“Did you not?” Alasdair asked.

Gwyneth was glad when a panting Busby stopped in the open doorway.

“Mistress Carswell, I have the herbs. Seri was out birthing a bairn, but one of her daughters said these would be what you’re wanting.”

Gwyneth rushed toward him and took the tiny sacks of crushed herbs. She sniffed them, their distinct pungent or bitter aromas confirming their identities. “I thank you. If you would be so kind, could you ask Tessie to bring me some fresh, clean water and whisky?”

“Busby, also please tell MacDade to come up as well. I would have him guard,” Alasdair said.

“Aye, m’laird.” Busby scurried away.

Alasdair stood at the mantel, his back to her. “You’ll be needing a fire in here. ’Tis chill.” He set about building one himself. Why would he not have a servant do that?

Gwyneth turned down the fine linen and wool covers on the bed. “Get in, Rory.”

Her sleepy son complied.

Minutes later, she wondered how long Alasdair would stay. Did he want to oversee the care of her wound?

He stood, his attention still cast toward the small fire he’d built. “If you should require other clothing, you shall find some in that trunk in the corner.” He nodded to his right, still without looking at her.

“You are too kind. Whose clothes are they?”

A long moment of silence stretched between them, and she thought he wouldn’t answer. The fire caught the tender and popped.

“They were my wife’s,” he said in a monotone.

“Your wife’s?” He’d never mentioned a wife before. Was this the Leitha whose name he’d murmured in his fevered sleep several nights ago?

“Aye, she died two years past. She was a wee lass, much like you are, so I’m thinking the clothes may fit. Anyway, you came here with naught more than the clothes on your back. You’ll be needing something else to wear.”

“I thank you.”

“’Tis the least I can do.”

Gwyneth wanted to disagree. What did this cost him? Had he loved his late wife so much that giving away her clothing pained him? Or did he have no emotional attachment to her?

At any rate, he was far more generous than her father or her late husband had ever been, but discussing such matters did not seem appropriate. The atmosphere of the room already felt too intimate by far. She stood in a bedchamber, in the middle of the night, with a handsome man who dangerously lured her without even trying. One glance from him could draw forth the sensual side she tried to keep bound and hidden.

Her son snoring in the bed, along with the pain in her arm, kept any shameful thoughts at bay.

“Have a seat, m’lady, afore you fall down. You’re pale as a specter.” Alasdair motioned toward a chair, then paced to the door. “Where is Tessie?”

Gwyneth sat. “I’ll wait for her. Please, you should go back to bed. It is late.”

“Nay, I cannot sleep now anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I should’ve let Mistress Weems go years ago. She’s a right olkeyr.”

Gwyneth wasn’t sure what an olkeyr was, but it didn’t sound pleasant.

“She was in the employ of my father,” he continued. “I feared she wouldn’t be able to find another position at her age. I’ve a feeling she’s terrorized more than one of the maids.” He was silent for a long moment. “What she had Eileen do is unforgivable.”

Unforgivable? Did he mean to have Weems killed? And Eileen—she’d practically been forced into her actions. In Gwyneth’s experience, men often judged women too harshly.

“What will you do to them?” Surely he wasn’t the sort of man who would execute women for injuring someone.

“Let them stay in the dungeon for a few days while they worry about what I might do to them. As for after that, I haven’t decided.”

“I think Eileen is as much a victim as I am.” Gwyneth hoped he would show her some mercy, at least.

“In a way, aye. But she should never have carried out the stabbing. She should’ve come to me instead of believing Weems. And if any of the other servants or clan members get it in their heads to stab someone, outside battle, they will know I’ll dole out a just punishment.”

Tessie trotted into the room with the water and whisky, then upon seeing Alasdair, halted and bobbed a curtsy. “M’laird. Mistress, I’d have been here sooner, but I had to draw fresh water from the well.”

“It’s all right.”

Tessie helped her clean the wound again with the whisky. Gwyneth mixed the herbs with the water and applied a paste, and then a bandage, while Alasdair watched from the background. She could scarce believe he had so much interest in her wound. The concern in his eyes made her feel self-conscious. She was afraid his clan would notice and whisper speculations behind their hands. That was all she needed, to be the focus of another scandal.

Once Tessie finished and left, Alasdair glanced into the corridor and spoke to the large, dark-haired man who waited there. “MacDade, you are to guard Mistress Carswell and her son. Don’t let anyone pass through this door without checking with me.”

“Except Tessie,” Gwyneth said.

“Aye, if you trust her.”

“I do.”

“Very well, then. I’ll be next door if you should need anything.”

“Many good thanks, my laird.”

He gave a brief bow, and his troubled gaze lingered on her until he closed the door between them.

His kindness confused her. Was he simply repaying the favor since she’d helped save his life days ago? Or was it something else? She didn’t know how to interpret his actions. In her experience, men were only kind to women in the presence of others, or when they wanted something. Such had been the case in her parents’ marriage when she was growing up.

Gwyneth paced to the bed and observed Rory sleeping. He looked pale and exhausted after the turmoil of the last few days. The dark circles beneath his eyes concerned her.

She was not the least bit sleepy. The sharp pain in her arm remained strong.

In the dim candlelight, she glanced around at the luxurious room. Green velvet curtains draped the bed. Indeed, the featherbed was the softest she’d ever touched. Rory had never slept on something so fine. If the man who’d sired him had taken responsibility, Rory would have slept on a bed soft as this from the time he was a tiny babe. And she would’ve been a marchioness. But such things were of no significance now.

She shivered and climbed into bed. During the next few hours, sleep eluded her. Despite the extra blankets she piled on the bed, she only grew colder.

***

“Laird MacGrath.”

Alasdair roused from a fitful sleep he had just fallen into. Thin dawn light strained through the window.

Trained as a warrior who had to be ready for battle at any moment, he sprang out of bed and bumped his sore toe against the floor. Pain shot up his leg. “Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!” he rasped, along with a few more words he wouldn’t utter in mixed company. “Aye, what the devil do you want?” he demanded of Busby when his breath returned.

“Pray pardon, m’laird. MacDade says Mistress Carswell is worsening with fever.”

“Damnation!” He pulled on trews and a shirt, grabbed his cane and hobbled into the corridor. “I should string Weems up for this,” he said between clenched teeth, pain still emanating from his abused toe.

“Would you be needing some help with that?” Lachlan asked behind him.

Alasdair turned. “Where have you been?”

“In the village with Celine a good part of the night. I just heard what happened to Mistress Carswell.”

Well, that didn’t surprise him. Lachlan was usually in the bed of one wench or another. Alasdair rapped on Gwyneth’s door. It inched open, revealing the wee lad standing there, big-eyed.

“Good morrow, Rory. How’s your ma?”

“She’s sick,” he said in a small voice.

Leaning on his cane, Alasdair limped forward to the bed. Gwyneth shivered beneath the covers.