Gwyneth had feared as much. And indeed she carried a heavy weight of guilt for the boy’s death. “I wish he had never ridden into the skirmish. He was too young. I had no other choice but to come here. It was either flee to MacGrath holdings or be murdered by my own second cousin. I had to protect my son.”

Tessie nodded. “I understand, mistress.”

“Please, call me Gwyneth.”

“As you wish.” Tessie’s smile disappeared when she glanced over Gwyneth’s shoulder. Heavens, what could be behind her?

She turned to find Alasdair limping across the suddenly quiet kitchen. Goodness! What did he want? Given the servants’ reaction, she suspected he didn’t visit the kitchen very often, and his imposing form seemed out of place.

His penetrating gaze touched upon her with much familiarity and connection. “I would have a word with you upstairs, Mistress Carswell,” he said in a formal but kind tone.

“Very well.” She wiped her hands on her skirts and preceded him toward the spiral staircase. She felt all eyes boring into her, speculating what their laird wished to speak to her about in private. She prayed that whispered rumors would not start. The last thing she wanted was another scandal.

“We shall talk in the library.” His voice echoed when they entered the empty great hall. His cane pecked along the stone floor as he kept pace beside her.

Alone? In a private room? It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. She did. But there could be much speculation from the clan.

How singular and strange this seemed, to be strolling along with such a handsome laird. She must remember her manners. “How are your toe, your head and your other injuries, Laird MacGrath?”

“Please, I would have you call me Alasdair. My foot is mending by the day, and the lump on my head no longer causes me dizziness. As for the cuts, they no longer bleed.”

“I’m glad.”

“’Tis to your credit I’ve healed so quickly.”

She started to argue, but they entered the library through an impressive carved oak door, and he closed it behind them. She glanced about in wonder at the book-lined room. The MacGrath clan must’ve indeed been more fortunate and prosperous than most. The musty scent of books reminded her of the small library in the manor house where she’d grown up. A moment of nostalgia transported her back to a time and place where she’d laughed with her sisters and read stories.

Oh, if only she could read some of these books to Rory. She wanted to pull one from the shelf and leaf through it, but restrained herself.

“What a lovely library,” she whispered.

“My thanks. Do you read?”

“Eh, yes.” Although she was revealing to him her former social station—because usually only the wealthy or the titled read—it could not be helped. Her mother had educated her and her sisters.

“You may use it whenever you like.”

“I thank you. I am teaching Rory to read.” She was also grateful he didn’t ask more questions about her past because they always led to the scandal. And that, he could not find out about.

This room was smaller than the great hall here at Kintalon, and clearly a newer addition, with a lower ceiling and chairs and benches in groupings. Her toes itched, wanting to dig into the rich plushness of the Turkish carpet spread across the center of the floor. A small fire crackled in the fireplace, topped by a carved walnut mantel. She had not seen such luxury since she’d left England. This was a fitting place for a noble laird such as he was, certainly better than a byre.

“Have a seat, if you please.” His voice was but a murmur in the cozy room.

She chose a wooden chair and sat, focusing her attention on the business at hand. “How is Angus?” Her heart ached for the poor man.

“Bearing up. ’Tis no easy task to lose a son.” Alasdair sat across from her.

“No, of course not.” Guilt gnawed at her vitals. “I cannot tell you how awful I feel about it. I suppose if I hadn’t come, Campbell would still be alive. It was my fault, I know, and your clan is right to blame me.” She simply prayed he could forgive her.

“What?” He frowned. “This was not your fault, m’lady. And the clan doesn’t blame you.”

She kept her mouth sealed tight, wishing that was the case but….

“Do they?” he asked, his gaze sharpening.

“I’m not certain. But if they do, I can see why. In truth, I had no other choice but to flee and come here. Donald and his men must have discovered that Mora and I had helped you. When I came back from gathering herbs, the day after you left, I found them burning our cottage.” Gwyneth’s throat closed up and her vision blurred, but she swallowed and continued, determined that everyone know how evil Donald was. “They stabbed Mora in the back and left her lying in the yard.”

“By the saints. What a barbarian he is!” Alasdair blew out a long breath. “I am sorry.”

His response gratified her and, she had to admit, surprised her. She could count on one hand the number of times a man had come to her defense. “I knew if any of them saw Rory or me, they’d kill us both.”

“Of course. M’lady, I’m thankful you and Rory made it here safe and sound. Don’t blame yourself for Campbell’s death. ’Twas his choice to ride into the skirmish. He had trained for many years, since he was a wee lad, and was as prepared as he could be, for his age. Lives are oft lost in such situations. He was a warrior, and defending the clan his job.”

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure she agreed.

“In fact, I must blame myself for the trouble you’ve had.” His expression contrite, Alasdair studied the carved wooden handle of his cane, shaped like a falcon. “As I was crossing from MacIrwin land to MacGrath, they near caught me. I’d knocked out one of their men and borrowed a horse and sword. We had a wee skirmish. After that, I feared they’d backtrack me to your cottage.” His gaze locked onto hers. “I ken ’tis my fault Mora was killed, and I’m deeply sorry.”

Gwyneth’s throat ached and tears stung her eyes, both because Mora was dead and because Alasdair seemed truly remorseful for any indirect part he’d played in Mora’s death. Never had she known a man who felt remorse for anything.

“I must take part of the blame as well,” Gwyneth said. “When you were hurt, I was determined to help you, even though she cautioned me against it.”

Why hung in the air for a few seconds as he gave her a dark searching look laced with some emotion she could not identify. She hoped he wouldn’t ask. The peace treaty—that was the reason she would give.

“M’lady, that wouldn’t put the blame on you, but on me once again.” His voice softened. “’Twas my life that was saved, and hers that was lost.”

Renewed outrage rushed through her over Mora’s death. “No. ’Tis Donald’s fault. All of it. He is the very devil!” Never had she wanted to strike him down so badly. And she had never been a violent person.

“Aye, I won’t argue about that.” Alasdair leaned back in his chair and laid the cane across his lap.

The kilt ended at his knees, leaving a goodly portion of his legs bare. She had been in the Highlands long enough to grow used to seeing that much naked, male skin, but she took more notice than was prudent of Alasdair’s golden skin, with its sprinkling of dark hairs, and his pleasantly muscled calves. She knew his thighs to be just as thick with muscle from when she’d examined his injured body.

He had succeeded in distracting her. The heat of her anger had turned into a different kind of heat, shameful and inappropriate at a time like this, when lives had been lost and her own likely still in danger. But Alasdair’s vitality embodied life and passion. She could not look at him without seeing this. Everything about him, his masculine beauty, his physical power, shouted I’m alive. And sometimes she thought if she could only touch him, he would imbue that same strength of life in her as well.