He was sure Gwyneth had nothing to do with his father’s death, but he couldn’t remove certain images from his mind—images of her and her vile husband together.

“What are you doing out here moping? Did you grow tired of the fairy’s tale?” Lachlan chuckled.

He turned, surveying his brother’s amused and carefree expression. He envied him that. “I’m but thinking.”

“’Tis the lady that’s put you in this glum mood.”

The truth of that prickled like a thistle in his plaid. “There is naught wrong with my mood.”

Lachlan snorted. “I saw the way you were watching her. Like a juicy red apple just out of your reach.”

Alasdair flicked a glare at his meddlesome brother. “’Tis hard to ignore someone who has bewitched the whole of our clan.”

“Including you, first and foremost.”

“As I recall, you were not immune to her charm.”

Lachlan snickered. “I’m not immune to any wench’s charm.”

Nor were they immune to him. The lasses from miles around were in love with him. Alasdair had never had time for such frivolities. Nor did he now. Best to put Gwyneth from his mind.

“Are you certain you can trust her? She is, after all, a relation of the MacIrwin,” Lachlan said in a more serious tone.

“It matters not. I’m helping her as she helped me. ’Tis all.” But indeed he did trust her, no matter her clan connection.

“’Tis time you were looking for another wife.”

Alasdair lifted a brow, determined to remove the focus from himself. “You’re one to talk.”

“I’m not the earl and chief, and don’t need a legitimate heir. But you do. An heir, and a spare. And a few wee lasses.” Lachlan grinned.

In truth, ’twas what Alasdair yearned for so badly his chest ached. Children and a cherished wife. But he shrugged it off. “If I don’t, the clan has plenty of other lads who can step up and be chief one day. ’Haps one of yours if you marry.”

“Ha!” Lachlan shook his head. “I’ll never marry. Besides, Da would’ve wanted the next chief to be your son.”

“I’m certain he would’ve approved of either.”

Lachlan had never been in love and therefore had never had his heart ripped from his chest even as he stood helplessly by and watched the life drain from his wife and child.

Alasdair did not possess the strength to endure it again.

***

That night Rory was sleeping with Alasdair’s cousin’s family in the village, with whom he’d stayed while Gwyneth was sick. She trusted them completely, and Rory had made friends with their sons.

Lying on the soft featherbed, Gwyneth wondered what Alasdair was doing in the bedchamber next to hers. Was he sleeping? She couldn’t. Her imagination worked overtime.

She could hardly believe the shocking and seductive words he had said to her. I have sinful thoughts about you at night, in my bed.

What sort of thoughts, precisely? And was he having them now? Her heart rate escalated.

Remembering the firmness of his lips on hers, she re-experienced his kiss in the darkness. She craved his taste, the hard press of his powerful body against hers. Never had a kiss been so intoxicating and delicious, like wine infused with herbs and honey—sweet, warm and citrusy. She smiled against her pillow, then traced her overly-sensitive lips with her fingertip.

She recalled the sound of his deep voice murmuring in her ear. Gwyneth, I wonder, have you ever had a kiss that near took your breath away? Oh heavens, yes, his kiss had done that and more.

She could easily imagine lying in his big cozy-looking bed she’d sat beside several nights ago. The best part would be his hard-muscled body next to hers, his skin heating hers, his mouth and hands doing wicked but exquisite things to her.

Energy tingled through her body, as if she’d been standing a bit too close to a lightning strike. What had Alasdair done to her?

She must have slept…and dreamed. The images before her and the lustful sensations possessing her body couldn’t have been real life. She had never experienced such carnal indulgences before—not at her promiscuous downfall nor during her hellish marriage. Those were mere gray pebbles compared to the diamond-like sensations that sparkled through her at Alasdair’s touch.

Loud shouts and running footsteps woke Gwyneth from her restless dreams. The fire had gone out in the hearth, casting the room in cool darkness. She jumped up, crept to the door and opened it a crack. She couldn’t understand the shouts of alarm coming from the great hall, but something was terribly wrong. Even MacDade, her guard, was gone.

Gwyneth yanked on her petticoats, skirts and arisaid over her smock and crammed her feet into her leather slippers. She strode along the dark corridor and down the steps. In the great hall, the women servants scurried back and forth.

She spotted Tessie and hastened to catch up. “What’s happened?”

The young woman turned panic-stricken eyes on her. “’Tis the MacIrwins. They’re burning the village.”

A sickening chill shook her. “Rory’s down there!”

Tessie’s face blanched and tears glistened in her eyes. “Oh, Gwyneth,” she whispered and shook her head.

No! Something deep inside Gwyneth screamed. Denial blocking out all other thoughts, she dashed out the door and down the stone steps into the barmkin.

“Gwyneth!” Tessie chased after her as she ran mindless toward the gate. “You cannot go down there.”

No one would dare keep her from it. She stopped at the gate and faced Tessie. “I must go get Rory. Where’s Laird MacGrath?”

“With the men, of course, fighting.”

“Is he a lunatic? His foot is not healed.”

“’Twould surprise me if he is not at the forefront. ’Tis his way.”

“Open the gate!” she told the guard. Resolve tightened her muscles.

“You’re forbidden to leave. The MacGrath’s order.” The large, battle-scarred warrior stood firm.

“Some of the men are in charge of bringing people up here from the village,” Tessie said. “Maybe Rory’s here.”

Could it be possible? Hope making her lightheaded, Gwyneth glanced back, searching in desperation among the villagers milling about the barmkin. But she didn’t see Rory or the family he was staying with.

Beyond the iron gate, fires blazed in the distance, lighting up the pitch black night. She closed her eyes and the screams of the villagers reached her ears. A shudder of revulsion and terror ran through her.

Gwyneth’s throat tightened and she feared she might be sick and burst into hysterical sobs at the same moment. But she gathered her strength. “Let me pass! I must get my son.”

“Nay!” the guard bellowed, his scowl and thick beard giving him an intimidating look.

“I beg you to stay here.” Tears streamed down Tessie’s face.

Gwyneth didn’t realize she was crying until her vision blurred. She swiped the tears away and tried to think logically. How could she slip past the guard?

A group of armed men and villagers, including women and crying children, approached the gate outside. Soot and smoke blackened their faces and clothing.

Please let Rory be among them.

The guards motioned her and Tessie back as they admitted the villagers. Gwyneth searched each face.

She was devastated to see none of the four children who’d arrived was Rory. Making a desperate decision, Gwyneth ran through the gates before they swung closed.

The guard shouted behind her, and Tessie screamed out her name, but Gwyneth didn’t look back. She would find her precious child.

Chapter Seven

Alasdair rode hell-bent between the burning cottages of the village. Acrid smoke stung his eyes and congested his lungs. The intense heat seared his skin. In the bright light from the flaming thatch roofs, he searched for the thrice-cursed MacIrwins.