My Fierce Highlander (38 page)

With his thumb, he swiped the tears from
beneath her eyes. “I believe you.” Indeed he did, though it might
take time for it to sink in. He still felt this was all a dream.
“And I love you,” he said on faith that she would never smash his
world again.

She took his hand and drew it down to stroke
over the silken fabric covering her flat belly. “I carry a part of
you within me.”

Elation filled him like a warm summer breeze.
“Och! I knew it! Did I not tell you?”

She chuckled. “Yes, you were right.”

He dropped to his knees before her and
pressed his face to her belly, as if he might feel his child
within. She felt so good in his arms, he wanted to absorb her into
himself.

“Thanks be to God. And I thank you, Gwyneth,
for coming back to me. I was not sure I could exist another day
without you.”

Gwyneth sank to the floor beside Alasdair,
and they clung to each other. Exultation whirled through her with
such intensity, she laughed and wept at the same time. Oh, how
delightful and stirring his big, hard body felt against hers.
“Thank you for giving me another chance. I was so afraid you would
hate me forever.”

“Nay, I couldn’t stop loving you. Hell, I
admit I tried.” He shook his head. “But I couldn’t.” Bending
closer, he placed cherishing kisses over her face. His lips tickled
her skin and felt like paradise on earth—soft, warm summer
rain.

Rising, he lifted her into his arms, carried
her to the bed and lay her down upon it. His dark gaze, solemn and
fathomless, trailed over her face and delved into her eyes with
such intensity, as if he still searched for the truth. As if he
still needed reassurance that she loved him.

“You have not given me your answer,” she
said.

“Aye, I will marry you. Will you marry me as
well, Gwyneth?”

“Aye, that I will, lad,” she mimicked his
Scottish burr and laughed, joy infusing her, head to toe, as it
never had in her lifetime.

He chuckled. Then kissed her fierce and deep.
The way he kissed her in memories and dreams. A kiss that possessed
her mouth as his body would possess hers, with sensual power and
driving force.

***

Donald MacIrwin couldn’t believe his and his
clansmen’s cell door had just swung open, with a soft but ominous
screech, in the middle of the night. It could not be morn for he
had slept none, and only a few hours had passed. He arose from the
filthy, damp, packed-earth floor. Were they to be hanged tonight?
Icy fear washed over him, and his empty stomach ached. He turned
and glanced through the dimness at his eldest son, in his
mid-twenties, young, strong and fit. Donald was proud of the
fearsome young man, cut from the same fabric as his da. If he
couldn’t escape the hangman’s noose, he hoped John could. Though
Donald had other sons, John was his favorite and would make the
strongest leader for the clan.

“MacIrwins, come,” the guard whispered,
holding a lantern aloft.

“What’s happening?” Donald asked. And why
would the guard whisper?

“’Tis your lucky night. Someone has paid for
your freedom. Keep your mouths shut,” he warned. “Or ’twill be
declared a prison break, and you’ll be killed on sight.”

Someone paid their way out? How and who?
Someone must have bribed the guards with a goodly amount of coin.
Well, he wasn’t going to turn down such a generous offer.

“Come,” Donald whispered to his men, then
crept from the cell. His clansmen silently followed him along the
dank prison passageways and down stone steps. Finally, they arrived
at a metal gate with bars. Another guard swung it open, and the
MacIrwins stepped out into the cloudy night. A mist of rain hissed
through the air, but the cool air smelled of freedom. He could
barely contain his joy.

Southwick—or rather, the dispossessed Maxwell
Huntley—stood nearby, holding a lantern.

“I thought you were in the tower, in London,”
Donald said, approaching him. The Englishman did not appear as
arrogant and flamboyant as he had on their first meeting. Now, his
clothing was little more than grimy rags.

“Indeed, but my good friends helped me
escape, just as they’ve helped you. In case you didn’t know, money
will buy anything.”

Donald grunted. “Well, I must thank you for
saving our lives.”

“Not yet. You are to earn it. I want my son
back.”

Was the man a complete lunatic? “Why? You
have no title or property.”

“I don’t give a damn. He is my son, and I
will have him back.”

“You’re an outlaw, just as we are.”

“I want revenge.” Huntley said through
clenched teeth. “I want that whorish Gwyneth dead, and her damned
lover, Alasdair MacGrath. They have destroyed my life.”

