Alasdair limped forward. “I didn’t say that.”

Unable to bear the betrayal she would see on his face, she refused to look at him. She’d thought him a good man, the only one she’d ever met. But it wasn’t so. He was like Baigh—appeared benign at first, and then his true nature emerged.

She stared at the floor. “You didn’t have to say it. ’Tis very clear to me how you feel. You think I provided the meadow saffron. No matter that I wouldn’t have known what it was six years ago.”

“M’lady,” he said in a soft, desperate voice, almost like an endearment.

She stood numb and unmoving. She did not know this man, did not understand his changeable moods. He was far more complex than the other men she knew.

“Look at me.” He tilted her chin up.

The too-intimate touch of his roughened fingertip quickened her pulse. In the dimness, she stared at the white linen shirt covering his chest and the bronze falcon brooch pinning his plaid in place.

His warm fingers spread, cupping her face. He trailed his thumbs along her jaw and cheek on both sides and tingles cascaded in the wake.

Her breath halted. Heavens! He should not touch her thus. And yet, she couldn’t draw away. She was trapped like a bird within his big, gentle hands.

His fingertips slipped downward to brush over her pulse and the tender skin of her neck. Something in her chest fluttered in a crazy dance of delight. Insanity.

She lifted her gaze to his heavy-lidded eyes. Their dark depths focused on her eyes, then shifted to her lips.

Dear lord, surely he will not kiss me.

Chapter Five

Alasdair feared he might give up the whole of his lands and title to claim one fiery kiss from Gwyneth right here, right now. Not that he would have to give up anything. But it was not something the earl and chief of the MacGrath clan, should do with a lady under his protection.

For a certainty, he had never felt skin as velvety smooth as that of her face. He wanted to brush his lips over her throat, her soft breasts and breathe her woman scent. Live on it.

Her eyes did not reflect fear. Instead, they glinted with waning anger, and a mixture of confusion, wonder, and excitement. Her pink lips looked innocent enough, but when she licked them—as he hungered to do himself—arousal tightened his loins.

If he were more like Lachlan, he might have her begging him to lift her skirts, here within this library, and satisfy their deepest carnal yearnings, perhaps yearnings she didn’t even know she possessed until that moment.

But he was not his brother. Alasdair had to think of his position, always. He refused to take advantage of those subordinate to him, like a man of less honor would do. Though he craved her, he did not want her to think his help came with a price. Because it certainly didn’t.

He dropped his hands away from Gwyneth and took a step back. “I believe you.”

“Truly?” she asked in a shaky whisper. Hope shone from her eyes, blue as the cloudless sky after a fierce rainstorm had washed it.

“Aye.” He turned away. He didn’t believe her guilty, but something about the connection between his father, her and Baigh Shaw still irked him like a wee pebble in his shoe.

“I thank you.”

The door opened and clicked closed. When he glanced back, she was gone.

By the saints, his body still tingled with rushing heat. Lust. Arousal such as he’d not felt in so long he’d forgotten it was possible to need with this intensity. He had always been faithful to his wife. Even two years after her death.

“’Slud!”

He had but a moment to wallow in longing and regret before Lachlan barged in and slammed the door behind him.

“What’s the meaning of this, Alasdair?”

“She’s innocent.” Alasdair hoped to forestall his brother’s anger, which he could well understand. He’d watched their father die of the poison.

“You’re sure of this, then?”

“She saved my life.”

Lachlan’s eyes narrowed. “She didn’t ken who you were. The men told me she was calling you Angus.”

“Aye, I lied to her. I was unsure whether I could trust her at the time. Now, I believe I can. If she was wanting all us MacGraths dead, she would’ve finished me off when I was out, not ushered me back to the land of the living.”

Lachlan’s frown remained in place, and his perceptive gaze searched Alasdair’s face.

“Don’t fash yourself so,” Alasdair said.

Lachlan’s expression lightened. “Easy for you to say. You’re wanting to bed her.”

With his well-earned reputation as Seducer of the Highlands, Lachlan was an expert at spotting attraction from ten paces away, whether it involved him or not. There was no escaping his brother’s insightful observation, and Alasdair had no intention of denying his attraction to Gwyneth. “’Tis nay concern of yours.”

Lachlan smirked, half genuine smile, half derision. “I don’t know whether to congratulate you on finding a wench to your liking, or warn you that lust has blinded you to her scheming ways.”

“I’m not blinded! ’Tis not the way of it.”

“Oh, aye.” The scoundrel’s grin broadened.

“She’s a lady deserving of our respect.”

“So you say. I’ve not seen proof of it, save her haughty Sassenach speech. Why, pray, would an English lady marry Baigh Shaw?”

Lachlan’s doubts were the same ones that plagued Alasdair.

“I haven’t figured that out, yet. But I intend to in due time.”

Lachlan observed him with a calculating, devilish grin. Alasdair expected a fair amount of ribbing from him. Due in part to the fact that Alasdair had shown little interest in women since his wife died. He’d loved Leitha, and could never imagine replacing her. And he wasn’t thinking such now.

In truth, he desired Gwyneth in a most carnal way, but that was not a good thing. He couldn’t have her. Whether she denied it or not, her speech and manners told him she was a lady, deserving of his highest regard. He wouldn’t treat her like a common wench. In addition, she was of the enemy clan, widow to his father’s murderer. Nay, he could never touch her.

“Och, man.” Lachlan chuckled. “I’ve not seen you in such a stew over a lass in years.”

Alasdair rolled his eyes and wished his brother would go on and leave him be. “I’m not in a stew.”

Lachlan snorted. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. Never before have you protested with such a possessive glare when I’ve kissed a lady’s hand.”

A wave of annoyance and chagrin washed over Alasdair. ’Twas true, he’d even surprised himself with that exaggerated reaction, but instinct had taken over. “I simply didn’t want you seducing her as you do all the other females you meet. ’Tis not permissible for either of us to view her in that manner.”

“Aye, keep lying to yourself, brother. Mayhap one day you will start believing it.”

***

That night, Gwyneth slept on a straw mat in a large upstairs room shared by the women servants, while Rory slept in the room next door with the children. She was not yet accustomed to the smell of so many unwashed bodies in one place. At Mora’s cottage, she had grown more used to the fragrance of fresh air, drying herbs and peat smoke.

Alasdair had offered her a private room in the newer wing, reserved for special guests of the nobility when they visited. She’d refused. Most of his clan already disliked and mistrusted her. If she placed herself in such an exalted position, they would undoubtedly hate her.

Best to stay in the class she’d sunk to, rather than pretending to return to her former station. Likely, she wouldn’t catch a wink of sleep on a soft featherbed, anyway. She didn’t allow herself such flights of fancy. She had lost all comforts and luxuries when she’d given up her virtue to that titled, villainous knave in London.

Regrets proved useless. She focused on Rory, as she always did, and said a prayer of thanks for him. He truly was a gift, and she would never regret having him.