“I’m glad to hear it.” In truth, Alasdair was so distracted he could hardly hold a coherent conversation, or taste the delicious beef roast Cook had prepared. His encounter earlier in the day with Gwyneth was still impressed like a searing brand on his memory.

The moment she entered the great hall, he knew it, and his eyes followed her with a will of their own. How lovely she was, enigmatic. Innocent-looking, yet with a depth of passion he could hardly fathom. Small and soft and affectionate but with an inner strength of steel.

He yearned for her by his side, now and always, to take her meals with him so that he might enjoy looking into her eyes and talking about nothing in particular. He wanted her close enough that he might touch her anytime he wished. He would make her smile and laugh as she had during their lovemaking. She needed happiness and he would do everything in his power to provide it.

“I say, is that Lady Gwyneth Carswell?” Edward watched her with bulging eyes, his jaw slack. “What is she doing here?”

Alasdair experienced a moment of silent shock. Edward knew who she was? “She is in my employ. Why? What do you ken of her?” He hated the way Edward gaped at her.

The man covered his mouth with a napkin and coughed as if the astonishment of seeing her had near strangled him. He took a long swig of ale.

“I know her family well.”

Alasdair sensed he was about to learn more about Gwyneth than he’d ever expected to. “Is that so?”

“Indeed.” Edward lifted thin brown brows. “I wonder, did she ever marry?”

“Aye, to Baigh Shaw.” The fiendish whoreson.

Edward’s pale eyes rounded. “So she found someone to marry after all. Shocking.”

Alasdair frowned. “Why would it be shocking that she marry?”

“You don’t know?”

“Mayhap you should enlighten me.” Alasdair ground his teeth, his mood growing darker.

Edward leaned forward and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Well, you see, a few years ago at a masque in London, she placed herself in a most compromising position with a higher up peer, the marquess of Southwick to be precise. He escaped to the continent, and she was left carrying his bastard.” Edward cringed melodramatically.

Numbness settled over Alasdair. It was much better not to think or feel.

“A tragedy really,” Edward went on. “Her father disowned her and sent her, I believe, to live with relatives here in the Highlands. But that would not be you, would it? I had no idea you were related to the earl of Darrow.”

Alasdair barely shook his head, unable to comprehend what all of this meant. Rory was not Baigh Shaw’s son, but some English marquess’s? Of that he was glad, strangely. Why had she not told him? And Gwyneth was the daughter of an earl? He had been right about her noble upbringing, but he hadn’t imagined the rest of it. No-nonsense, uptight Gwyneth, who blushed at a mere glance or a smile…ah, but she was indeed a sensual woman, and tempting to any man. Perhaps a rogue much like himself had seduced her. He couldn’t imagine her as the butt of such a widely known scandal. How painful that must have been for her.

“Alasdair, are you quite well?” Edward glanced over his shoulder. “Do not tell me a specter has passed behind my chair.” He laughed.

Alasdair’s mind worked overtime, trying to put together all the missing links. “I am providing her protection from her cousin, the MacIrwin. He’s trying to kill her because she saved my life. I was wounded in battle on MacIrwin land. She is a healer and came to my rescue.”

“My lord, man. Damned astonishing! Are you fully recovered?”

“Aye. I owe her my life, so I will provide her and her son protection as long as needs be.”

“Her son, yes. Is that him there?” Edward pointed toward the table in the far corner where servants and children sat on benches. Gwyneth placed a bowl of food before Rory.

“Aye. He’s a fine lad, sharp and canny. He’ll be good with a sword one day.”

“’Tis indeed fortunate for her that scandal doesn’t carry this far north.”

“I don’t care what kind of scandal is attached to her name. She is a good woman who saved my life.” Annoyance simmered in his blood.

Edward seemed impervious to his brusque tone. “And you are a good man, Alasdair. A noble man. Would that there were more like you in Scotland. And England.”

Alasdair didn’t know if Edward was being sincere, nevertheless he had to treat him as an honored guest. “How long will you be staying with us, then, Edward?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to stay tonight and be on my way in the morn.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, of course, beyond Midsummer’s Day if you wish it.”

“Highland hospitality is always impressive, especially yours, Alasdair. But I have business in London, and I must hie back as soon as I can. You must come to visit sometime. I daresay you would enjoy London.”

“No offense, but ’tis doubtful.” Alasdair forced a dry smile. There was naught he hated more than the stench and crowds of big cities. The fresh, crisp Highland air and beautiful scenery were what he loved.

Edward laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I know—you prefer the rustic life up here in the middle of nowhere.”

“God’s country,” Alasdair corrected.

“True, true! But you must remember, our own king is of Scottish birth, and he much prefers London.”

“Our own king lacks a certain fondness for Highlanders. He would have our Gaelic tongues ripped from our mouths if he had his way.”

“Indeed, but that, my friend, will never happen. Highlanders are far too stubborn to give up something so important as their language. Hell, they will not even give up a dram of whisky.”

“Och, there you’re wrong!” Alasdair grinned. “I’ll give you a hundred drams if that’s what you’re wanting.”

“I could accept one or two.” He nodded eagerly.

Alasdair took Edward to the library, filled him with whisky and pumped him for more information on Gwyneth’s family and the scandal.

“Gwyneth’s father, I tell you, he is the staunchest Protestant you shall ever care to meet.” Edward slumped back on the couch and gulped the whisky as if it were water and his tongue near parched. “He won’t go near anyone who’s been touched by scandal. And he gives the king himself a wide berth. Doesn’t care for his friends and favorites.”

“I don’t care if I ever see London again,” Alasdair said. “One visit ten years ago was enough for me.”

“One visit?” Edward cackled, obviously well on his way to cup-shotten. “You are even worse off than I thought.”

“Tell me more of Southwick,” Alasdair said, ignoring his friend’s ribbing.

“Maxwell Huntley,” Edward pronounced in a haughty tone. “Sixth marquess of Southwick, mind you. As pompous as a prince. Got most of his money from the duke of Watley’s daughter, whom he married shortly after the scandal. She died several months ago. I assume he is sniffing out another heiress to refill his coffers and provide him an heir.”

“Sounds like a right whoreson bastard.”

Edward burst out laughing. “Indeed! Indeed, my good man!”

So what had Gwyneth seen in Southwick? Had she been in love with him? Or was she a light-skirt and he particularly persuasive. He hated thinking of her with a horse’s arse like Southwick. This was almost as bad as imagining her with the murdering Shaw.

He would get to the bottom of her lies and deceptions soon enough. And he would not suffer her to hold anything back from him.

***

The next evening after dark, Alasdair paced before the cold fireplace in his bedchamber. Only a tallow candle on the mantel lit the room to a dim gloom. Before Edward’s revelation, Alasdair had near decided to ask Gwyneth to marry him, or at least hand-fast. No doubt of it, he’d compromised her, and a bairn might be the result. He would protect her and provide for her, and Rory as well. He didn’t truly want to get himself into the position again of having a wife he could come to love and then lose. But, unthinking, he had followed his own instinctive urges. Urges he could not resist when she’d shown she wanted him as much as he’d wanted her. Their attraction was irresistible and spellbinding.