My Fierce Highlander (17 page)

Lachlan chuckled, and she realized he was
teasing her. The knave.

She cleared her throat and tried to remember
what she’d wanted to ask him. “As I was saying, I must find a place
to go in the Lowlands or England. I want to find a governess or
tutor position if possible. Laird MacGrath has said he will write
me a recommendation. If you should run into a friend or
acquaintance in Edinburgh, perhaps you could inquire whether they
are in need of someone.”

“I will make every effort, m’lady.” Lachlan
bowed, took her hand and kissed her fingers.

She snatched her hand away. He grinned and
headed for the door.

“Have a safe journey,” she rushed to add.

She glanced across the great hall and met
Alasdair’s midnight eyes. His scowl told her he was vexed about
something—surely not because she’d been talking to his brother.

***

The next evening, Gwyneth oversaw the
clearing of the tables after the meal in the great hall. This day
had been a long, sad one with the funerals of six clan members who
had died in the attack. The kirk had been overflowing with
mourners. A pall of tragedy hung over the clan like the gray clouds
above.

Downstairs, just outside the kitchen, Gwyneth
paused upon hearing one of the female servants whisper her
name.

“’Twas Gwyneth’s fault the village was
burned, I tell you. The MacIrwin sent a message, he wants her
back.”

“You best not let Laird MacGrath be hearing
you say that. You’ll be spending the night in the dungeon,” another
female voice warned.

“Fie!”

“Stop spreading rumors,” a third woman said.
“Mistress Carswell has saved the lives of four men including Laird
MacGrath himself.”

“Shh.” One of the women spotted her through
the doorway and they all hurried back to their tasks.

Had the woman spoken the truth? She was to
blame for the village being burned? It seemed a rock had been
dropped onto her chest for she could hardly breathe. Why would
Donald want her back that badly? Or was it a matter of revenge?

Footsteps approached from behind and Tessie
stopped at her elbow. “Laird MacGrath wishes to see you in the
library,” she whispered.

“I thank you.” Gwyneth would ask him about
this.

Determined to learn the truth, she turned and
climbed the stairs. What could Alasdair want? He had not said more
than five words to her all day. As was to be expected, he had given
his full attention to the families who had lost loved ones. Gwyneth
saw how much he cared about them all, and she admired this in
him.

When she stopped outside the intricately
carved oak door of the library, her palms sweated, and a sudden
giddiness rippled through her. Not because she was afraid to be
alone with him, but because she was looking forward to it too much.
Though it was folly, she craved his complete attention. How greedy
she was. Often, she did not know what to do with his attention once
she had it. To feel his gaze on her and to hear his deep voice
murmuring words, no matter whether mundane or scandalous, to her
alone. Those were the moments when she didn’t have to share him
with his clan, yet also the moments that thrilled and frightened
her most.

Drawing in a deep breath to calm her frantic
heartbeat, she tapped her knuckles against the door three
times.

“Come,” said a deep voice from inside.

She stepped into the room. A small fire
popped and flickered in the hearth, the glow adding further warmth
to the candlelit room. The scents of smoke, melted tallow and rich
spice blended into a comforting fragrance.

Alasdair stood, facing her, before the
mantel, looking dark and mouth-watering, wearing a fine belted
plaid and doublet. She forced herself not to stare and instead
focused on the fire. The last time they’d been alone together in
this room, he had held her tightly in his arms and kissed her face.
How comforted and protected she’d felt, but just beneath the
surface, smoldering embers of desire had near scorched her. She
both hoped and feared he might embrace or kiss her again.

No, don’t think such thoughts.

Risking a glance at him, she found him
studying her face, then his gaze dropped to her clothing. Well, in
truth, his late wife’s clothing, which she’d worn today for the
first time. She hoped the garments hadn’t brought back painful
memories for him.

“You wished to see me?” she asked.

“Aye. Have a seat, if you would please.” He
motioned toward one of the wooden chairs situated not far from the
hearth, and she lowered herself into it. “Would you care for some
clary?” he asked, pouring wine into a pewter mug.

