Disheartened, she slumped onto the chair. Months would pass before she’d receive a response from Margaret, if at all. If she did carry Alasdair’s child, he’d find out by then. Perhaps Lachlan would return with good news sooner.

But what would she do in the meantime?

***

The next evening, Gwyneth dragged herself up the stone steps leading to her bedchamber. With all the preparations for the upcoming Midsummer celebration, and guests arriving, she had not seen Alasdair all day. She and the women had gathered herbs and flowers, created colorful, scented garlands to decorate the great hall, and cooked special dishes in the kitchen.

Along the dimly lit corridor, she passed the open doorway to Alasdair’s chamber. He was likely in the library talking and drinking sack with the loyal neighboring clan chieftains who had arrived that day.

“M’lady.”

She jerked back and glared at the darkness of the doorway.

The lone sconce further down the corridor provided little illumination. Alasdair stuck his head out, glanced about, then locked his gaze on her. “I’ve something I’m wanting to give you.”

Surely he did not mean a kiss. She felt giddy and flushed of a sudden.

Stepping into the hallway, he presented her with a parcel wrapped in a deep burgundy silk handkerchief and tied with a ribbon. The richness of the wrappings surprised her. “No, I cannot accept—”

“You don’t yet ken what it is. Open it.”

She couldn’t decipher his expression, but he seemed hopeful, his anger from the night before not in evidence.

Gwyneth glanced behind herself to make sure no one watched, then tugged gently at the bow. She parted the silk and found a tortoiseshell comb within the folds. “Goodness, I cannot possibly take such an expensive—”

“Aye, you can. I didn’t buy it. It used to be my mother’s, and now ’tis yours. You need it…for your hair.”

His mother’s? That made it an even more extravagant and sentimental gift than if he’d bought it new. How could he part with such an item?

The fact that he didn’t ply her with false and flattering compliments shattered her defenses. Last night burst into her consciousness—he had combed her hair with his fingers.

No one had given her a gift such as this in many years. His thoughtfulness overwhelmed her to the point of near tears. “I thank you, my laird.”

“You’re most welcome. And I pray you will pardon my harshness of last night. Can you forgive me, m’lady?”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Of course.”

“I’m glad.”

Though his gift meant more than she could express, she knew it was a courtship gift, just like the rose he’d tucked behind her ear…and which she’d pressed into a book so she might keep it forever.

Obviously, he had hatched up a new plan to draw her under his power and trap her and Rory in the Highlands. Fool that she was, she was sore tempted.

Wishing to escape before Alasdair could cast his spell upon her and seduce her yet again, she curtseyed. “I thank you and I bid you good evening, sir.” She hastened to her room.

Once inside, she closed the door and glanced toward the bed where Rory slept. Cradling Alasdair’s gift in her hands, she seated herself before the small fire in the hearth and examined the brown tortoiseshell comb more closely in the light.

How she wished things could be different, wished Alasdair was not a Highland laird and enemy of Donald MacIrwin. Wished clan warfare did not rule the Highlands.

***

“We have a visitor,” one of the maids announced, entering the busy kitchen the next day just after midday meal. “Some fancy Sassenach lord. He and his men will be needing trenchers.”

Turning from her task of kneading bread dough, Gwyneth dabbed a sleeve to her sweaty forehead. The heat of the ovens and huge arched fireplace was getting to her. She wondered whether Edward Murray had returned so quickly, perhaps for the Midsummer’s Day feast. No, probably another of Alasdair’s old schoolmates.

A second servant trotted down the steps and into the kitchen. “The Sassenach’s asking for Lady Gwyneth Carswell, he is,” she said in a dramatic whisper, and her round eyes lit on Gwyneth.

“Faith! Me?”

The maid placed her hands on her round hips. “Well now, you’re the only Gwyneth Carswell what lives here.”

Dread rose up within her. “What is his name?”

The other woman shrugged. “Something Southwick.”

Gwyneth’s breathing ceased. “The marquess of Southwick? Maxwell Huntley?”

“Aye, I believe ’twas.” The servant bustled to the other side of the kitchen.

Rory’s father. “Oh, dear heavens!” What could he possibly want? A thousand questions streamed through her mind.

Where was Rory? She ran to the back doorway and found him playing in the kitchen garden with other children.

Alasdair stalked into the kitchen. “Someone, please bring Lord Southwick some food and wine. I won’t have him spreading rumors that we lack manners or hospitality here in the Highlands.” He turned his fierce midnight gaze to Gwyneth and lowered his voice to a murmur. “Why are you doing this kind of physical labor?”

“What? I’m making bread…the festival.”

“I would have a word with you in here.” Frowning, he motioned toward one of the pantries.

She blinked. Her world had just somersaulted and nothing made sense. “In there?”

“Aye.”

She preceded him into the small windowless room, and he closed the door. She found it hard to breathe with the dust of flour and scents of spices thickening the air, not to mention the near pitch blackness.

She wiped her sticky hands on her skirts. “What is Southwick doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

“Did he not say?”

“Nay. Only that he wishes to speak with you.”

“Oh, heavens! I never thought to see him again. I’m not sure I can face him.” She concentrated on evening out her breathing and calming herself.

I have survived six years in the harsh Highlands. I can face one whey-faced English lord. He’s a coward who ran from responsibility. Not worthy to be called a man.

“What if—saints!” Alasdair muttered.

“What?”

He yanked her to him and took her mouth in a hard-driving kiss—one that plunged down to her very soul. As if to say to her, you’re mine, and don’t be forgetting it.

Just as abruptly, he drew back. Gwyneth swayed, trying to regain her equilibrium within the maelstrom of emotions.

Alasdair steadied her. “Beware the fancy Sassenach. He has the look of a poisonous viper about him.”

She grasped his sleeve. “Would you come with me?”

“To talk to him?”

“Yes.”

He took her hand and kissed the back. “Aye, I would be honored.” He opened the door, allowing light to flow in. “You might don some of the clothing from the trunk.”

She glanced down at her bodice and skirts. What a sight she was with flour and dough covering her faded and near threadbare dress. What did she care? She had no more pride. Southwick had striped it from her six years ago, just as he had taken everything else.

“’Twill increase your courage,” Alasdair said.

She nodded, taking in his beloved visage and his caring dark eyes. The reverent way he looked at her gave her far more courage than any clothing could. “I thank you.”

He gave a short bow.

Though Alasdair wanted nothing more than to spend the afternoon kissing Gwyneth in the pantry, he knew he must deal with Southwick in an appropriate fashion and find out what the devil he wanted. Alasdair would not have allowed Gwyneth to visit with the snake alone, but he was glad she’d asked him to accompany her.

He watched Gwyneth scurry up the back stairs before he returned to the great hall.

With a stiff posture, Southwick sat at high table with two of his men. The skinny, weak-looking Sassenach picked at his mutton stew with formal preciseness.