Why had Gwyneth not told him about Rory’s natural father? Was it because she was ashamed of the scandal, or did she not trust Alasdair?

Something else still nagged him in the back of his mind. Her situation with Shaw matched up too conveniently with Alasdair’s father’s murder. What was it? He had a gut feeling something wasn’t right. He must ask her.

He strode out of his chamber and down the corridor toward the room Gwyneth used. He pounded a fist against the door.

After a moment, Tessie opened the door, and her eyes near popped out of her head. “Laird MacGrath!”

“Aye.” He spotted Gwyneth in a wooden bathtub set before the fireplace. “Leave us.” He strode forward, inhaling a whiff of the floral and herb scented steam that arose from her bath.

Gwyneth gasped and started to sit up, but then grabbed her smock and spread it over the water to further shield herself. He didn’t know why. He’d been deep inside her yesterday morn. And he wanted that again. Now. Arousal flooded him, heating his blood.

He glanced back and found Tessie fidgeting in the doorway.

“Tell no one I’m here.”

“Aye, m’laird.” At his stern glare, she scurried out and closed the door with a click.

After locking the door, he dropped the key into his sporran and turned his attention back to Gwyneth. He would not have her leaving before he had his answers.

“Won’t you at least allow me to dry off and dress properly?” She sat, red-faced and huddling beneath the smock.

“No need. I but want a minute of your time.”

Her ice-blue eyes glittered. Good, he liked getting her passions worked up.

Moving closer, he placed his hands upon his hips. “Why did you lead me to believe Baigh Shaw was Rory’s father?”

Her mouth dropped open. “What? How did you—?” Her eyes narrowed. “That Englishman who left this morn, earl of…something.”

“Aye, Hennessy. Edward Murray. He’s a Lowlander.”

“Well, I assume he told you everything, so there’s nothing left for me to say,” she stated in her haughty Sassenach accent. “I shall leave in the morn.”

“What are you blathering on about? You’ll be staying right here.” The mere thought of her departing twisted his gut.

“I will be an embarrassment to your clan.”

“No one knows, save me. And even if they did, what of it? The Highlands are full of bastards. So is England. Some even accused your former queen of illegitimacy, aye?”

Gwyneth’s face reddened. “At least Rory has a name besides mine own,” she said softly.

“Your name would be preferred to Baigh Shaw’s,” Alasdair growled.

“You are a man. You cannot understand what it is like for a woman in my situation.”

“Nay, but I’m not daft. Why Baigh Shaw?” Why not anyone but that outlaw whoreson?

Gwyneth stared down into the water. “He was the only man willing to give my son a name. I didn’t marry him until Rory was three months old.”

“And exactly how old is Rory now?”

“He will be six next month.”

Alasdair did the calculations in his head. If Rory had been born in July, and he was three months old when Gwyneth married Shaw, that would’ve made it October. Shaw had murdered Alasdair’s father that same month.

Shaw was naught but a commoner and an assassin. And he would not have been worthy enough for Gwyneth to wipe her slippers on before she was expelled from her family and social position for her indiscretion. Gwyneth was a beautiful woman. Shaw likely lusted over her and, of course, had no concern for any scandal in faraway London. To marry so far above his station would’ve been an added reward.

“Tell me,” Alasdair began, “how did your marriage to Shaw come about?”

“What do you mean?”

“You needed a name for your son. And what did Shaw need?”

She pressed her eyes closed and clenched her jaw. “What do you think? Someone to…warm his bed, of course.”

The image revolted Alasdair. He couldn’t fathom this woman, whom he craved and dreamed about, in bed with the man he’d hated most in the world. Unable to look at her another moment, he turned away and gripped the back of the chair by the bed. The hard oak wood bit into his palm. He felt as he did when ambushed—he wanted to destroy something.

He pulled in a deep, cooling breath. “And Donald, was he involved in the marriage arrangements?”

“Of course. I was his ruined cousin, and he wanted to get me married off. He didn’t care whom I married. The fact that his friend and most loyal follower wanted me pleased him.”

Alasdair forced himself to look at her again.

Her wide blue eyes were deceptively innocent, her lush lips alluring. Her bare shoulders above the water, and the knowledge she was naked beneath, aroused him fully. He imagined the rosy tips of her breasts, yearned to see them peeking from the water. The urge to yank her from the bath and drape her wet body over his near overpowered him. He hoped she couldn’t see how he trembled from the waning rage and the burgeoning desire. His reaction shamed and alarmed him. No woman took his control. None! He’d come here for answers to his questions, and he would have them.

“Precisely when did the marriage take place?” he asked with considerably more calm than he felt.

“October in the year of our Lord 1612.”

“What day?”

She frowned. “The twenty-fifth. Why?”

God’s bones. This was no coincidence. A cold frisson spiraled down his spine. “A week after my father’s murder. Do you not think it strange that the two events happened so close together?”

“Yes, I do.” She stared down into the bath for a moment, then lifted her open—dare he say trusting?—gaze to him. “You think I was Donald’s payment to Baigh for murdering your father, do you not?”

“Were you?” He managed not to growl the words…just barely.

“Possibly. I heard the two of them talking one night about some kind of bargain. Donald told Baigh he could marry me if he followed through with his end of it. They didn’t say what the task was, but they left the castle and returned two days later. A few days after that, Baigh and I were married. Nothing about the bargain was ever mentioned again.”

“I see.” It was true, then. Everything he’d suspected. Yet, what did it matter? Even if she was payment, Gwyneth was still innocent of any wrongdoing. Baigh was still the murderer… a dead murderer. There wasn’t enough evidence to implicate Donald, even if he did hire someone to kill his enemy and used a woman as payment.

Alasdair’s anger at Gwyneth drained away and left him feeling raw. She had done naught wrong—not to him or his father, only to herself.

“Rory doesn’t know Baigh isn’t his father, and I would appreciate it if no one tells him,” she said in a vulnerable tone.

“Your secret is safe with me. I ken your father is an earl, and that your correct title is indeed ‘lady’. Why do you not use it?”

She shook her head, sadness in her eyes. “’Twould be a mockery.”

His chest ached at the pain and humiliation she must have suffered, all because she’d trusted the wrong man. “Why did your father not force the scoundrel Southwick to marry you?”

Her blush reappeared, and she stared into the flames of the fireplace. “He fled to Spain or France. Besides, I had already told him of my condition, and he wasn’t willing to do the right thing. He wanted someone more beautiful, someone with a much larger dowry.”

Alasdair couldn’t understand a man like that. He’d never seen a woman more beautiful and appealing than Gwyneth. How could a man abandon her when she carried his child? “’Twas utter lunacy,” he muttered. But he was glad for it now. Else the tempting fairy wouldn’t be sitting in his castle, in her bath before him.

Naked.

Time for talking was past.

Chapter Ten

Gwyneth didn’t care for Alasdair’s mood in the least. Pacing by the bath tub, he seemed to be barely suppressing his rage. But he had a right to it if Baigh had murdered his father.