“I do not think so, Laird MacGrath. I’m not much for that sort of thing.”

“Well, you should be.” He turned his head sideways and gazed down at her. “There is a time to mourn and a time to celebrate. We should throw ourselves wholly into each when the time comes. ’Tis a part of living. If we don’t enjoy life when given the chance, then the chance may never come again.”

His words sounded sage enough. She longed to live her life fully and enjoy it. But she didn’t know how. Her circumstance for the past few years had been too uncertain.

In the next instant, Alasdair stepped in close behind her, and her awareness of him shot upward like a flaming arrow. His breath warmed her ear, and he brushed his lips across her temple. “Don’t be afraid of living, Gwyneth.”

Chills shimmered through her body. The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered on the table beside the bread.

Oh, good lord. Don’t do this to me, Alasdair. Don’t turn my body into a traitor.

He pulled back a few inches, slid something behind her ear and stroked a finger down the sensitive skin of her neck.

“What is…?” Her words trailed off on a breath. She inhaled the scent of wild roses even as she removed the smooth stem from behind her ear. A simple white rose with only a few petals and yellow stamens in the center. Emotion caught in her throat. Alasdair. She closed her eyes and pressed her nose to the flower, letting its lavish scent and his sweetness wash over her.

“I thank you,” she whispered, not daring to let him see the moisture in her eyes.

He stepped back. “Och! Rory, what are you doing down there?”

Her son peered up at them from beneath the tablecloth. His hair stuck out in all directions, and his curious, wide-eyed gaze darted back and forth between them.

Alasdair chuckled. “You have the look of a wee hedgehog about you, lad.”

Rory grinned and crawled out. “I saw a badger yesterday.”

“Did you now? What did he look like?” Alasdair winked at her before they strolled away, Rory talking as fast as his tongue would move.

Gwyneth exhaled, releasing the tension and savoring the affection he conjured in her. After sniffing the rose once more, she slipped it into her pocket. She would not have anyone wondering what she was doing with a rose behind her ear, or what secret person might have given it to her. Feeling overheated of a sudden, she wished for a hand fan.

Straightening her spine, she picked up the knife and continued slicing the bread, though her hands were less steady than before.

I cannot allow him to weaken me with a rose…with his teasing touches and hot breath, whispering in my ear. I must remain strong at all costs.

Nothing but trouble would follow if she did lose her head. And though he was kind, he was a man like all others, interested in bedding whoever was willing and available…and caught his fancy. It was simply the way of men to pursue their baser sensual instincts.

Well, she was neither willing nor available.

Truly, I am not! I will not think of him anymore.

***

“My lord, a messenger from Scotland is here to see you.”

Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick glanced up at his footman who bowed then straightened. Messenger from Scotland? Could it be that the MacIrwin barbarian was finally heeding his request?

“Show him into the library and wait with him. We don’t want him to stuff his pockets with trinkets, now do we?”

“No, my lord. As you wish.” He bowed again and retreated.

Southwick smiled. He’d written months ago to that damned MacIrwin, inquiring about his son. Finally, a response. He’d never met his son, nor did he know his name, but he would soon. This was the only son he’d ever have, so he had no choice but to find him. All he had to do now was figure out how to make him legitimate. But first he had to gain custody of him from his whore of a mother. That should prove easy enough given he was a marquess with powerful connections, and Gwyneth was…nothing.

Taking his time, Southwick stood and straightened his green brocade doublet and his white ruffled cuffs. He proceeded down the wide, ornate stairway to the library, where a footman opened the door for him. He entered to find another footman and a shabbily dressed messenger in a belted plaid. A barbaric Scots peasant, to be sure.

“M’laird.” He bowed at least.

Southwick cringed at his accent. There was nothing that grated on his nerves more.

“Are you Laird Southwick?” the messenger asked.

“Indeed, I am Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick. And who might you be?”

“Robertson, sir. Chief MacIrwin sent me to bring you this.” He extended his hand and in it was a dirty, bent and folded missive.

Thankful he was wearing gloves, Southwick took the paper, broke the red wax seal and flung the paper open. Perching his spectacles upon his nose, he tilted the paper to the light from the tall, heavily-draped window and read. Well, he tried to read. The handwriting was near illegible. Something about his son. MacIrwin had him and if he wanted him, he must send two hundred pounds.

“Outrageous! Two hundred pounds is an outrageous sum! He is my son. Why should I have to pay for him?” he shouted at the messenger, who stepped back wide-eyed and bowed slightly.

A hostage. MacIrwin was using his son as a hostage, and this was the ransom. Bastard! Southwick squinted down at the paper again, trying to decipher more of its words. Whoever wrote it didn’t use standard spellings, and it looked more like a sheep had written it. Damned Scots couldn’t speak or write in a coherent manner. He crumpled the paper. Where in blazes would he get two hundred pounds silver? Certainly he was wealthy, but he didn’t keep that much silver and gold lying around. He’d borrow funds from his friends, and ask a few of them to accompany him. He’d need plenty of guards.

“You are to take me to MacIrwin, and I do mean with great haste,” Southwick said.

The messenger’s eyes near bugged out of his head.

“You didn’t think I was just going to hand you two hundred pounds, did you?”

“Eh…nay, my laird.”

“Good. We leave at first light.” It would take him all day, at least, to gather all the funds. MacIrwin was a thief and an outlaw!

***

Two days after he’d talked to Gwyneth in the alehouse and given her the rose, Alasdair slipped into Leitha’s flower garden, hoping Gwyneth would show up again so he might talk to her in private about nothing in particular until gloaming settled over the land. Or perhaps steal a kiss. The scent of sun-warmed roses brought their first kiss to the forefront of his mind, and he indulged in a bit of daydreaming. At a noise behind him, he glanced around, expecting to see Gwyneth, but found Rory gazing up at him with a trusting look of adoration.

Och. The lad needed a father, and Alasdair did not feel worthy or capable of filling such a lofty role. But at times like this, he wanted to try.

“A good eve to you, Rory.”

“Will you teach me to fight with a sword?” The boy rushed forward, a small wooden sword in his hand and anticipation brightening his eyes.

How was he supposed to refuse such an eager request? The latest attack must have spurred the lad’s protective instincts. And he truly did need to learn some weaponry skills, for he’d be a man one day. And he’d need to defend himself.

“Very well. I’ll demonstrate a move or two.” Alasdair removed his own basket-hilted broadsword from his scabbard, held it aloft and waited.

The lad mimicked his stance.

“See, Rory, hold the hilt of your sword just this way.” Alasdair showed him the correct grip. “Try it.”

“Like this?” Rory adjusted his grip on the rough mock weapon that one of the older clansmen had carved for him. The hilt was actually too big for his small hand.

“Aye, very good. Now, if one of the enemy clan comes at you directly in front, thrusting straight toward your chest, deflect the blow this way.” Alasdair showed him the simple defense tactic.