The first rays of orange dawn light shone above the high mountains on the horizon. Exhaustion weighing his sore, overworked muscles, Alasdair craved to do naught more than collapse in his bed, but he well knew he would get no sleep for a while.

The belated rain had helped douse some of the fires, but all that remained of most of the cottages were the thick rock walls and trails of smoke drifting toward the purple-gray sky. The flames had quickly devoured the thatch roofs, which then caved in and burned everything inside the cottages. The villagers had lost nearly everything they possessed of material value.

Various sheep, goats and cattle milled about the cluttered and muddy dirt street. It would take a tremendous amount of work to put the village back to rights. But some things could never be replaced.

Lachlan approached, his face black and his clothing bloody. “’Tis because of her that they attacked.”

His brother’s sharp gaze and hardened jaw surprised Alasdair. “What are you blathering on about?”

“Mistress Carswell.”

Alasdair drew back, frowning. “Nay, the MacIrwin’s attacked because I escaped their clutches almost a fortnight past.”

“Aye, you would deny it! Fergus told me of the message—the MacIrwin wants her back.”

“You would have me send her to her death! Along with her innocent son?”

Lachlan inhaled a deep slow breath and continued in a calmer tone. “Nay, but you must send her away, mayhap back to England.”

“Nay! Don’t challenge me, Lachlan.”

“Surely you see what she’s bringing down on our clan.”

Alasdair loved his brother, but at the moment, he felt like slugging him in the jaw. “She has nowhere else to go. Her family disowned her. Her father sent her to the MacIrwin, and the bastard will kill her if he has a chance. She saved my life and I will return the favor as many times as I must.” Aye, that’s how grateful he was for what she’d done for him, endangering her own life and losing a friend in the process. Gwyneth deserved someone to protect her.

Lachlan sighed. “You should find her a place far from here.”

Alasdair shook his head. He knew not why, but something deep inside him said her place was with him. “We had conflict with the MacIrwins long before she came to us. In case you forgot, they killed Da six years past.”

“How could I forget?” Lachlan snapped, his scowl severe. “It happened right before my eyes.”

“And they burned the village once before, nine years ago. Will you blame that on Gwyneth, too?”

“Nay. I’m not—”

“Lachlan!” cried a female voice.

They turned to find an elderly woman hobbling toward them. Alasdair couldn’t recognize her with so much soot on her face.

“’Tis Mary Anne! She’s dead!” The woman wailed.

Mary Anne was the mother of one of Lachlan’s children. A stricken look crossed his face. “Are you certain?”

“Aye.” The woman wiped her eyes, smearing soot.

“Where’s Kean?” Lachlan strode away with her.

Alasdair propped his hand against his saddle while the horse hung its head and nosed at the trampled grass. Then he remembered—Gwyneth had been carrying Kean last night when she’d left the village. She’d saved the wee lad’s life.

What was he going to do about her?

Lachlan was right of course, Alasdair should send her away. As long as she remained here, she would draw the MacIrwin’s attention. She’d said she would like to find a position as a governess. Maybe that would be the best solution for them all. Except for him. But being the clan chief had required more than one sacrifice on his part.

***

Sharp sunlight gleamed over the peaks of the blue-purple mountains to the east. A stiff summer wind carried away the scents of smoke and blood, of war and violence that Alasdair hated. He ignored the aches and pains of his own body, and forced himself to concentrate on what could be salvaged rather than what had been lost. He must give his clan hope of a brighter future. They looked to him for support and encouragement and he would not let them down.

While some of his men transported the bodies of the dead MacIrwins to the borders of Donald’s holdings, others carried the three injured MacGrath warriors up to the tower. He’d posted several guards around the grounds in case the MacIrwins returned.

As soon as Alasdair stepped into the great hall, Gwyneth appeared beside him and grasped his hand. So thankful was he that she was unharmed, he wanted to yank her into his arms and embrace her so tightly he might crush the breath from her. But he forced himself not to and squeezed her hand instead.

“You’re not hurt?” Her frantic gaze searched him, then fixed on his torso. “You’re bleeding.”

“Nay, ’tis not my blood. I only have a few scratches and bruises. Since you are a healer, I wondered, could you help these three men?” He motioned to the side. “Our village healer is busy with the others.”

Releasing his hand, she turned her attention toward the moaning or unconscious men being carried in. She directed where they should be laid in the great hall. She then set to work examining them and telling the women which herbs and supplies she would require.

At her suggestion, Alasdair gave whisky to the ones who were awake and in pain. She removed a lead ball from his steward’s shoulder, and after cleaning the wounds, stitched up the cuts and gashes of the other two men, Angus and Padraig.

Alasdair watched her work tirelessly for more than an hour and assisted by turning the men over when she asked. The blood and gore did not appear to bother her. She had a backbone of tempered steel and more courage than a lot of men he’d seen. Yet, she possessed the gentle and caring touch of a guardian angel.

The uninjured warriors ate and rested, preparing to take their turn at watch. Tomorrow, the clan would hold the funerals and bury the dead. The next day, they would look toward the future and start to rebuild the village. In the meantime, everyone pulled together and consoled one another.

“’Tis time you ate something, then rested,” Alasdair told Gwyneth. The dark circles beneath her eyes showed she was as exhausted as he.

She nodded, rose and went in search of food, he hoped.

Alasdair cleaned himself up in his bedchamber, changed clothes and then found Lachlan in the great hall. He also looked a mite better without the bloody clothes and the soot.

“What is it you’re wanting to tell me?” Lachlan asked in a surly tone once they were inside the library. The cheerful sunlight slicing through the two narrow windows clashed with Lachlan’s dark scowl, and Alasdair’s own mood.

“I’m sorry about Mary Anne,” Alasdair said in a calm voice that he hoped conveyed his sympathy.

“Aye, we all are. Now my son has no mother.”

“But he has a father—as we did growing up. He will come here to live in the castle if you wish it.”

His brother propped his fists against his waist. “That won’t change the fact that your fine Lady Gwyneth caused all this.”

“Gwyneth saved Kean’s life.”

Lachlan looked as if someone had hit him broadside with an ax. “What?”

“Aye. She came down to the village during the fighting, looking for Rory. A MacIrwin on foot was chasing Kean while I was trying to fight off another one on horseback. She jumped out and grabbed Kean. He could’ve been trampled beneath the horses’ hooves or killed by the enemy. I didn’t ken who either of them were at first. But when Gwyneth turned back, I saw her face. And I also saw Kean in her arms.”

Lachlan froze for a moment, then released a harsh breath. “Merciful God, I must thank her.”

Alasdair stepped forward. “I’ll go with you.”

“I appreciate your trust in me,” Lachlan said in a dry tone, his expression easing.

“I ken how you like to show your gratitude to the ladies.”

Lachlan’s abashed grin appeared, and he clasped hands with Alasdair in a quick, fierce handshake. “Aye, you ken me too well, brother, but I value my neck too highly to dally with that one.”