“No, but I thank you.” Though the sweet
ginger scent of the mulled claret did tempt her, she had to keep a
clear head around him.

Carrying his mug, he took the chair opposite
her. “Glad I am to see you finally wearing the clothes I gave you.
You look lovely in them.”

Heat rushed over her and she was thankful for
the dim lighting. Dropping her gaze and trying to think of
something neutral to say, she studied the exquisite cloth of the
dark gray woolen skirts. “I thank you. I wouldn’t want to ruin the
fine clothing in the day-to-day running of the household, but for
the funerals I needed something better.”

“Aye.” After taking a sip, he leaned forward,
propped his elbows on his knees, bare below his kilt, and frowned
into his mug. It seemed the weight of all of Scotland rested upon
his shoulders. “I’m grateful to you for attending the funerals and
consoling the family members of those who died.”

Unexpectedly, her eyes stung—a combination of
having seen so many others in pain, Alasdair’s own apparent depth
of feeling for his people, and the fact that he appreciated her
presence. And she hoped, took some comfort from it.

Though her throat tightened, she forced the
words out. “I’ve come to care for your clan. They have treated me
far better than mine own.”

“I’m glad.” Alasdair drank another swallow of
the clary, and Gwyneth suddenly craved the taste of it. Surely the
spicy sweet flavor would be as drugging as the man. But she did not
trust herself to drink such an indulgent beverage in Alasdair’s
presence. She was certain it would drown her good sense.

“I’m building a case against Donald
MacIrwin,” he said. “And I would like you to testify against him if
you’re willing, before the Privy Council in Edinburgh.”

Heavens, that could be nerve-wracking, but no
question, her cousin and his lawlessness had to be stopped. “I’ll
be glad to.”

“Good.” He raised a brow. “You’re willing to
testify even if it means some of your cousins are imprisoned or
hanged?”

A tremor of revulsion passed through her. “I
hate to see anyone hanged. But they are guilty of murder. Mora’s
for one. As well as the defenseless people who were not able to
escape their burning cottages or who were slain in the street. And
I’ve no doubt Donald would’ve killed Rory and me if he’d half a
chance.” With great effort, she pushed away the dark suffocation of
her memories and focused on the man before her.

“Aye.” Alasdair blinked hard once and glared
into the fire for a long moment as if deadly thoughts passed
through his mind.

The accusation of the whispering women
haunted her, the burden of their words increasing. “Did Donald burn
the village because of me?” she asked.

Meeting her eyes, Alasdair frowned. “Nay. Why
do you ask?”

“I overheard someone talking about it. I
regret that I’ve put your whole clan in danger by coming here.
First, young Campbell lost his life, and now six more of your clan.
Not to mention, the village burned.”

“Nay, the blame does not rest on you.”

“I know how cruel and bloodthirsty Donald is.
When I escaped him, it angered him beyond measure. He wants
revenge, does he not?”

“’Tis but an excuse. Donald burned the
village nine years past, too. And I suspect you were far from the
Highlands then.”

“Yes.” What a monster Donald was.

“Well then. When he’s furious with us, for
whatever reason, he does things like this. I escaped his clutches
as well, so he could just as easily be angry with me alone. I wish
you would tell me who said this.”

She shook her head. Though Alasdair’s
rational explanations made much sense, they could not calm her
worries. “I also heard that Donald wanted me returned to him.” Her
stomach ached with anxiety. “Is this true?”

Alasdair sat back, scowling. She knew the
fearsome look was not meant for her, but for her cousin. “He did
send a message by one of his men. But I would never, and I do mean
never
, return you to him. ’Twould mean certain death. Or
worse, imprisonment and torture.”

It was as she’d feared. She had to do
something. “Your clan would be much safer from Donald if I
left.”

“Nonsense,” he muttered in a surly tone.

“How can you say that? He burned the village
and killed people. What will he do next? No, it is clear to me that
it would be best for everyone—your clan, Rory and me—if Rory and I
left the Highlands.”

Maintaining his annoyed expression, Alasdair
remained silent.

