Thoughts of Alasdair shoved sleep away. When she imagined him, his dark eyes and big gentle hands, a thrill spiraled through her. Why? She did not know. Was he a man of honor, or was he concealing his true nature from her?

She couldn’t forget the way he’d caressed her face, as if she were made of precious glass. Her breath hitched even as she remembered the compelling, seductive look in his eyes. She’d thought, with fear and longing, that he might kiss her. Heavens! What would she have done if he had? When he had released her from his spell, she felt as if she’d been freed from the effects of a drug.

I am foolhardy for thinking of such matters.

She barely noticed the quiet footsteps padding in her direction, the squeak of a floorboard, and assumed one of the women was headed to the garderobe privy. A thump sounded and a woman’s grumble floated in the darkness. Gwyneth turned her back to the commotion, wishing instead to secretly drift off to sleep amongst dreams of Alasdair.

But the footsteps drew nearer and a sudden hot pain pierced her arm, radiating outward. Gwyneth cried out and rolled into one of the other female servants to escape further injury.

Dear lord, someone is trying to kill me!

Screams and yells erupted among a tussle.

Panic quickened her movements as she crawled over the other women.

A candle flared to life, and the darkness retreated. She rose and clasped her bloodied upper arm. Pain sliced through her.

She surveyed the chaos of the room around her, trying to discern who had the weapon. Some of the women stood, while others sat or remained lying. Rush mats and plaid blankets were strewn about, no bloody daggers in evidence.

“Gwyneth, you’re bleeding!” Eyes wide, Tessie crossed over several people and grasped her arm.

One of the men, named Busby, stuck his head in. “What’s the ruckus about?”

“Someone cut Gwyneth.”

Feeling strangely suspended, Gwyneth held her arm and prayed the pain would lessen.

Busby waved her forward.

Tessie guided her toward him. He ripped open her sleeve and eyed her wound. “’Tis deep. Laird MacGrath will be wanting to know about this. Follow me.”

“No. Not now.” Gwyneth hung back, not wanting to cause a scene. “He’s asleep. I can take care of it myself.”

“Go on now, Gwyneth,” Tessie urged but stayed behind.

Busby pulled Gwyneth through the doorway, down the spiral steps, then up a different stone staircase. “Someone’s wanting you dead, lass. And I won’t be responsible for leaving you in a den of female vipers.”

Holding the candle aloft, Busby rapped at an ornate, carved door.

She squirmed in both pain and unease about disturbing the laird. Men did not like their sleep interrupted.

After a moment, Alasdair, wearing a long-tailed shirt, opened the door and squinted against the candle’s flame. His gaze locked on Gwyneth’s. “Aye? What’s wrong?”

“Mistress Carswell has been hurt. One of the women stabbed her in the arm.”

“In truth?” Alasdair’s frown deepened. “Let me see, m’lady.”

She took her hand away from her now-bare upper arm and blood trickled from the throbbing, burning wound.

“By the saints! I’ll have somebody’s head for this!”

“No, Laird MacGrath.” She’d known he’d be angry, but she hadn’t been sure it wouldn’t be directed at her. Now she feared he’d kill one of the women.

“Who did this?” he demanded of her.

“I know not. The room was dark.”

“Rouse everyone within these walls,” Alasdair commanded Busby. “Have them assemble in the hall, forthwith.”

“Aye, m’laird.” Busby trotted away, yelling for everyone to proceed to the great hall.

“I don’t wish to cause an uproar,” Gwyneth said.

“You’re not the one causing it. I’ll find out who did this and see her punished.” His Scottish burr grew more pronounced than usual. “Iosa is Muire Mhàthair,” he muttered, along with other Gaelic words.

“I need to clean the wound and apply some herbal ointment, but I don’t have any with me.” Lightheadedness snatched her equilibrium for a moment and she caught herself against the wall. She hadn’t lost much blood and had endured far worse pain than this in the past. She simply needed to sit down for a minute.

“Saints! You’re about to keel over.” His words, which sounded like ye’re aboot t’ keel o’er, didn’t make sense for a moment. He gently caught her good arm and her waist, then led her into the darkness of his room. “You must lie down. I vow, whatever crook-pated wench did this will regret it.”

How could he see anything? ’Twas dark as pitch. But his musky male scent permeated the room in a disturbing way. That, coupled with his strong hands upon her, was near too much.

“I am fine now, truly. A chair will do,” she assured him. She simply could not lie upon his bed. Not only would the whole of the clan be gossiping, but she would find it too disconcerting.

He seated her in a padded chair by his bed. “Uisge-beatha is good for wounds. I’ve used it for cuts on the battlefield.” Alasdair lit a candle on the mantle, then pulled on a pair of trews beneath his long-tailed shirt.

Gwyneth yanked her gaze from the appealing sight of him to stare at the elaborately carved headboard to her left. She could not watch something so intimate as Alasdair dressing, even if she had seen him close to naked during his illness. And what a vision that had been, all those firm muscles.

I should not be here, in this room.

She should be focusing on her wound and the dire situation she found herself in. But heavens, his bed was big. And soft-looking. The white sheets and counterpane twisted and thrown back. They were probably still cozy and warm from his body. How would it feel to lie there with him, his body warming and protecting her?

“I’ll send Busby into the village, and he’ll bring back what you need from Tessie’s mother, Seri.”

Gwyneth shoved her foolhardy thoughts away to think about what he’d said. “Tessie’s mother is the healer?”

“Aye. In the meantime, we’ll clean the wound with this.” Alasdair snatched a flagon of uisge-beatha from a chest. While holding her arm lightly in his hand, he dribbled the strong-smelling whisky onto her wound.

Her arm burned with liquid fire. She jerked away and sucked in a hissing breath.

“Pray pardon. I ken that smarts like the very devil. I’m not such a gentle healer as you are.” He set the whisky on a table and searched about inside a chest, then came back and wrapped a white linen cloth around her arm. “There, now. Better?” His tone sounded so hopeful, how could she disagree, though the wound still pained her greatly. After all, it was a stab wound rather than a cut.

“Yes. I thank you,” she said. Why was he so kind to her? Maybe it was all pretense, because he somehow perceived it would knock down her defenses. But to what end? Perhaps he was scheming to use her against Donald for revenge. Or did he want her in that illicit way that a man wants a woman? Hot shame washed through her, for she was not immune to his appeal. She feared she might want him in the same illicit way.

“I’m sorry this happened.” Alasdair put the whisky away. “Without doubt, you don’t feel safe anywhere. You’ll stay in one of the guest rooms like I suggested afore, and I’ll post a guard outside. Rory can stay with you if you’d like.”

“Yes, I think he should.” Rory liked staying with his new friends, but he might be in danger as well.

“Are you feeling well enough to go to the hall?”

“I think so.” She stood, discovering she was very steady and clear headed. The dizziness had left her.

She preceded him out. Cane in one hand and a candle in the other, Alasdair limped forward and ushered her along. He didn’t allow the steps leading down to slow his pace.

Once in the noisy great hall, he motioned to Busby. “Go into the village and get the herbs Mistress Carswell requires.”