“Tell me what happened after I left. I’m wanting all the details,” he said.

Gwyneth recounted everything she and Rory had seen and experienced, from spending the night in the woods, eating roots and berries, then crossing the treacherous moor at dawn. Alasdair listened intently, nodding from time to time and making comments.

“You must be near exhausted, m’lady. You should’ve been sleeping, not working in the kitchen.”

His concern was a novelty that caressed her like soothing fingers. “I thank you, but I couldn’t sleep.”

A knock sounded at the door, then it opened and a tall man stuck his head in. He grinned.

“Lachlan, come on in, then.” Alasdair motioned the kilted man forward. “M’lady, I would like for you to meet my brother, Lachlan.

”The man’s tawny, golden-brown hair was long as a pagan’s and hung halfway down his chest. His amber-brown eyes, several shades lighter than Alasdair’s, held her own in a startling, direct manner. Waves of magnetism emanated from Lachlan. She suspected no lass he set his sights on would retain her virtue for long.

“Mistress Carswell is the MacIrwin fairy I told you about who saved my life.”

Both men grinned at her—a devastating picture, to be sure, with their virile good looks.

Gwyneth’s face heated with the ridiculous comment. Fairy, indeed.

She stood and curtsied. “’Tis a pleasure, sir.”

“I assure you, m’lady, the pleasure is all mine.” He bowed. Coming forward, he grasped her hand and pulled her upright. “Alasdair, I believe your words were ‘bonny MacIrwin fairy,’ and I must agree with you. Ne’er have I seen such lovely blue eyes.” Lachlan kissed her fingers.

Good heavens! What silver-tongued charmers these MacGraths were. Heat rushed over her.

Alasdair cleared his throat, and Lachlan released her.

Gwyneth’s gaze locked with Alasdair’s, which harbored a glare, and his brother stepped away to stand at the mantel. Something unspoken had passed between the two men. And something possessive in the way Alasdair watched her now held her captive.

Oh dear.

Her knees going slightly weak, she reclaimed her seat.

“I’m forever in your gratitude for saving the life of my beloved brother,” Lachlan said over his shoulder. She glimpsed a hint of a smile and wondered the reason for it, though she thought she knew.

“I assure you, it was the least I could do,” she said.

“’Twas a brave thing to defy your laird in such a way.”

“I’m no longer loyal to my second cousin in any way. He is a brute.”

“Donald MacIrwin is your cousin, then?” Lachlan turned and studied her. “I was thinking you’d married into the clan.”

“I was married to Donald’s friend, Baigh Shaw.”

A moment of tense silence stretched out in which Lachlan’s expression turned hostile. “Baigh Shaw?” he growled, then darted a glower to his brother. “You knew of this.”

“Wait for me outside, if you would please,” Alasdair returned calmly, but with a hard look that brooked no argument.

Lachlan clenched his jaw, flicked another brief glare her way and stalked out.

Shock and icy fear rushed through her. “What was that all about? What did Baigh do?” she asked.

Alasdair rose and limped across the room on his cane. “’Tis of nay importance now. The man is dead.”

Gwyneth sprang from her chair and followed him. “It’s important to me. I want to know. Your brother had the same reaction you did when you learned my late husband’s name.”

“I don’t wish to speak of it now,” Alasdair said firmly, his back to her.

“When will you tell me? I have the right to know. I’m being judged for something my husband did.”

Alasdair turned and cast her a dangerous look with ten times the potency of his brother’s. Gwyneth backed away. She’d learned in recent years what pain angry men were capable of inflicting.

“Do you ken what meadow saffron is, m’lady?” he asked in a soft but deadly voice.

She blinked for a moment, trying to comprehend his unexpected change in subject matter. “A poisonous plant.”

Alasdair’s gaze skewered her to the spot as if he didn’t care for her answer. “Do you recognize the name Callum MacGrath?”

“No.” She could scarce breathe as she waited for his meaning to become clear.

“Are you certain Shaw didn’t mention the name to you?”

“Yes. Why should he? He told me naught of what he did or who he had dealings with.”

Alasdair paused, scrutinizing her in a foreboding manner. She had been subjected to such by her father over six years ago—the cutting gaze judging her as a lower life form, an animal with no morals.

“Callum MacGrath was my father. And Shaw murdered him.”

“What?” She stiffened.

“Aye. ’Twas the meadow saffron he used. I was away at the time, but Lachlan was here. Donald MacIrwin, Shaw and some others from your clan came here for the signing of a peace treaty and a meal. Shaw was seated to my father’s right during the meal. Though we have nary a drop of proof, one of the servants said she might’ve caught a glimpse of Shaw slipping the powdered herb into Da’s drink. Needless to say, Da died the next day. I was on my way back from Edinburgh, and barely arrived in time for the funeral.”

Gwyneth stood frozen. Baigh had murdered this man’s father? Her mind reeled, unable to comprehend…. Maybe Alasdair was mistaken. Though Baigh had not been a pleasant man, would he have murdered someone in cold blood? A man who’d welcomed him into his home for a meal. Such treachery, breaking the Highland code of hospitality.

Or was she simply the most naive person on earth?

“When did this happen?” she asked.

“Six years ago this October.”

That was around the time she’d married Baigh.

“I ken you were married to him at the time. Rory told me he’d be six next month.”

Gwyneth opened her mouth to disagree, but she couldn’t without revealing she’d had a child out of wedlock. Alasdair didn’t know yet, and she wouldn’t be able to bear the judgmental look of censure he was sure to cast her way—as everyone did.

A memory came back to her. When she still lived in Donald’s home, an ancient crumbling castle, one night she’d overheard Donald and Baigh talking about some kind of bargain in which Donald would allow Baigh to marry her if Baigh came through with his part. The two had left and returned two days later. A short while after that, she had married Baigh. At the time, he’d seemed benign enough. Later she’d found how wrong she’d been.

What if murdering Alasdair’s father had been Baigh’s half of the bargain? Had she been payment for services rendered?

“You were going to say something?” Alasdair’s words brought her immediately to the present.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” was all she could choke out.

His gaze turned piercing. “You ken all about herbs.”

Was Alasdair accusing her of helping Baigh kill his father? Prickles chased over her skin.

“Not at that time. I only learned about herbs after I moved in with Mora, three years ago. After Baigh died.”

Alasdair eyed her in silence.

“Do you truly think I helped them kill your father?” She tried to keep the anger from sharpening her voice. Men were forever judging her as less than nothing. She was not trustworthy, not an honorable person. They saw her as a whore…and now a murderess.

Bastard.

She turned and strode toward the door, but before reaching it, she whipped around to face Alasdair again. “If you would be so kind as to have someone escort Rory and me to Aviemore, I will not impose upon you any further, Laird MacGrath.”

“Nay, you will stay here, Mistress Carswell.” His words were a gentle but firm command.

“I cannot stay in the household of a man who thinks I poisoned his father. I helped save your life—risking the life of my son, causing my only friend to be killed—and now you think I’m a murderess? You are like all other men in this godforsaken kingdom! You think women are less than human and have no honor or nobility. No morals or intelligence.”