Indeed, fine-looking was too mild a term, in Gwyneth’s estimation but she ignored the question. She would not have Mora know of the embarrassing effect the man was having on her.

Most men of her acquaintance were the same—arrogant, cruel, and harsh. Whether fancy English gentlemen or braw Scottish warriors, they only thought of their own superiority and how they might wield power over others. Women were naught but chattel and thralls. By helping to save this one’s life, she was gambling, hoping to win peace.

“Och, here’s what ails him most.” Mora examined the Scot’s head. “He’s bashed his skull and good.”

“Let me see.” Gwyneth knelt on the dirt floor above him. His hair was sticky with blood, and a knot swelled on the back of his head. “It seems to have stopped bleeding.”

“Aye. Not much to be done for it, anyway.”

Nevertheless, Gwyneth cleaned the wound and applied the herbal paste as best she could in his thick hair. She concentrated on her task more intently while Mora covered him with a blanket and worked his plaid out from under him. Gwyneth tried not to think about his nakedness beneath it. Surely it was a sin to hold such thoughts.

“We’ve done all we can for him. He’s in God’s hands now. ’Tis off to bed, I am.”

Carrying his belongings, Gwyneth walked with Mora back to the cottage and hid his things in a rough wooden chest. She approached the bed where Rory lay. Relieved he’d slept through the commotion, she kissed his forehead and straightened. “I’ll go back out and sit with the MacGrath man for a short while.”

“Suit yourself. Best take your sgian dubh with you, just in case he wakes up none too happy about where he’s at.”

Gwyneth nodded and touched the dirk hidden in her bodice to be sure it was still there. She hoped she wouldn’t have to defend herself against a man she was trying to help. But, the truth was, she didn’t know him or what he might do.

Above the dark rounded peaks of the mountains, a quarter moon peeped through the clouds, providing the faintest of light for her to navigate the path to the byre. A whitish-gray mist crawled up from the glen, reminding her of the souls of the recently departed and giving her a chill. She inhaled the scent of rain before entering the tiny building and closing the door.

The handsome stranger lying insensible on the floor drew her gaze. The old plaid blanket did little to conceal his fine form, large and well-trained for battle, hard and heavy with muscle. She hoped she wouldn’t regret helping him. If he carried a peace treaty, surely he was a good man. A better man than Donald MacIrwin, at least.

Now, if only this MacGrath would awaken and return to his own lands, she would rest much easier. If he could somehow bring peace, she would be doubly grateful. But she feared there would be no peace as long as Donald MacIrwin drew breath.

Through the door, the haunting, fluted call of a curlew reached her. Gwyneth shivered. Mora had told her more than once that a curlew heard at night was a bad omen.

***

Gwyneth startled awake at a low rumbling noise, then realized it was thunder. Stiff and cold from lying on the hard dirt floor of the byre, she pushed herself to a sitting position while pulling her woolen plaid arisaid closer around her shoulders. Though ’twas June, the temperature never warmed here in the Highlands as it did in England. Rain pattered on the thatch, and thunder sounded again. At times like this, she missed the featherbed and cozy counterpane of her youth. And she would prefer a roaring fireplace to the single lit fir root which served in place of a costly candle.

The injured Scot shifted and mumbled.

She moved closer, touched his forehead and found his skin hot and dry. The fever had started.

May God protect him.

His recovery would take several days, if he survived the fever at all. He had to. He simply had to survive. She could not see such a strong, well-favored man leaving this life at so young an age. Surely, he was no more than five years older than her own three and twenty.

She pulled the cloth from the bowl of cool water, squeezed it out, and stroked it gently over his face. She wished to brush her bare fingers over his skin instead but squelched the urge. How silly of me. The linen snagged against his beard stubble. His dark lashes fluttered above his high cheekbones.

“Leitha,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. Though slurred, the word was clear. He jerked his head abruptly. “Nay, I cannot believe it.” After turning his face away, he stilled, as if he’d dropped into a deep sleep.

Who was Leitha? His wife? A sliver of envy made her bow her head in shame. The woman was sure to wonder where he was, perhaps even think him dead. Was he a good husband to her, or a rotten one like Baigh Shaw had been to Gwyneth?

She had found it no easy task being demoted from a wealthy English earl’s daughter to the wife and thrall of a low-born, violent Highlander almost twice her age with two grown sons who despised her.

Her father couldn’t have punished her any more thoroughly for her one unforgivable sin had he tried. All had been stripped from her six years ago. She possessed nothing of material value, no property or inheritance, not even a wedding dowry. Therefore, she had little choice but to stay where she was. Trapped in the godforsaken Highlands.

Thunder cracked overhead, and the MacGrath jerked.

Gwyneth washed his face again, smoothing the cloth over his thick dark brows and stubborn but appealing mouth. What would his lips feel like…? I should not think of such. She hated her sinful sensual side; it had already ruined her life.

His next string of slurred words were Gaelic, and the only one she understood was “athair.” Father. If he was the chief, then his father was surely dead. Was he seeing specters in his fevered dreams?

Near dawn, he became too quiet and still. She checked his breathing. When it didn’t seem as strong as before, she froze, then clasped his muscled forearm in her hands and said a prayer.

***

Alasdair MacGrath was fair certain he’d never before awakened to such stabbing pain in his head. He loved good sherry and whisky but never overindulged, so it couldn’t be the drink banging on his head.

A voice sifted through his agony. A high-pitched, senseless prattle.

“I’ll get you, you worthless MacIrwin bastard.”

Those words didn’t go with that innocent voice.

Another voice, rougher yet still the same growled, “You’re a no-good MacGrath coward. I’ll run you through.”

What the devil is going on? Alasdair cracked one eye open. He lay on the hard-packed earth floor of some sort of dark room that spun around him. Straw and the smell of aged cow dung told him it was a byre. He squinted toward the open doorway, trying to steady his vision. A wee lad with fair hair sat in the patch of brilliant sunshine.

He continued to act out the battle scene between two man-shaped twigs. “Take that, you puny toad-spotted whoreson!”

If not for the piercing ache in his head—in his whole body—Alasdair would have laughed outright. As it was, he only managed a snort without doing himself in.

The lad sprung up, whirled around, and gaped at him with wide blue eyes. “You’ve awakened.”

“Aye,” Alasdair uttered, his throat dry and voice raspy.

“Ma! Ma!” The lad screamed and sprinted from the byre.

A skewer to the ear would’ve been more pleasant. Alasdair’s thoughtless attempt to shield his ears from the child’s hellish noise brought gripping pain to his upper body.

By the saints! What happened to me? He groaned and glanced down at himself. A woolen plaid blanket and a pile of straw covered him. He lifted the blanket and the scent of strong medicinal herbs reached his nostrils. A healer’d had hold of him? Various cloth bandages littered his torso. Other than that, he was naked.