Alasdair ignored his brother’s thinly veiled reference to his possessiveness. “Later, I wish to talk to you about going to the Privy Council in my stead. We’ll bring charges against the MacIrwins for the attacks.”

Lachlan nodded. “’Twould please me beyond measure to see Donald MacIrwin kicking the wind.”

They found Gwyneth in the great hall, again watching over the injured, seeing that they drank broth and herbal teas. He would indeed have to order her to her bed and force her to rest.

Alasdair stopped close beside her. “M’lady, if you please, we would have a word with you in the library.”

Gwyneth drew back, her confused gaze darting back and forth between them. But Lachlan’s slight grin must have put her at ease. Alasdair followed her into the smaller room, and Lachlan closed the door behind them.

His brother dropped to one knee and grasped Gwyneth’s hand in his. He feared Lachlan went too far when he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

Gwyneth froze, her wide eyes beseeching Alasdair.

He smiled, attempting to reassure her that his brother had not been stricken with lunacy.

“M’lady,” Lachlan said. “I thank you, and I owe you a grand debt of gratitude for saving the life of my son.”

She frowned down at him. “Your son?”

“Aye. Kean is my son—the wee lad you rescued from the village last night.”

“Oh. I didn’t know,” she said softly.

“Surely, you are an angel sent from heaven.”

“No, not at all.” Face flushing bright pink, she gently tugged her hand from within his. “I simply acted on instinct.”

Lachlan rose. “Nevertheless, if there is ever anything I can do for you, I will. Just let me know.”

She curtsied. “I thank you.”

Lachlan gave her a bow and let himself out.

Gwyneth darted a glance at Alasdair. “If that is all—”

“Nay.” The word popped from his mouth, perhaps too quickly, but he enjoyed being alone with her too much to allow her to leave so soon. Had it only been yesterday evening when he’d kissed her? It seemed a week ago, so much had happened since.

He’d had no time to think about the kiss and what it had meant—that he was far more drawn to her than he should be. And that he wanted another kiss. Wanted more than a kiss. But aside from that, nothing else had changed. Sending her away would be the best solution for her and the clan. Besides, it was what she wished. But he wouldn’t do it now. He had to find her a safe and suitable place first, and at the moment, they needed her healing skills here.

“Yes, my laird?” Her blush was still in evidence, and it lent her a charming quality.

“I wish to thank you, as well, for saving Kean’s life and those of my men.”

“I could do nothing less.”

Though modest, she had the proud posture and regal bearing of a lady, which could not be concealed beneath her dirty, bloody clothing.

“When I saw you in the village during the worst of the fighting, I wanted to throttle you for putting yourself in such danger.” He’d meant to speak the words in a harsh, angry tone, but couldn’t quite manage it. Instead he simply sounded…desperate. Desperate to keep her safe.

She lifted courageous eyes to his. “And what about the danger you were in? Going into battle already injured.”

“My toe is much improved. And ’twas my responsibility. Not yours.”

Blue fire lit within her eyes. “Rory is my responsibility, and I would go through hell itself, if I had to, to save his life.”

He nodded. “Aye, of course. You are a brave lady, to be sure. And I admire that.” In truth, he admired far too many things about her.

She glanced away as if dismissing his words. He wanted to hold a mirror up to her, to show her what an incredible woman she was. He wanted to show her how she should value herself. Too many men had put her down and treated her poorly, instead of giving her the care and attention she deserved.

“You’re always taking care of others,” he said. “I wonder, who takes care of you?”

She looked at him straight. “I’m not too proud to accept the help of others, but I take care of myself for the most part.”

Indeed, she did. She was independent, too, flexible as a willow. A survivor. He could not recall a woman he admired as much—well, except for his Leitha, of course. Still, Gwyneth was stronger. But she needed someone to take care of her from time to time. Someone to lean on and cling to in the storm.

One part of him craved to be that person. Another part of him rebelled at the very thought. He could never again be that close to anyone. It hurt too much when they abandoned him. He reinforced the icy wall around the most vulnerable part of him, but it did not stop him from craving everything about her.

“I thank you for looking out for Rory and sending him up safely with Fergus,” she said.

“Of course, ’twas the least I could do.”

The village had been crawling with MacIrwins, any one of whom wanted to see her dead. A careless flick of a blade and her life would’ve been forfeit. Drained away, as Leitha’s had, leaving him regretting that he had not done more. ’Twas a tragic thing to realize you were too late.

Acting on naught more than the fierce and perplexing feelings raging inside him, Alasdair stepped forward and pulled Gwyneth into his arms. “Pray pardon, m’lady. I must hold you for a minute.”

“Oh.” The wee surprised sound was no more than a breath from her.

He pressed his face against her silky hair and inhaled the smoke scent mixed with a hint of herbs and whisky with which she’d medicated the injured. But most of all, her own unique female scent held him spellbound. He remembered it from when he’d kissed her and that little window to paradise had opened.

Her small frame against his own much larger one soothed his battle-ravaged soul. The vital warmth of her reassured him she was indeed alive—that they both were.

Her body was still taut with tension, but her arms crept around his waist and held him just as tightly. He savored her touch and her embrace, afraid to move. Afraid he would frighten her away. After a moment, her body relaxed within his arms. Aye, this was the way it should be. Naught had ever felt so right. Relishing the lithe, sensual feel of her, he tried to absorb her calmness and peace into himself.

Against her cool hair, his lips formed a kiss. Saints! How he treasured her and wished to kiss her all over. Without thought, he brushed his lips across her forehead, then pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks. She pulled in a shaky breath, drawing his attention to her lips he hungered to taste again.

Tilting her flushed face down and to the side, she withdrew her arms from around his waist. Disappointment besieged him, though in truth he didn’t know what the devil he was doing kissing her face in such a way. Had he gone mad? He immediately released her.

With much hesitation, she glanced up at him with darkened blue eyes. “I must go see to the injured men.”

Shoving away the ardent feelings that now filled him, he focused on her words. “Nay. You are to go get some sleep yourself, afore you fall down.”

“But—”

“I won’t be hearing an argument about it. Off with you now, to your room.”

Maybe if he treated her like a child, she would lose some of her womanly appeal. But he doubted anything would cool his body’s heated interest in her.

***

Having washed away all traces of soot, blood and grime, and wearing fresh clothing, Gwyneth paced from one end of her chamber to the other, past the ostentatious bed, where her freshly bathed son lay snoring within the downy mattress. She paused by the narrow window with its wavy glass. She was not sleepy in the least. Tired and shaken, yes, but not relaxed enough to sleep. She was glad Rory had agreed to a nap.

The events of the past few hours replayed through her mind over and over. The fires, the violence, the death.