Southwick glared at Alasdair. “Pray pardon.”

As if those two insincere words could undo all the damage he had wrecked on her life. And continued to wreck.

“I’m merely trying to get her to see reason,” Southwick continued in a milder tone, but malice still gleamed in his eyes. “If only her small mind can comprehend—”

“’Tis time you were leaving,” Alasdair said in his laird and commander voice. He stood over the two Englishmen and pointed toward the door.

“I will give you money,” Southwick said to Gwyneth.

“How dare you try to buy my son? You are the lowest—”

“Southwick, you are overstaying your welcome.” Alasdair’s voice held an Arctic chill. “Here in the Highlands we don’t take insult lightly.”

Southwick’s face turned crimson, but he remained silent and exited with his cohort.

“I will return.” Alasdair followed them out.

Her trembling legs no longer able to hold her up, she slumped onto a chair in the silent, empty room.

Dear heavens, what am I going to do?

What was Southwick scheming? She would be glad for Rory to be the next marquess of Southwick, but an illegitimate child could not inherit his natural father’s English title. Clearly he had something illegal and nefarious in mind. Either that or he’d turned lunatic.

In any case, she would not hand her son over to the abusive knave at such a young age. Rory was her son, and she would be the one to raise him. She would not want to jeopardize his future, but she couldn’t let him go now. She loved him more than her next breath and must always see that he was safe and happy. Education was not the issue. She was already seeing to that, and he was too young to be sent away to school.

Alasdair returned and slammed the heavy door. “What a vile whoreson he is. I told the guards to keep them off MacGrath land.”

“He’s come to finish destroying my life.” Gwyneth sprang to her feet. “I cannot believe after he’s cast us aside for six years, he now wants Rory when it’s convenient for him. Rory cannot legally inherit his title, can he?”

“Nay. Unless Southwick’s title is Scottish and you marry him.”

“His title is English and I would never marry him.”

“Or he might petition the king. How many people in London know for certain of Rory’s existence?”

“My family.” Suddenly too exhausted from the tension to stand, she dropped to the chair near the hearth. “Father didn’t want word of my disgrace getting out so he sent me away. Because he had three other unmarried daughters at the time, he didn’t want the family name sullied. Since Southwick and I both disappeared, I’m certain people surmised the worst.”

Alasdair nodded and took the chair opposite her.

“What if he doesn’t give up on trying to take Rory? Will the law be on his side?” Gwyneth asked, pressing a hand to her nauseated stomach.

“I don’t ken precisely how the English courts work in this situation, but it doesn’t sound like what he wants to do is legal anyway.”

The jaws of a trap sprang shut on Gwyneth. Her mind struggled for an escape. Men held all the power over women and children, no matter the situation. And even if Rory couldn’t legally inherit a title, Southwick could still take her son on a whim. “Dear lord, what am I going to do? He has a vicious temper when he’s angry. When I—” She pressed her lips closed, shame devouring her composure.

“Go on.”

“When I told him I was with child, he slapped me and I fell.”

Alasdair’s face tightened and the warrior in him emerged. “Why did you not tell me this afore? I would’ve bashed in his head on first sight!”

“You cannot do that.” Although she appreciated his protectiveness, she would not have him assaulting people on her behalf. “I also heard he beats his servants and may have killed one, though no one could prove it. I cannot allow him to take my son.”

“God’s wounds!” Alasdair shoved to his feet and paced to his desk and back. “’Haps if you would marry me and become a countess, you would hold more power in the event Southwick tries to take Rory.”

***

Marry Alasdair? Good lord!

Was that the only alternative?

It had been hours since Alasdair had sprung his latest “proposal,” but Gwyneth could think of nothing else—save the nightmarish Southwick situation.

She stood beside Rory in the shadows and gazed out over the bustling activity in the great hall she’d helped decorate with herb and flower garlands. Their sweet, pungent scents blending with all manner of meat, onion, and bread aromas now sickened her.

Alasdair had forbidden her to return to the kitchen or to help with the final preparations of the feast. Her fidgety hands craved something to do. But she was glad for the time to spend with Rory, simply to watch him play with his small friend. Just to make sure he was safe and still here with her.

She would have no life without her son and could never let him go.

But to marry Alasdair in the hopes his position would hold some sway with English courts didn’t seem the answer. Nor would it be fair to him.

She didn’t know how much influence Alasdair had with King James, but everyone knew the king, though Scottish, held no fondness for these wild and rebellious Highlanders. In all likelihood, if she did marry a Highland laird, the king and courts would have even less sympathy for her plight. Since Southwick was English, they would want Rory raised on English soil.

Gwyneth’s gaze shifted to Alasdair, striding across the great hall, clothed in his finest apparel—a newly woven kilt of blue and black tartan, crisp ivory linen shirt and deep blue doublet.

He approached her through the throng of people that milled about between the two long rows of tables weighted down with food.

Please do not let him propose again.

Alasdair stopped before her and Rory. “M’lady.” He bowed, then stroked an affectionate hand over Rory’s head, but his focus remained on Gwyneth. “Would you do me the honor of sitting with me at high table?”

His clean scent with a trace of lavender reached her, teasing her senses. The dampness of his hair told her he had bathed recently. His eyes were dark seduction, even now. She was tempted to say yes to anything he asked.

“I thank you, but I cannot.” Her gaze dropped to her son and the look of wide-eyed hero-worship he cast up at Alasdair. Why couldn’t Alasdair have been Rory’s natural father, instead of Southwick?

Alasdair let out an impatient breath. “You are a noble guest just as the laird and lady of Clan Grant are.”

“No, Laird MacGrath, I am but your temporary housekeeper. I would not care to explain to them why I am given the honor of sitting at the laird’s table.”

“You’re an English lady, daughter of an earl. That’s the only explanation you need. Besides, ’tis not their concern. I am but providing you and your son protection.”

“I’m sorry.” His guests were sure to assume the worst—and the truth—that she and Alasdair had been lovers. She couldn’t bear any more looks or words of censure this day. Southwick’s visit had been more than sufficient to destroy her composure. Aside from that, she would make a silent dinner companion.

“Very well. I proclaim you are no longer my housekeeper. You’re an honored guest, and you are not to lift another finger to help.”

Was he serious or teasing her? At times his mysterious eyes were impossible to read.

“Then I will be forced to leave.”

“Humph. You are the most vexing woman I have ever dealt with.” His grumpy proclamation was laced with humor.

She noticed a few guests nearby staring their way and grinning.

“I’m sorry not to be more agreeable, my laird,” she said in a low tone.

“As well you should be.”

Why in heaven’s name was he talking so loud? She focused on Rory’s fine hair, wishing to escape this conversation. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself or more specifically, to Alasdair’s interest in her.