“But he said….” As she’d suspected, he’d lied to her about who he was. Indeed, he hadn’t trusted her. But could she blame him?

Six horses charged over the crest of the hill. Five riders sat in saddles and the sixth lay strung over his horse’s back.

The men around her rushed forward to meet them, and the one who’d held her captive released her.

“Campbell didn’t make it through the skirmish.” A bearded man in trews swung down from his saddle.

“Nay!” Angus yelled and pulled the dead man from the horse.

Gwyneth saw then that Campbell was very young, perhaps not yet twenty. Big, tough Angus held the young man’s body and sobbed.

“His eldest son.” The burly man who still held Rory glared at her.

“Oh, no,” Gwyneth whispered. Because of her, someone else had lost their life. A boy who had not yet had time to live his life.

She rushed forward. “Are you certain he’s dead? I’m a healer. Let me examine him.”

“He was stabbed through the heart.” A grim, middle-aged man snarled. “Do you think we don’t ken when someone is dead? All you Sassenachs think we Scots are daft.”

His words struck her like stones. “Pray pardon.” She stepped back a respectful distance.

Watching Angus grieve the death of his son was horrible enough. But when she imagined losing Rory in a like manner, she pressed a fist to her mouth to quell the agony. This was why they had to leave the Highlands. She did not want to be in Angus’s shoes ten years hence, grieving the loss of her son in some skirmish.

Rory broke away from the man restraining him and ran to her. She knelt and hugged him tight. It could just as easily have been her or Rory who had died at the MacIrwins’ hand. Campbell had given his life for theirs.

“Take her to the tower and see if the laird kens who she is. If he doesn’t, cut her throat,” bellowed the grim man who had spoken last.

***

Gwyneth waited in the quiet, dreary great hall with Rory in front of her. She prayed Alasdair was the true name of the man she’d helped days ago. If not, she and Rory had no hope. One of the men who’d marshaled her and Rory to Kintalon Castle still stood behind them, a sword in his hand. The other man had disappeared up the spiral stone steps to find his laird.

Fear constricted Gwyneth’s throat. Please let him be the MacGrath I know.

The delicious scents of bacon and freshly baked oat bannocks drifted up from the ground floor kitchen, making her empty stomach rumble and ache, but she would willingly go hungry if only Rory could have some food.

Sunrise gleamed through the small windows cut high into the thick stone walls. No fire yet burned in the fireplace—so massive a person could stand upright within. Only a few worn and faded tapestries depicting battle scenes served to decorate the austere walls. Instead of filthy rushes on the floor, clean rush-mats lay here and there. While they waited, servants and clan members entered to set up trestle tables for breakfast, casting a few curious glances her way.

Many tense moments later, a man limped down the steps on a regal-looking cane, his kilt hastily pleated. With her first glimpse of his familiar face, she whispered a prayer of thanks and gripped Rory’s shoulders. She dared not even draw breath for several seconds.

Laird MacGrath moved closer and gazed down into her eyes with solemn concern. “Are you well then, m’lady?”

“Yes. I thank you.” She couldn’t help the unevenness of her voice that betrayed the rush of relief flooding through her.

He glanced at the men behind her. “Aye, this is the woman who saved my life. Tell the others she and her son have safe haven here.”

So overwhelmed was she by his words, she could not hear the other men’s response for the blood pounding in her ears. She wanted to throw her arms around him in gratitude, press her face to his chest and cry her eyes out. But she would never demonstrate such a loss of control, no matter how drawn to him she was or how thankful for his compassion.

She swallowed against the constricting emotion. “So, in truth, you are Laird MacGrath?”

“Aye. But you may call me Alasdair. I found it necessary to lie to protect myself. I didn’t ken whether I could trust you or not.”

“And you’re still not sure, are you?”

A slight smile lit his eyes. “Nay. But I’m hoping I can.”

His friendliness conspired to put her at ease, but she still had to be sure of his intentions. “You will not turn me over to Donald’s men, will you?”

“Nay.” He frowned. “You didn’t turn me over to them. Why would I be doing anything less?”

She gave a curtsey. “I thank you, my laird.”

“I’m glad you and your son are here. I was hoping to see you again…to thank you once more for saving my life.” His intense midnight gaze held her. He’d looked at her thus before, days ago. Though he exuded male interest, there was naught insulting in it. Instead, she sensed deep-seated fascination, as if he were loath to glance away from her.

Rory stood silent before her, staring up wide-eyed at Alasdair. She understood her son’s fascination and hero worship for she felt the same, though with a woman’s appreciation.

“You are welcome, of course. I’m very sorry about Angus’s son,” she said.

“As am I. I must go see to them. In the meantime, break your fast.” He motioned toward the trestle tables with benches where women were assembling food and wooden tableware.

She curtseyed again. “I thank you.”

He bowed. “Later, I’ll be wanting the whole story of how you came to be here.”

Before he left, he spoke quietly to one of the women servants. She stared at Gwyneth and nodded.

Seeming much too solemn for her satisfaction, Alasdair sent her one last glance and limped out on his cane.

One of the youths of his clan had lost his life. Would he blame her for it?

***

After breakfast, Rory played with the other children, while Gwyneth busied herself by assisting the servants clearing away the meal and working in the kitchen. Sunlight shining through two narrow windows near the vaulted stone ceiling and the lingering fragrance of oat bannocks helped calm her nerves. The plentiful food she’d eaten soothed her stomach.

Though her eyes were scratchy with exhaustion and her muscles sore, she was too tense to sleep. Besides, no one had offered her a bed. Thankfully, they had allowed her to wash herself up a bit before breakfast and loaned her clean clothes. Her own had been covered in black mud from the moor.

Making herself useful to the household was the only way to keep her worries, as well as her grief over losing Mora, at bay. But even washing the wooden bowls reminded her of her dear friend, because they had often shared this task.

“What’s taking you so long, Sassenach?” the housekeeper, Mistress Weems, bellowed.

Gwyneth glanced up at the rotund, middle-aged woman with her snarling face. Though no longer above the other woman’s social station, Gwyneth refused to be intimidated and met her gaze squarely. Weems glared for a moment, snorted, then barreled toward the other side of the kitchen.

“Pay her no mind,” the girl beside her said. “She’s a right auld hag.”

Gwyneth smiled at the girl. A kerch held her red hair back, but small locks curled about her face.

“I’m Tessie.” She appeared to be three or four years younger than Gwyneth’s twenty-three years, and the kerch indicated her married state.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Gwyneth.”

“I ken it. Everyone’s talking of you.”

Uneasiness crept in on Gwyneth. “What are they saying?”

Tessie cast her a nervous glance. “That you’re English and an enemy MacIrwin.”

“I am English, true, but not an enemy.” She couldn’t deny her distant blood link to the MacIrwins, but she could refuse to accept them as true family. “Anything else?”

Tessie studied the bowl she was drying. “Well, some are saying if not for you traipsing onto MacGrath land, Campbell might yet live.”