“I asked Lachlan to inquire while he’s in
Edinburgh as to whether anyone he knows might be in need of a
governess or tutor for their children,” she said.

“Ah.” Alasdair placed his mug on the small
table by his chair, stood and approached the fireplace. After
staring into the flames a long moment, he turned back to her. “I
don’t want you to leave.”

Though his words said much, his troubled
expression told her more. He wanted her to stay because—

The rest of the thought was too outrageous.
Too tempting. Exciting. She studied her fingers clutched tightly
together on her lap.
Heaven help me.
“I had best check the
kitchen maids.” She sprang from the chair and charged for the
door.

“M’lady.”

Though she wanted nothing more than to flee
the room and the keen exhilaration of him, she halted, pulse
racing.

He approached upon soft footsteps and stopped
in front of her. For a moment, he studied her, his dark eyes
gleaming. With gentle fingertips, he traced her jaw to her
chin.

“I don’t want you to leave.” His raw whisper
snatched her breath. Without warning, he ducked his head and kissed
her. The spiced wine on his lips intoxicated her, and she curled
her fingers into his thick silky hair. She was not the master of
her own body when he touched her.

Wanting more of him, she opened her mouth to
receive his honey and ginger flavored kisses. She should not
partake…but she couldn’t resist. He flicked his tongue over hers,
then away in a delicious game.

A low animalistic growl rumbled from his
throat, and the kiss became something irreverent and without
restraint. She sucked at his tongue, famished for the male taste of
him.

Muttering words she did not understand, he
kissed a mesmerizing path down her chin and underneath. Closing her
eyes, she tilted her head back, giving him access to her throat. He
trailed his tongue down over the tender skin and pressed kisses
lower, the stubble of his chin scratching beneath the neckline of
her smock.

He pulled at the ribbon tie and she felt it
loosen. He inhaled deeply against her skin, his lips caressing
carefully now the upper swells of her breasts. “Mmmm. I could
devour you.”

She gasped. Her nipples tingled, yearning for
his hot, wet mouth. Though her corset prevented him from moving
lower, he rubbed his chin over her nipples beneath the thick
material. She was certain he couldn’t feel them, but he stimulated
her, made her yearn to tear all the clothing from her body so she
might feel the delights he would heap upon it.

A lascivious moan met her ears and she
realized it had come from her own mouth.

But she was beyond caring. All that concerned
her at the moment was Alasdair, his mouth, his hands.

He moved behind her, and nuzzled her ear with
warm lips and tickling breath. She shivered, her body quaking with
such a thrill as she’d never felt. He stroked her neck and the
upper part of her chest. Upon raising her arm, she threaded her
fingers into the silk of his unbound hair and he slipped his
downward toward her bodice. Into her bodice, beneath her
corset.

His warm fingertips glided over the
sensitized, bare skin of her breasts. She had not imagined he could
reach such a place. Bowing her chest inward, she invited more. Oh,
how much more she wanted! Obliging her with a muffled growl, he
moved lower, and his thumb and finger closed gently over her
hardened nipple. His tongue circled her ear even as his fingertip
circled her nipple. He whispered Gaelic words that meant sweet,
beautiful.

Paralyzed with riveting sensation, she could
not breathe; he had stolen her ability. He sucked her earlobe into
his mouth and plucked at her nipple with his fingers.

Grasping a handful of his clothing, his wool
plaid, she groaned, shocked at the wanton noise she made and the
need that filled her. Her back arched, and she pushed her derriere
against his hard shaft. Near out of her mind with arousal, she
turned her head toward him, ready to beg, and he immediately
captured her lips, sliding his tongue into her mouth.

She couldn’t bear another moment of these
exquisite sensations. She might well splinter like a falling
star.

Something thumped, jerking her from this
sensual dream and away from Alasdair—a log in the fireplace had
shifted and sparks showered the hearth.

What am I doing?
Her body aching, she
glanced up at him from inches away.

The renewed fire illuminated Alasdair’s
passion-filled expression and lowered brows. He looked like he
wanted to bite her, ravish her. She yearned to do the same to him
but—
heavens
.