“How are the food and wine?” Alasdair asked, forcing himself to be hospitable to the loathsome man. He’d finished his own meal with the rest of his Highland guests a half hour past.

Southwick glanced up with icy gray eyes. “They will suffice.” He smirked and pushed the trencher away. “I did not come here to dine. I am here to see Lady Gwyneth Carswell.”

Partly fueled by jealousy, Alasdair’s temper ignited like flame to straw, but he held himself in check. “And you will in due time. If you’re finished eating, we can wait for her in the library.”

Southwick and one of his cohorts rose and followed Alasdair to the smaller, book-lined room.

“Have a seat.” Alasdair motioned and the two men perched on a long bench.

He studied Southwick. The frail-looking man’s skin was bright pink, obviously from unaccustomed sun exposure, and he reeked of some sort of flowery, musky perfume.

What did he want to talk to Gwyneth about? The dolt couldn’t want to marry her now, six years after the fact. Too late, you bastard. Gwyneth is mine and I won’t be giving her up.

“Would either of you care for sherry, sack or whisky?”

“No, thank you,” Southwick answered with a sniff. “So, why did you take Lady Gwyneth hostage?”

Alasdair forced himself to remain rooted to the spot. “Where did you hear such a lie?”

Southwick let loose a soft snort and exchanged a look with his friend. “Do you deny it?”

“Aye. She came here of her own free will. Donald MacIrwin was trying to kill her.”

“How preposterous! He is her blood relative. He would not want to kill her. And what of her son? Is he here as well?”

Hellfire and damnation. It wasn’t Gwyneth he wanted, but Rory. She would be thunderstruck. A sick feeling twisted Alasdair’s gut. “And why would you be caring where he’s at?”

The marquess leveled a superior but menacing look at Alasdair. “He is my son, and I will see him now.”

“Nay. You will not!”

Southwick’s mouth firmed and his face mottled. “Dare you tell me no, you—”

“Cừm do theanga, a mheapain!” Alasdair stepped forward and barely suppressed the urge to fling his newly sharpened sgian dubh at the whoreson’s throat. “You filthy Sassenach. Don’t think to come into my home and order me about! As a marquess, you may be one step ahead of me, but you’re in the Highlands now. And we hold no fondness for the English.”

Southwick’s face paled, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you—” He cleared his throat. “Are you threatening me?”

“Nay.” Alasdair couldn’t help that his mouth formed a smirking grin. “Just stating the facts,” he said in his most civil tone, yet he was sure his glower told them something altogether different. He would protect Gwyneth and Rory with his life.

Southwick clenched his hands together and glanced about. “I will be sure King James hears of this.”

“’Haps I will scribe a missive and tell him myself.” Keeping the two knaves in his peripheral vision, Alasdair poured himself a dram of sherry and sprawled in the chair behind his desk. Though he wanted nothing more than to slice Southwick limb from limb with his claymore, he held his temper in check and affected nonchalance.

Perhaps Southwick hadn’t heard tell of the Sassenach lordlings who’d been known to disappear without a trace in the Highlands.

***

With a little help from Tessie, Gwyneth put on an outfit from the trunk that held Alasdair’s wife’s clothing. Gwyneth’s thoughts flew and scattered in all directions. Her fingers trembled so badly she couldn’t manage to tie anything. She only noticed the clothing was green and gold and of fine material. It shouldn’t matter what she wore, but she didn’t want Southwick to know she was indeed penniless. It would put her at a disadvantage.

“Will you watch Rory?” Gwyneth asked Tessie.

“Aye, of course.”

Minutes later, her drumming pulse drowned out all other sounds when she knocked at the library door. Finally, Alasdair opened the door for her. She focused on his familiar form for a moment, tall and dark, clothed in a belted plaid. She hoped he would be her calm within the windstorm. And indeed his presence allowed her a small measure of comfort.

Two men, dressed in English hunting clothes, rose when she entered. Her gaze locked on the hateful visage of Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick. What struck her immediately was how much he had aged since she’d seen him last. Though his normally pale skin was bright pink, he appeared sickly, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. The malicious gleam in his frigid gray eyes caught her attention. How could she have ever imagined herself in love with this man? Had he changed so much, or had she?

“Lady Gwyneth, I am pleased to see you.” Southwick stepped forward, took her hand and kissed it.

Though she wore gloves, her skin chilled. Genteel manners deserting her, she snatched her hand away. His strong, familiar perfume—a blend of musk, rosewater and civet—mixed with his sweat odor, nauseating her. The last time she’d seen him, to tell him she was carrying his child, he had slapped her down and called her a lying whore.

“Lord Southwick,” she forced herself to say. “Are you well?”

“Indeed, I am.” He sent her a tight-lipped grin, then gave a deep bow. “And I pray that you are.”

Nodding, she studied his eyes and the deceit behind his facade.

“I’m glad you agreed to see me so that we might talk privately.” When no one moved, Southwick cut a brittle glare at Alasdair.

“Laird MacGrath stays,” she said.

“Ah.” Southwick lifted his thin blond brows as if reading something lurid into their association. “Well, if you insist, my lady.” Southwick’s gaze trailed down over her as if she were a woman of ill repute. He stroked his pointed, thinning goatee. “I’ve come to talk to you about my son.”

His son?

“I want to make you a deal,” Southwick continued. “You have taken care of him these last few years alone and with little funds. Now, I would propose to take him off your hands for the duration.”

Chapter Twelve

The walls of the library shrank in on Gwyneth. She could not comprehend the meaning of Southwick’s words. I would propose to take him off your hands for the duration.

He would take Rory away?

She felt as if someone had struck her chest with a hammer. Alasdair grabbed onto her before she realized she’d swayed.

She pulled away from him and steadied herself, called upon some reserve of strength deep within. “Have you gone mad?”

“Hardly.” Southwick lifted a brow. “He is my son, is he not?”

She shook her head, denying he had any right to call Rory his son. Denying Southwick could touch him. Denying….

“I am offering him his heritage. He will one day be the seventh marquess of Southwick and he requires a proper education.”

“But he is illegitimate. He cannot inherit—”

“That is but a formality.” His sharp tone gave her pause.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, desperate to make sense of it all. “Have you not married?”

“I did marry—the duke of Pembley’s daughter, but she died six months ago, barren.” His expression remained impassive.

“So marry someone else!”

“I think I’ve had enough of marriage. And since I already have a son, I don’t need to marry again. I don’t intend to take him away from you. You may visit him anytime you wish.”

Visit him. Visit? “No!”

“You cannot deny me my son.”

Desperate, Gwyneth grasped at the threads of control. “He is not your son. I visited with another man a few nights after our…meeting.”

“You lying whore!”

“Southwick, you forget yourself,” Alasdair growled and stepped forward. “You will show respect to Lady Gwyneth in my home or you can leave now. Because of your actions, she lost everything.”