“Nonsense. I would do naught less for a friend such as you are.”

Gwyneth took a spoonful of the warm oat porridge. The slight sweet flavor surprised her. “Did you put honey in this?”

“Aye. ’Tis the way the MacGrath eats his porridge. Do you like it?” Tessie plopped her thin frame down onto the chair by the bed.

“It’s delicious.”

The girl grinned.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Since early this morn when I gave you the willow bark. ’Tis now close to midnight. More than eighteen hours, you slept.” After glancing at the door, Tessie leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The MacGrath refused to leave your side, except for a few minutes at a time. He is fair taken with you.”

Another type of fever washed over Gwyneth. She cleared her throat and stared into the cup of milk. “You must be mistaken.”

Tessie giggled. “Nay. I’ve worked here in the castle for more than four years. He’s shown no interest in women since his wife. And believe me, more than one lass has tried to catch his eye.”

Goodness. He’d said his wife had died two years ago, hadn’t he? He must have indeed loved his lady a great amount.

“Please, tell me about her…his wife.”

“Leitha was a right sweet lady with red hair and green eyes—a Lowlander. ’Twas a love match, you see. It near killed him when she died of the childbed fever.”

Gwyneth’s heart ached when she envisioned such a scene. “How awful. Did the babe survive?”

“Nay, the poor wee laddie.”

“A tragedy. I’m so sorry to hear of it.” She couldn’t imagine what she would’ve done if she’d lost Rory during the birthing.

“The MacGrath held up well afore the clan, but afterward he kept to himself much of the time. I’ve a feeling ’twas far harder on him than anyone kens.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Alasdair gave the impression of strength much like a mountain of stone. But he seemed to have a caring heart. “I’ve noticed how kind he is. Tell me, is he typical of the men in this clan?”

Tessie shrugged. “Some people are kind and others are cruel, in this clan as in others. My own Robbie is kind as well.”

“I’m glad. ’Tis clear you have a love match.”

She blushed and grinned. “Indeed. What of Rory’s father?”

Gwyneth shook her head, thinking of two men—Rory’s natural father and Baigh Shaw. “He was a beast. I have not known any kind men in my lifetime.”

“How sad. If anyone deserves kindness, ’tis you. And glad I am that Laird MacGrath is taking to you like honey bees to heather.”

Gwyneth almost choked on the sip of milk she’d taken. She sputtered but finally swallowed. “I’m sure you’re overestimating his concern.”

***

“We have to get Gwyneth Carswell back, along with her bastard,” Donald MacIrwin told Smitty, his sword bearer, as they leaned over the small table near the fireplace in the dim great hall of Irwin Castle. He kept his voice down, not knowing which of his clan might betray him. Donald thirsted for a mug of ale, but dared not consume too much, else they’d run out. The clan needed funds badly.

“Aye, m’laird.” Smitty’s dark eyes gleamed like bits of coal.

“Once Lord Darrow finds out his daughter is nay longer here, he’ll stop sending the payments. But I have a plan.”

Months ago, a Sassanach lord named Southwick had sent him a missive telling him to send Gwyneth’s son Rory to him in London. Donald had ignored the demand, of course. He didn’t take orders from the damned English and besides, Lord Darrow’s money was useful to him. If the lad was nay longer here, Darrow might send less money for Gwyneth’s upkeep.

But now maybe Donald could strike a bargain with Southwick. He could retrieve Rory himself…for a price. A very large price. Enough silver to support Donald and the clan for a few years at least. He didn’t care why Southwick wanted the lad, but he suspected the man was the lad’s natural father.

“How will we get Gwyneth and her son back?” Smitty asked.

Donald darted a glance around the great hall, making sure none of the busy-body maids were close by and lowered his voice. “A surprise attack. I want as many of the MacGrath clan dead as possible. An utter sacking, I tell you. Take all their cattle and sheep, along with Gwyneth and Rory. I want them unhurt, mind you. But we will torch the rest of them. Find the clerk and the messenger for me.”

“Aye, m’laird.” Smitty headed across the great hall.

Donald would have the clerk scribe a fancy missive to Southwick. The Englishman would be on his way here by the time they snatched the lad from MacGrath’s talons.

***

Guilt tormented Alasdair though he sat in a peaceful place. Leitha’s flower garden was a walled, private spot to the side of the castle, with a gate, herbs and shrubs. The scent of roses surrounded him, reminding him of his late wife. But another woman, very much alive, occupied his thoughts.

He’d tried to avoid Gwyneth for the last few days, but he knew she was healing. He’d noticed she had started using her arm.

His carnal attraction to Gwyneth gnawed at his conscience, and was the reason he steered clear of her. When he was in her presence, he sometimes forgot about Leitha. Forgot he was supposed to be grieving her loss. “I’m sorry, Leitha,” he murmured. “I’m the worst sort of rogue.”

An appealing scent caught his attention—the lemon balm plant that his leg was brushing against. He snapped a leaf from it and chewed it. Would it ease his grief as was rumored? At least the tangy citrus flavor was pleasant and refreshing.

A soft summer breeze, like a gentle hand, touched his face and blew his hair back. After a time, a sense of peace settled in his chest.

“Oh!” a feminine voice said behind him.

Turning on the stone bench, he glanced over his shoulder and found a wide-eyed Gwyneth standing just inside the gate.

“Pray pardon. I didn’t know you were here.” She turned away. “I won’t bother you.”

“Nay. Come back.” Please.

He was thankful for her recovery from the fever. The Almighty likely had not heard so many prayers from him in the past two years.

Though at first she hesitated, Gwyneth came forward. “I thank you for showing mercy to Mistress Weems and Eileen.”

Yesterday, he’d had the two women escorted miles away to Aviemore. “The world is surely a more dangerous place with those two loose in it, but I couldn’t have them roaming about the castle trying to kill you.”

A faint grin lifted the corners of her lips. “I am much indebted to you for your protection. You are too kind.”

He snorted. “I have never been called such afore, and I would thank you to keep it a secret. I have the reputation of being a fierce warrior.”

“So, what are you, fierce warrior, doing sitting in a flower garden?”

He smiled and savored the teasing glint in her eyes far more than he should have. “’Tis the only quiet place about.”

“And beautiful.” Gwyneth’s light blue gaze darted over the pink, white and red flowers growing near the wall. “Sometimes I come out here for a breath of fresh air and to smell the roses.”

He’d always found it the best place for reflection. “Are you fond of flowers, then?”

“Yes. In England—” She pressed her lips closed, looking a bit shocked at herself, and glanced quickly away.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“We had…a garden.”

He waited for her to elaborate, and when she didn’t, he let it go. She didn’t trust him enough yet to talk of her past. How he wished she did. But trust was something he’d have to earn.

She strolled to the wall where a climbing rose was secured against it, cupped a red blossom in her hand and buried her nose in it. “Ahh. I love roses.” She turned to him with a smile more beautiful than all the flowers gathered here. So tempting. She effortlessly drew him under her spell, against his will. And he found himself wanting to grin like a fool, but controlled the impulse.