“I’m in agreement on that.” Rage seethed
through Donald’s veins when he thought of the two of them. “Revenge
would be sweet right now.” Because of MacGrath, Donald had lost
everything, and soon stood to lose his life, as did his oldest
son.

“I know which inn they are staying at,”
Huntley said. “We’ll slip in, kill them, grab the boy and leave.
I’ll take you all to the continent with me. I have friends there
who will help us.”

Sounded like a right pleasant alternative to
being hanged in the morn. “Very well, my good man. Point the
way.”

***

Gwyneth lay wrapped in Alasdair’s arms,
dreaming of fairytales and happily-ever-after when something woke
her. A sound that prodded her to full alert. The candle on the
bedside table flickered low. She tried to sit up but Alasdair’s
heavy arm prevented it.

“What was that?” she asked.

He shifted. “What?”

“I’m sure I heard something. Rory.” Icy fear
poured down from her head to her ankles. “Rory called my name!” She
struggled naked toward the edge of the bed and shoved her arms into
her smock.

Alasdair yanked on a pair of trews.
Bare-chested, he unsheathed his sword and strode toward the door.
Hands trembling, Gwyneth snatched the
sgain dubh
from her
corset lying on the floor and followed.
Oh dear heaven, please
let Rory be well.
She never should’ve left him with the maid in
a room down the hall.

“Stay behind me,” Alasdair whispered.

“Yes. Hurry.”

A pistol fired and a section of door around
the lock splintered. They jerked back. The surge of fear near
chocked her.

“Get down!” Alasdair urged her backward.
“Stay in the corner.”

Who was that, and what was going on? With her
back against the wall, she gripped the knife, her pulse roaring in
her ears.

The door swung back. Her distant cousin John
MacIrwin stood in the opening, sword raised.
Good lord, he’s
escaped!
He was supposed to go on trial tomorrow, along with
Donald—his father—and several other clan members. Where was Donald?
Please God, don’t let him hurt Rory.

John’s wild blue gaze lit on Gwyneth. “Da!
The whore is in here!”

Alasdair darted forward and knocked the
broadsword from John’s hand, then bashed his hilt against John’s
head. He crashed against the wall and slid to the floor. Another
kilted MacIrwin leapt into the room and engaged Alasdair in
swordplay. Steal clashed and tinged, deafening in the close
space.

Alasdair faked out his opponent and stabbed
his blade into the MacIrwin clansmen’s gut. “Omach!” The man
doubled forward, and pitched to the floor, howling.

John finally recovered his sword, pushed to
his feet and launched an attack against Alasdair. The whacking
blades smashed into each other by the second as the two men thrust
and blocked.

John’s blade nicked Alasdair’s forearm and
blood ran forth. Clearly, it was more than a nick.

No!
God, I beg of You, protect
Alasdair.
Near frozen in place, Gwyneth bit into her fist.

John’s foot bumped into his dying comrade on
the floor and he wavered, almost losing his balance. Alasdair took
advantage of this weakness and sliced his blade across John’s
throat. Gwyneth closed her eyes against the spurting blood.

Swords clanged out in the corridor, amid a
din of shouting, cursing and crashes.

“Stay here!” Alasdair leapt over the two
dying men and charged into the corridor.

Had he gone mad? Rory needed her. She jumped
over the MacIrwins lying in pools of their own blood and chased
after Alasdair.

“Ma!” Her son’s cry sounded as if it came
from the same room where she’d left him with the maid earlier. She
prayed no one had gotten to him.

“Rory?” She tried to dash past Alasdair.

He flung his arm out and held her back.
“Wait!” He darted a quick glare of warning her way, then faced the
enemies again.

In the dim corridor before them, lit only by
two near burned-out candles in wall sconces, Padraig fought a
MacIrwin she’d seen but didn’t know. Further along, Angus rained a
flurry of sword strikes against Donald’s blade.

She had to move past them to reach Rory.

“MacIrwin!” Alasdair yelled in a dangerous
tone of challenge.

The enemy closest to them faltered and cast a
glower at Alasdair. In that instant of distraction, Padraig’s blade
struck the man’s chest. Blood spread through the white linen of his
shirt.

Cursing, he attempted to block Padraig’s next
blow, but the move was useless. Padraig’s sword shoved through
muscle and ribs with the sickening sound of bone breaking. The man
screamed out and slid to the floor.

