When she cried out in release, she squeezed him so tightly he near lost his mind. He took her mouth with a deep kiss.

His patience and control at an end, he picked her up easily. Still buried inside her, he wrapped her legs around his waist and leaned one arm against the high rock wall. His other hand beneath her hips, he held her steady and thrust up into her, slow and gently at first, but with increasing need and strength, as his body demanded. Waves of heat and pleasure coursed through him.

He breathed against her mouth, watched her eyes half-closed with female bliss. She gasped and whimpered her encouragement. When she flicked her tongue against his lips, he lost himself. His release crashed down upon him with the force of a boulder. But instead of unbearable pain, unimaginable rapture sang along his nerve endings. It went on and on, spun out and ricocheted in echoes.

For a moment, he feared they might both sink to the ground. Still holding her, he stumbled backward and dropped to the bench. “Dear God, Gwyneth, you have taken away my strength.”

She held his face between her palms and, in the dimness, gazed into his eyes with a most solemn expression. “And you have taken away my control.”

He smiled.

“Give it back,” she whispered.

“Nay. Never.”

“Then I shall keep your strength.”

“Delilah.”

Loving the affectionate grin that spread over her face, he kissed her once again, slow and deep and sweet.

Shouts, running footsteps and a commotion erupted outside the garden gate.

“What the devil is going on?” Alasdair helped her stand, and their clothing fell back into place. Taking her hand, he led her to the small garden gate and opened it.

All manner of clan members ran through the main barmkin gate.

“Alasdair!” Fergus shouted and strode toward him. “Some MacIrwins slipped in, but we don’t ken to what purpose.”

“Where were the guards?” he asked.

“I’m thinking there were too many people here for the festival, strangers and people in costume.”

“We caught this one, trying to escape!” Angus and Busby dragged a struggling captive through the gates and into the barmkin. They threw a hood back to reveal a woman.

“They took Rory!” Matilda shouted from the castle portal. “’Twas one of the mummers in a mask.”

Chapter Thirteen

Someone took Rory? Cold steel scraped down Alasdair’s spine.

Gwyneth looked like a lost specter. In a trice, she dashed out the barmkin gate.

“God’s wounds. Gwyneth!” By the time he reached the open gates, she approached the hill’s edge. “Crawford, stop her!” he yelled to the guard. But she had already passed him.

Thank God, Crawford caught her halfway down the hill. Gwyneth screamed. Her arms and legs flailed as she fought and kicked. Damnable woman! Could she not think before she acted? The burly guard hauled her off her feet and carried her back toward Alasdair.

“No! They took Rory!” Gwyneth screamed.

The guard set her on her feet. Alasdair grasped her upper arms with a strength he feared was too harsh. She, at least, was safe. If Gwyneth ran onto MacIrwin land, death was sure to follow. He could not lose her.

She jerked against his hands. “Bastards! They took Rory!” The tears streamed down her face.

“Gwyneth. Listen to me.”

She latched her fists onto his doublet and tugged. “They’re getting away! We must get him back!”

“And we will. Just calm yourself.” In truth, he wanted to charge onto MacIrwin land himself and bring the lad back, but he had enough rationality about him to realize it would be suicide without a plan and a large force of men.

“We don’t ken yet who took him, Donald or Southwick.”

Gwyneth sagged against him and sobbed. “Southwick,” she said almost incoherently. “I wager it was the knave.”

“If Southwick took him, he won’t kill him. He’s wanting an heir.”

“He’s my son! Not his! He will hit Rory. I’ll kill that bastard if he harms my baby.”

“Aye, and I’ll help you. But first, we must go back to the tower and question the MacIrwin woman who was captured. Then we shall round up a party and go after him.”

She nodded and wiped her eyes.

Guiding her steps, Alasdair helped Gwyneth back to the barmkin. Every ten seconds she glanced back over her shoulder through the darkness toward MacIrwin land. His soul ached for her for he knew what it was to lose a son, and he intended to do everything in his power to return hers to her arms.

They passed the still-burning balefire, then strode through the gates. Gwyneth tore herself away and ran toward the MacIrwin woman, whom Angus and Busby still held near the castle wall. Alasdair caught up with her.

“Who took my son?” Gwyneth demanded.

The woman hung her head.

Gwyneth grasped her hair, yanked her head up and stared into her face. “Ruth? Your name is Ruth, is it not?”

“Aye.”

“Who took my son?”

“Answer!” Alasdair bellowed at the woman when she remained silent too long.

She shrank back and gaped at him, mute and wide-eyed.

“Do you ken what it feels like to have a noose around your neck?” he asked.

The woman’s face scrunched into a horrid expression, and she collapsed into blubbering tears. “’Twas the MacIrwin. Don’t kill me! I beg of you, don’t kill me.”

“Why was he taken?” Alasdair demanded.

“A fancy Sassenach lord said the lad was his son. He paid us to rescue him.”

“Oh, dear lord!” cried Gwyneth.

“Southwick. ’Tis as I suspected. Where are they meeting the Sassenach with him?” asked Alasdair.

“At the south border. He was wanting to be away, toward London, afore the morn.”

“London. I will kill him.” Gwyneth wiped a hand over her tear-drenched eyes.

“How many men were traveling with the Englishman?” Alasdair asked.

“A half dozen or so.”

Alasdair glanced around to find most of the clan gathered behind them. “I need five able-bodied men ready to ride south within the hour to recover Lady Gwyneth’s son.”

He was proud to see two dozen of his strongest men step forward.

“I cannot believe you would do this, Ruth,” Gwyneth said. “You have a son of your own. How would you feel if a vile man stole him away from you?”

Ruth hung her head.

“Take her to a cell below,” Alasdair told Busby. “Tell the guard to give her bread and water twice a day until I return.” He turned to the group. “I need to see all the men in the hall now.”

Once inside, he noticed Gwyneth disappearing up the stairs. Where the devil was she going?

When the clan was assembled, Alasdair motioned his cousin onto the dais with him. “Fergus, I’m leaving you in charge.”

Fergus nodded and gave an abbreviated bow.

Alasdair turned his attention to the rest of the men who packed the great hall. “’Tis possible Donald MacIrwin will think I have followed the Englishman with a large company of men. He will assume he has an advantage for attack here. But he doesn’t. I will only need five to ride with me. The rest of you will stay here. Be vigilant, armed and ready for battle.”

He glanced at the men in front who had volunteered. “To ride with me, I will need Padraig, Angus, Boyd, Tomas, and Sweeney. As for the rest of you, I’ll need your skills here to defend the clan and Kintalon. I thank all of you for your willingness to help.”

He stepped off the dais and found Gwyneth descending the stairs from her bedchamber. She had changed back into her old clothing.

He narrowed his eyes and tugged her toward a corner to talk privately. “You’ll stay here. We will return as soon as we have Rory.”

“I must go with you.” Steel resolve echoed in her quiet tone. She threw the large sack she carried onto her shoulder. What was that, her clothes?

“Nay, ’tis too dangerous.”