She reveled in a moment of reckless abandon such as she never allowed herself. And if she truly were dying, there could be no better way to go.

But she didn’t die. She’d never felt more alive. Joy bubbled up inside her, and she laughed. The pleasure flowed away from her in little waves. Alasdair chose that moment to growl, drive himself to the hilt and pour into her. From his fierce expression, he seemed in pain. But she knew he was experiencing the same rapture she had. She had only thought men did that. She had not known a woman could find her release, or enjoy this act so thoroughly.

Just as he withdrew, someone pounded at the door of the bedchamber, shattering the sensual spell woven around them.

“Oh, no.” Gwyneth struggled from beneath Alasdair. She yanked down her skirts, stood and adjusted her clothing. “No one must find me here.”

Not yet recovered from his climax, Alasdair glared at the door and muttered Gaelic words amid harsh breaths. “Don’t fash yourself, lass,” he whispered, then yelled “Fuirich mionaid!” at the person on the other side of the door. Breath calming, he lazily stood, pulled his shirt on over his head and moved toward the door.

She scurried behind it. “Do not let them in.”

He shook his head and opened the door a crack to peer out. “Aye?”

“Is everything all right?” a man outside the door asked.

“Aye. I was but changing my shirt.”

Alasdair closed the door and approached her. He stroked his fingers beneath her chin and pressed a sweet kiss to her lips. “Gwyneth,” he said as if the word itself were sacred. “You’re a treasure more fine than ever I touched.”

Vulnerability rolled through her and threatened to fill her eyes with tears. She had made her own choice, and she was glad.

I refuse to regret it.

“Are you well?” His dark brows furrowed with concern.

She nodded.

“Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. What he’d made her feel was far from pain, but now…

His worried gaze lingering on her, he stepped away and stuffed his shirttail beneath his kilt and fastened the top portion with his brooch.

She faced the door and waited for him to finish. Upon my faith, what have I done? Any woman who followed her body’s urges was full of folly, was she not?

Alasdair moved in front of her, tipped her chin up and studied her. “I’ll tell no one. ’Tis our secret, aye?”

She nodded and said nothing, though inside she was screaming, I should not have.

He pressed a quick, firm kiss to her lips, then stepped back. “I’ll check the corridor and if no one is about, you can slip away to your bedchamber.”

He peered out, then motioned to her. She slunk along to her room, feeling like the lowest of thieves.

***

That afternoon, the sun beamed down brightly as Alasdair oversaw the thatching of the last roofs of the villagers’ cottages. He stood aside, away from the crowd, watching his strong clansmen on the roofs, working hard, but laughing and joking as was their habit.

But neither thatch nor jokes could hold Alasdair’s attention. His mind drifted back to three hours earlier, in his bedchamber.

Gwyneth.

How lush and lovely she was. Eager and sensual.

Saints! He hadn’t expected to bed her today. Or ever, in truth. He’d thought her resistance would prove unmovable. Not so. ’Twas a flood of the best luck he’d ever had.

His erection swelled, tingling for her again, and he was glad for his sporran, preventing his plaid rising in front. She was an astounding woman. So sweet and passionate. The way she’d wanted him so badly compounded his own desire. He had always loved bringing a woman to the height of ecstasy. That Gwyneth had responded and experienced it so quickly had taken away the last vestiges of his control and he’d gone hurtling over the edge of delirious pleasure.

Though he could never give his heart to another woman the way he had to Leitha, maybe taking another wife would not be such a bad idea, as Lachlan had suggested. Perhaps Alasdair should propose a hand-fasting to Gwyneth. He needed an heir after all, and Gwyneth was obviously fertile, given that she had Rory.

Planting his seed within her would be no duty, but boundless pleasure. Och! He would relish bedding her every night, and sometimes during the day, to make sure she was pregnant. Imagining her carrying his child within her stirred up all sorts of primal urges and he craved her again. Now.

***

Heaven help me, what have I done?

Gwyneth paced from the window to the cold hearth in her room. She had fallen for a man’s charming seduction yet again. She felt seventeen, just as vulnerable and stricken with panic.

What if someone finds out? What if I’m with child?

Only this time she had no naïve, romantic illusions. She knew there would be no offer for her hand, and she didn’t want one. She rather looked at it like England’s former queen, Elizabeth—Gwyneth would never again subject herself to the whims of a man.

Likely Alasdair would turn his back on her now and treat her like so much gutter rubbish. It was the way of men. Once they had their physical release and their curiosity satisfied, they were off to more interesting, prettier women.

She had not even been able to keep her despicable husband’s attention—which she was heartily glad of. After three times, Baigh Shaw had shunned her and searched out his favorite village whores. She imagined they’d shown far more enthusiasm toward him in bed than she had.

But with Alasdair, she was afraid her enthusiasm had been abundantly clear. How she had wanted him! She could’ve eaten him up like a honey-drenched comfit. Hellish heat burned her cheeks at the memory of her wanton abandon. She’d been possessed of a wicked pleasurable release for several moments. Oh, the noises she’d made. He would think her the most lurid of whores.

Yet, she couldn’t forget the way he’d looked into her eyes as he drove into her over and over, giving her ecstasy so profound she must have imagined it. Unearthly. Magical.

He’d been fully present with her, fully aware it was she whom he was bonding his body with. His attention to her own pleasure demolished all her feeble expectations. He was a man who knew how to make love to a woman. A man who knew how to make said woman daydream about him all day, wondering when she might let herself be seduced again.

I’m a harlot. Not in name only this time, but in truth.

She strode quickly to the village kirk and prayed earnestly for forgiveness, her tear-stained cheeks burning with mortification. Though when she returned to the castle an hour later and saw Alasdair crossing the barmkin with a stranger dressed in the English style, she knew she truly wasn’t sorry for her sin. The temptation of Alasdair gripped her anew and refused to let her go. Her body heated and she craved him.

I’ve gone mad.

Surely she had. What other explanation could there be for repeating the same behavior that had destroyed her life six years ago?

What devastating effects would it have on her life this time? If she already carried Alasdair MacGrath’s babe within her, what would he do? Shun her? Take his child from her and send her away? Would looking at her disgust him? He wouldn’t marry her—that much she knew. He was an earl after all, a peer, though not as stuffy as those who lived in London. A nobleman didn’t take a fallen woman to wife.

Do not even think of it. He will turn his back on you. He will have no respect for you. You are a weak, sinful woman.

***

“My good man, your cook is improving.” Edward Murray, earl of Hennessy, sat to Alasdair’s right during the evening meal. The squat man, a Lowlander who fancied himself English, had attended university with Alasdair in Edinburgh. Edward had holdings in the Highlands and was passing through on his yearly inspection of them.