I don’t ken what else King James will do, but ’twill not be
pleasant, considering Buckingham is the king’s favorite courtier. I
expect Southwick will be hanged or beheaded for a traitor if he’s
caught.”