Gwyneth covered her ears, hating violence as
much as she always had. “I must get to Rory!” she told Alasdair.
“Will you help me?”

“Out of our way, MacIrwin.” Alasdair
advanced.

“Go to hell! And take that traitorous whore
with you!”

Alasdair raised his sword and drew a small
but threatening circle in the air. Donald’s eyes widened when he
realized he was blocked, with Angus behind him and Alasdair in
front.

“’Tis not a good time to be insulting my
future wife. Would you rather hang tomorrow or die by the sword
tonight?”

Madness entered Donald’s eyes. He rushed
Alasdair, shoving his sword upward and knocking Alasdair’s blade
aside at the last moment, though he retained his grip on it.

Gwyneth flattened herself against the wall.
Donald lumbered past her. Alasdair switched places with her, and
faced Donald again.

Seeing her chance, she darted along the
passage. “I’m going to Rory.”

“Let me finish him, lad.” Angus stalked
forward. “I’ve wanted to do this for your father since the day the
MacIrwins murdered him. And I owe this pile of
cac
for the
death of my son.”

“Aye, me, too,” Padraig seethed, his arm and
chest bleeding.

“See that you do the job well.” Alasdair’s
footsteps thumped behind Gwyneth as she dashed along the
corridor.

Rory’s shrill cry sounded behind the door
where she’d left him earlier with the maid watching over him.
Terrified of what she’d find inside, Gwyneth paused outside the
door and grasped the knob.

Alasdair nudged Gwyneth aside and, shielding
her with his body, flung the door open.

A dagger’s blade glinted at her son’s throat.
And Maxwell Huntley, the former marquess of Southwick, held it
there in a gloved hand. How could he? That was his son.

Paralysis gripped her, forcing all the breath
from her lungs. Darkness threatened.

Alasdair grabbed onto her and brought her to
her senses.

Rory is not hurt yet. I must get him away
from that devil.

“Ma! He killed Anna!” Rory pointed toward the
bed in the far corner and the still form covered in a blanket.

Their maid. “God help us,” Gwyneth
whispered.

“What do you want?” Alasdair demanded of the
knave.

“Your black heart on a golden platter,”
Huntley sneered.

“Let the wee lad go and I’ll fight you, man
to man.”

“First, I want her dead.” He sent a poison
glare at Gwyneth. “You steal everything I have and give it to
her.”

“Nay, the king gave the estate to your son,
as you wanted.”

“It is not what I wanted now! Fifty years
down the road, yes. He’s still a sniveling child. Besides, my title
that I wanted him to have is forfeit. And her… What a whore you
are, my lady.”

“Unhand Rory this instant! He’s an innocent
child.”

“But you are not—innocent, that is. You have
just come from swiving the filthy Scot.”

Rory slammed his foot hard against Huntley’s
toes.

“Ouch! You little shit!”

Alasdair rushed forward. He grabbed Huntley’s
knife hand and shoved him against the wall.

Rory tumbled forward into Gwyneth’s arms.
Oh, thank God.
She dragged him away.

Alasdair’s sword clattered to the floor as
the two men fell.

She glanced up to find them rolling on the
floor, grappling for the dagger in Huntley’s hand.

“Heavens!” She pushed Rory into the corner
beside a chest. “Stay there.”

Refusing to let Huntley have the upper hand,
and with Alasdair’s arm injured besides, she gripped her
sgain
dubh
and moved Alasdair’s sword from her pathway. She had saved
his life once; she would do it again.

Rolling on top, Huntley squalled and sliced
his dagger at Alasdair’s throat. Alasdair held him off. Their hands
on the knife bobbed in the air.

Gwyneth leapt onto Huntley’s back and sliced
her knife across his arm. “Turn him loose!”

With an elbow, he flung her off him. “Bitch!
I’ll kill you for that!”

She stumbled backward, realizing her knife
wasn’t big enough. She threw it down and picked up Alasdair’s
basket-hilted, bloodied broadsword.
Heaven help me. Can I use
one of these?
It was heavier than she’d expected.

Alasdair shoved his knee upward and threw
Huntley off. At the last moment, he dragged his blade across
Alasdair’s bare chest. Blood poured from the fresh cut. Alasdair
kicked the knife from his hand.