Chapter Sixteen

 

Marry you?” Gwyneth couldn’t believe what her ears heard coming out of Southwick’s mouth.

“Have you lost your senses, Southwick?” Lord Darrow demanded.

Her father hated her. He believed her such a horrible person that he would question the marquess’s sanity for wanting to marry her. She couldn’t stand to look at her own father a moment longer, and switched her gaze to Alasdair.

He had turned to a statue of marble beside her, and yet through his eyes she saw a destructive storm rampaging inside him. She feared he might slay Southwick where he sat.

“My wife died six months ago,” Southwick said, eyeing Alasdair with a bit of concern. “I don’t feel like marrying a flighty young chit. Gwyneth, you are my son’s mother. It is only right.”

“Why did you not do this six years ago when I told you I was with child?” She could not comprehend how different her life would have been. Not better, but different.

He shrugged. “It did not suit me at the time.”

Such was the marquess’s good fortune in life. He did not even feel compelled to come up with a decent excuse for his cowardice.

“You were greedy, wanting a duke’s daughter instead.”

Southwick sent her a smirking half-smile. “Yes.”

“Marrying me now will not make Rory legitimate.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Of course she wouldn’t marry the snake. But what would he do about Rory if she refused him?

Gwyneth slid another glance toward Alasdair where he sat in silence. This time his gaze locked upon her. The full impact of how he felt was clear on his face. He had asked her to marry him. In his native tongue, he had told her he loved her. She loved him, as well.

Of course, she had never loved Southwick. That had been a stupid, childish infatuation. But the emotion Alasdair stirred up inside her had a life of its own. He loved her in truth. Not just in the heat of passion.

“It will do you no good to look to your lover for his approval. He will not want to share you, I don’t imagine.”

Alasdair turned his cutting glare toward Southwick. “The lady is capable of making her own decisions.”

“I thought you worked for him,” her father bellowed, his glare filled with disdain.

Whether she was Alasdair’s paramour or his servant, she knew it was all the same in her father’s eyes. She could sink no lower.

“I did. I was his temporary housekeeper. And I’m grateful to him for allowing me to earn my keep.”

He grunted with disgust. “You should’ve stayed put at the MacIrwin’s holdings. He is your blood kin, and that’s where you belong.”

Dare she say she didn’t belong anywhere in the Highlands? She belonged here in England with her family. But no, that was her fault. Everything was. “Your illustrious cousin Donald wanted to kill me, and Laird MacGrath provided me protection.”

“Why should MacIrwin want to kill you? I’m paying him for your upkeep.”

“I knew it!” Why else would her barbaric cousin allow her to live on his lands? He would do anything for coin. The money was likely from her dowry.

“And you’re showing precious little gratitude for it,” her father grumbled.

Gratitude? Why should she be thankful for being outcast and exiled to the remote and barbaric Highlands, never to be seen again…at least she was certain he’d hoped never to see her again. She was equally certain he’d hoped she would die from the elements or starvation and her bastard with her.

“What did you do to enrage MacIrwin?” her father asked.

“I saved the life of his mortal enemy, Laird MacGrath. After Donald and his men left him for dead.”

Her father’s glare shifted to Alasdair.

“Ah. How sweet,” Southwick mocked. “They’ve saved each other’s lives. I do believe they are in love.”

Gwyneth dropped her gaze to Alasdair’s fist, clenched by his leg, and tried to fight down the embarrassment that both her father and Southwick knew the true nature of Gwyneth’s association with Alasdair.

“’Tis not your concern,” Alasdair seethed.

“It is my concern if my future wife now carries a Scots bastard. And she better hope she does not, or she will never see Rory again.”

How dare Southwick say such? “I do not! I am not with child!” Gwyneth said.

Alasdair’s fury became palpable, his muscles tense and his breathing faster. She was thankful for his control but feared he might lose it at any moment.

“Good.” Southwick’s speculative gaze darted back and forth between her and Alasdair. “If you want to be with Rory, you will marry me,” he said nonchalantly. “I will be petitioning the king to claim Rory as my heir and to obtain full legal custody. You had best cooperate because you do not have a leg to stand on, my lady.”

“You cannot mean it!” Even her arms and legs ached with the emotion and denial. “He is my son alone! You disowned us both. You would have nothing to do with us. Not until it’s convenient for you. You destroyed my life, and now you want to take the last thing I have left! The only thing that matters to me.”

Southwick steepled his fingers before him and observed her with urbane coolness. “I do not think Rory is the only thing that matters to you. If he was, you would be falling on your knees at my feet, thanking me for proposing.”

“What have I ever done to cause you to hate me so? I refuse to marry you because you have treated me lower than gutter trash. You cast me aside when I needed you most.”

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.

“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.”