His warm fingers underneath her chin, he tipped her face toward him, and a tiny grin formed on his lips. “I swear I shall have you eating at my table afore the year is out.”

He should not touch her thus, with such boldness and possession, before anyone who watched.

“And if you do not?” she asked.

His smile widened. His eyes took on that look he always had just before he coaxed her into something delicious yet shocking. “I’m said to be most stubborn and determined.”

***

“You lied, MacIrwin!” Southwick shouted, his reedy voice echoing off the rock walls of Irwin Castle’s great hall. “You do not have my son as you claimed in your missive. And MacGrath refuses to release him.”

His muscles tense and his hand on his sword hilt, Donald MacIrwin restrained his bloodlust and surveyed his clansmen. Each of them glared at the English whoreson but held their tongues. He must do the same if he wanted the two-hundred pounds.

“Dare you call me a liar, you stinking Sassanach?” And he did reek. His perfume was enough to knock a strong man flat.

Southwick extended his arms, indicating the great hall around them. “I do not see him here in your possession. And yet, you said in your missive that you held him. That you wished me to pay a monstrous and outrageous ransom for my own son.”

“That’s because the bitch Gwyneth took him and fled. When I get my hands on her I’ll…” kill her. But nay, he couldn’t say that now. First, he had to separate Southwick from his gold and silver.

“I don’t care what you do to Gwyneth. I want my son.” Southwick’s tone reminded Donald of a petulant, spoiled bairn.

“I have a proposition,” Donald offered. “I’ll retrieve the wee lad from MacGrath and you pay me the two hundred pounds.”

Southwick’s eyes narrowed as he considered. “I must have my son in hand first. Completely unharmed and healthy. Yes, you go get him, hand him over to me, and I’ll give you the money.”

Triumphant victory burst through Donald. He would have the money soon. “Very well.” Donald stepped forward and extended his hand. Southwick, wearing brown gloves, finally took his hand and shook. Och, what a weak handshake the Sassanach had. Donald and his men could easily overpower Southwick and his lordly friends, kill them, and take the money, but he did not wish to anger King James.

“Now, me and my men must go make plans for the lad’s rescue. Have supper while you wait,” Donald said.

If Gwyneth or any of the MacGraths got in his way, he would not be so careful of his actions.

***

During the Feill-Sheathain feast at Kintalon Castle, Gwyneth sat at a table toward the back with Tessie and some of the lower ranking clan members and children. She had nothing to celebrate and no appetite for the fine foods laid out before her—roast beef, mutton, lamb, fine yellow cheese, leeks, parsnips, cabbage, oat cakes—the list went on. Here sat more food than she’d seen during her entire stay in the Highlands, and Alasdair did not deprive even the lowest servant from partaking.

What if Southwick pursued custody of Rory? That was all she could think about, and nausea replaced her appetite.

“Is all well, then?” Tessie asked beside her.

Gwyneth nodded and forced herself to eat.

“What did the fancy Sassenach want?”

Those sitting closest to Gwyneth cast inquiring glances her way.

“Nothing of importance,” she said for all to hear, then lowered her voice for Tessie’s ears only. “I’ll tell you later.” She didn’t want anyone else to know her connection with Southwick, especially Rory.

After dark, music and dancing commenced around two large bonfires outside the barmkin walls on a hill overlooking the loch, the village and the fields. Gwyneth went only to watch Rory as he joined in, dancing and cavorting with the other children.

Smoke from the wood and peat fires burned her lungs when the wind shifted. She coughed and moved further away.

Small blazes, like torches, in the fields and pastures below caught her attention. Outsiders. Dear lord, was Southwick returning? Donald invading? Strangely, the torches were not moving in their direction but around toward the right in large circles.

“’Tis to bless the crops and cattle, for a fruitful harvest and many calves,” Alasdair said close behind her.

She spun to face him. “In truth? Do you believe that?”

He shrugged. “Aye, why not? Our clan has been prosperous for two hundred years. You cannot argue with success. But I’m not a heathen if that’s what you’re thinking.” His wicked grin and wink had the disturbing effect of negating his words and raising her awareness of him.

What had he meant, anyway? He wasn’t a heathen, yet he believed the heathen rituals worked? In most other ways he appeared to be a Protestant, but the Highlanders held to their superstitions. Besides, something more urgent worried her.

“Are we safe out here?”

“I have posted armed guards all around, very close together. Don’t worry about it. Remember, this is a celebration.” He bowed. “Would you give me the honor of this dance, Lady Gwyneth?”

Heat rushed over her face. “It has been ages since I’ve danced. I’m sure I would make a mess of it.”

“That matters not. Come, m’lady. ’Twill be fun.” Brows lifted with an expectant look, he held out his hand. “You do remember what fun is, aye?”

No, she scarce remembered it at all.

“If not, I’d like to remind you.”

She took his hand. “Oh, very well. But if I tread on your injured toe, you must not blame me.”

“My toe is full recovered and can withstand your wee foot upon it.” He led her toward the other couples already dancing. When they joined in, she was glad to see he had not lied about his toe and seemed light on his feet.

Gwyneth made a misstep and almost toppled sideways. Alasdair caught her and chuckled. Her own laughter surprised her. How long had it been since she’d laughed and danced? More than seven years?

“I have forgotten how to dance,” she confessed.

“Nay. Merely out of practice, I’m thinking. But I ken well how to remedy that.”

A prickle of worry returned. Where was Rory?

She glanced aside and saw him jumping around with the other children, ashes from the bonfire smeared on all their foreheads. She smiled and returned her attention to Alasdair. “Someone has rubbed ash on Rory’s forehead.”

“Aye, ’tis for blessings as well.”

More superstition. Well, what could it hurt?

“’Haps you would like me to smear ashes upon your forehead, m’lady.”

She laughed. “I think I prefer a clean face.”

“You are a lovely lass, but a hundred times more beautiful when you smile and laugh as you are now.”

Such outrageous compliments. And the way he looked at her, with rapt attention. Her face felt as if it glowed fiery red, and not just from the heat of the bonfire.

“Promise me, every day from now on, you will smile at least once, and I must be witness to this action. Laughter is required five times a week.”

Gwyneth snickered. “I can make no such promises. You are naught but a charmer.”

“I have never been accused of such.” His smile was indulgent, full and without restraint, reflecting her own feelings—happiness such as she had not felt during the whole of her life.

In truth, he was a charmer, and how would she resist him this night?

***

After two dances, Gwyneth was both relieved and disappointed when Alasdair bowed, kissed her hand and went to talk with his guests—the other chiefs and their families.

When he led one of the young, unmarried ladies out to dance, jealousy swooped in on Gwyneth.

She focused her attention on Rory and was surprised to find him twirling in circles with a small girl in fine clothing. After a couple of minutes, Rory’s hands slipped off hers. She tumbled onto her rump and turned a backward flip.