Gwyneth relayed to Busby what she needed, the bare essentials—royal fern, comfrey, vervain, and a couple others—in case he couldn’t remember detailed instructions.

When he hastened away, Rory tugged at her skirts. “Ma, what happened?”

She knelt and hugged him. “I am well, but someone cut my arm.” She pointed to her bandage. “You will stay with me the rest of the night.”

“I would have your attention,” Alasdair called with echoing voice to the teeming group of servants and other clan members—between twenty and thirty people—gathered in the candlelit hall.

Silence descended and all eyes turned to him where he stood, tall and commanding, upon the dais.

“Someone has injured Mistress Carswell.” He motioned to her, standing a few feet to the side. All eyes shifted to her, and she stiffened. Now they would hate her even more.

“First, I would have you ken that Mistress Carswell well and truly saved my life a few days past, when I was injured on MacIrwin land,” he said. “If not for her kindness and healing skills, I would be dead now. For me, she put her own life in danger, as well as that of her son and her friend. Because of this, she deserves the highest regard and gratitude from us all.”

Bless him. Tears pricked her eyes.

He glared at the rapt crowd. “Now, tell me. Who took it upon themselves to stab Mistress Carswell in the arm? I require that you step forward now.” Alasdair’s gaze raked over the group of women servants who had been in the room with Gwyneth when she’d been injured.

Everyone stood frozen. Her own elevated pulse thumped in her ears and shot pain through her wound.

“I didn’t expect that you would. If anyone kens who did this, speak up now!”

The long moment of silence stretched Gwyneth’s nerves to near breaking point. Who wanted to kill her and why?

“Well then, you’re protecting someone with nary a qualm about murdering. I have no choice but to release the lot of you from your positions within my home.”

Gwyneth frowned. Was he mad? His household could not function without the female servants.

“Nay!” several women cried. Much jostling and whispering ensued. They shoved a thin young woman forward. “’Twas Eileen,” they announced.

Gwyneth didn’t recognize her.

“Eileen MacMann, why would you want to harm Mistress Carswell?” Alasdair asked.

“I didn’t want to, Laird MacGrath. Mistress Weems forced me to. She said I would lose my position if I didn’t do as she bid.”

This bit of news didn’t surprise Gwyneth in the least. Weems had not liked her from the moment she laid eyes on her. She suspected the housekeeper saw her as a threat to her position. Gwyneth couldn’t believe how far the other woman would go to see her gone.

“Nay, the wench lies!” the housekeeper bellowed.

“Silence!” Alasdair thumped his cane on the floor, his expression hardening. “Weems, step forward.”

The housekeeper waddled forth and blinked her beady black eyes at Gwyneth, then turned her full attention to her laird.

“Why would you want to injure Mistress Carswell?”

“I don’t want to, Laird MacGrath. Eileen is lying. ’Twas all her doing, alone.”

Eileen shook her head, tears dripping from her red-rimmed eyes.

Alasdair scrutinized Weems for a long moment, then turned his attention to another servant. “Tessie, what do you think?”

“Me, m’laird?” The girl swallowed hard and her gaze searched out Gwyneth. She nodded at Tessie to give her a bit of courage. Both Alasdair and Weems could be intimidating—Alasdair put her on the spot and Weems could make her life miserable.

“Aye. The truth please.”

She flicked a nervous glance at Mistress Weems. “I think what Eileen says is true.”

The housekeeper turned and glared at her.

“Do you now?” Alasdair asked.

Tessie nodded.

“Does anyone else agree with Tessie? Raise your hand if you do.”

Several hands went up tentatively.

“They’re liars, the lot of them,” the housekeeper yelled.

“Mmph.” Alasdair stepped down from the dais and limped toward Gwyneth. “Has Mistress Weems shown any ill will toward you?” he asked in a low tone.

“A little. But I don’t know why.”

He paced before the servants again. “Very well. Mistress Weems and Eileen, both of you will spend some time in the dungeon until I decide what to do with you. I won’t tolerate such aggression within my own household. If you wish to wield a blade, you can ride into battle with the men during the next skirmish.”

The male servants and clan members cackled at that. The wide-eyed females whispered amongst themselves. Eileen covered her eyes and cried, while Mistress Weems, with her red-faced snarl, appeared angry enough to slaughter ten warriors. Her glare bore down on Gwyneth, but she again refused to look away. She would not be intimidated by the bullish woman. Not that Weems could do much damage to anyone while in the dungeon, except Eileen.

“Laird MacGrath,” Weems said, drawing his attention again. “The MacIrwins killed my husband years ago, when you were no more than a wee bairn. And she’s a MacIrwin.” Weems pointed a condemning finger at Gwyneth.

Low mutterings and grumbles issued forth from the crowd, and a cold surge of dread arose within Gwyneth.

“Silence!” Alasdair demanded. “Weems, you may be older than me, but I’ll tolerate no insolence from you!” He paused and let his glare slide over the people. “Most of us here have had a loved one killed by the MacIrwins. But Gwyneth Carswell didn’t do any of that. She grew up in England and has only lived in the Highlands a short time. Because she helped me, the MacIrwins want to kill her, too. That puts her on our side.”

The room remained quiet.

“Now, does anyone else have any ill will toward Mistress Carswell?” he asked. “Anyone else here going to pin all the MacIrwins’ misdeeds on her?”

Several heads shook negatively in response. And a few murmured, “Nay, m’laird.”

“If you do, you’ll have me to answer to, and I won’t be so lenient with the next offense.” He turned toward two men, guards carrying swords and outfitted in metal studded leather armor, and spoke quietly to them.

Now that she was fairly certain the clan wouldn’t lynch her, Gwyneth tried to calm herself, despite her knees being a bit unsteady. She was most thankful to Alasdair for defending her. Still, she was concerned for Eileen and bewildered by her. She feared the girl wouldn’t be safe in the cell with Weems.

The two guards escorted the women through the ranks of the silent clan. And Alasdair headed toward her.

“Come with me, m’lady,” he murmured as he passed her. She could not fathom the way he switched from calling her ‘Mistress Carswell’ in front of his clan, to a more elevated form of address in private. He had deduced too much about her, insisting on using a form of address she no longer claimed. But because of the way he said it, almost as a friendly endearment, she could not bring herself to ask him to stop.

Urging Rory before her, she followed Alasdair up the stairs and down a short corridor, past his room. He flung open a door. “You’ll both use this room. ’Twas cleaned earlier today. I hope you’ll find it to your liking.” Without waiting for her to answer, he limped in and lit a candle with his own.

The meager light revealed a spacious room with a large, heavily-draped poster bed in the corner and a thick Turkish carpet before it.

“Oh, I cannot take this room,” Gwyneth said, taken aback by the finery. “Don’t you have something smaller, less ornate?”

“What’s wrong with ornate?” An almost imperceptible grin quirked his lips. “I would wager, m’lady, that when you lived in England you had a room far grander than this one.”

She stared at the floor, refusing to reveal a glimpse of her past to him. What he said was too close to the truth, and she did not wish to take a step back in time. Rising above her station for a brief time and enjoying such luxury could only be more painful in the end, when she had it no longer.