“He’s my son. I have to be there.”

“You’ll slow us down. If there’s a skirmish, ’twill be difficult to protect you.”

“If that happens, I’ll hide and use my sgain dubh. And I’m a good rider, either sidesaddle or astride. What will you do if Southwick gets all the way to London with him? I am Rory’s mother. I have legal rights to him. You do not.”

He could see it was no use to argue with her. If he didn’t allow her to go, she’d likely find a way to follow, alone. That would be far more dangerous for her. She had slipped by the guards before.

“You’re to keep up on your own. ’Tis for your son we do this. If you hinder it, ’twill be your own fault.”

She stood straighter. “I will not hinder it.”

“Very well, then. I’ll have one of the grooms saddle a mare. Be ready within the hour.”

“I thank you, sir.” She curtseyed.

Alasdair strode away from her to give separate orders to each of the five men and have Fergus convey his apologies to the visiting clan chieftains and other guests for his absence.

Gwyneth wanted to thank Alasdair a hundred times over. Indeed, she could never show the depth of her gratitude for his willingness to help her to this extent.

She glanced around at the milling crowd, then a second later, realized she was looking for Rory. The hollow pain in her chest widened. Oh dear God, help me.

This was her own fault. If she had been with Rory, telling stories, instead of with Alasdair, cavorting in the garden, this wouldn’t have happened. She had been wallowing in the depths of carnal pleasure at the same moment her son was stolen away. I am a horrid mother.

***

We will find Rory.

In the pre-dawn moonlight the seven of them raced south, over moors and between mountains.

We will find Rory. Gwyneth ran the words through her mind, silently repeating them, like an incantation or prayer.

The horses’ hooves, rumbling against the ground like never-ending thunder, combined with the rhythmic movement, threatened to mesmerize her. But the cool, fresh air, along with the scent of horses and leather, kept her grounded in reality.

Her first instinct was to believe God was punishing her for her sinful behavior. Yes, maybe He was. But her regard for Alasdair was not evil. Her emotions were not evil; they just were. Those same emotions had given rise to her desire for the man riding before her. And that desire had allowed her bright moments of joy such as she had not known possible.

Joy and love were not evil.

Love? Do I love him?

Yes, some jubilant part of her wanted to shout. But she couldn’t allow him to find out, because her love for him would change nothing about their present situation.

***

“Halt!” Maxwell Huntley, Lord Southwick drew up in the darkness before a rushing stream.

His son, whom the other men had bound and tied across one of the saddles, screamed and yelled. He called for his ma and for Alasdair; he screeched out insults that would scorch the ears of most soldiers. What the devil had Gwyneth been teaching him? If the loud and obnoxious little terror was not his son…he could not think of it. The lad simply had to be his.

“We don’t have time to stop now, Southwick,” Lord Peterson said. “If we do, the MacGraths may catch up to us.”

“I must see if this irritating little rascal truly is my own flesh and blood,” he muttered, dismounting. If Gwyneth had lied to him that day six years ago, he would be murderously angry. “Bring the torch here. And take the lad off the horse.” Once his guard had set the boy onto his feet, Southwick yanked the sack from his head.

The boy’s hair was blondish-brown and straight, much like his own.

“Take me back to my ma!”

“Rory. Is that your name?” Southwick asked.

“Aye.”

He sounded like a damned Scot, and had a Scots name besides. Southwick ground his teeth. He’d see about changing both.

“What is your mother’s name?”

Rory struggled against the guard holding him. “Gwyneth.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost six. Let me go, you toad-spotted whoreson!”

Southwick clasped his hands tightly behind his back. He was sore tempted to slap some sense into the lad, but not in front of his men. “Cease! You will be quiet and mind your manners. Has your mother taught you nothing?”

Rory merely narrowed his eyes and produced a malicious glare. He would have to whip some respect into the little hellion.

“When is your birthday?” Southwick demanded.

“Why are you asking me daft questions? I want to go home.”

“That’s exactly where we are going—home. Now tell me when your birthday is.”

“July tenth,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

That would put his conception at the time when he and Gwyneth had a tryst. The boy looked like Gwyneth for the most part, but he had the narrow, refined Huntley nose and chin which gave him an aristocratic air, just as Southwick had himself. The boy was dirty, with soot and ash on his face and worn clothing.

“Let me see your hands and feet.”

“No.” The lad stood sullen.

Southwick bent to remove a primitive leather shoe himself.

“No!” Rory kicked Southwick’s shin.

He grabbed the child’s chin. “Listen to me, Rory. You will show me respect. I am your father.”

“No, you’re not! My da is dead!”

“That wasn’t your real da. I am. You may call me Father.”

“No! I won’t.”

Rage crawled along Southwick’s nerve endings. And then he realized Rory was acting like a Huntley. Most of the men in his own family were stubborn and determined to get their way. Quick tempered. They hated being taken advantage of.

Smiling, Southwick drew in a deep breath, calming himself. Indeed, this barbaric wild child was his son. In London, when the boy was cleaned up, Southwick would teach him about manners and respect.

“Put my son back on the horse. We ride.”

***

A few hours after daybreak, Alasdair, Gwyneth, and their party reached Aviemore. The muddy streets were filled with Scots dressed in their Midsummer finest, plaids of every description. She searched throngs of people for Rory and Southwick. Her anxiety vibrated to a higher pitch with each minute that passed.

“Did you see a half-dozen Englishmen and a lad ride through this morn?” Alasdair called to a grizzly-faced man in front of the livery stable.

“Aye, no more than three hours past. They traded for fresh horses.”

Good lord, a three hour lead! How will we catch up?

They quickly left Aviemore behind. Gwyneth rode in the middle of the group, beside Padraig. This trip through the countryside reminded her too much of when she’d first arrived in Scotland, alone and terrified, six years ago. The fear was worse now, despite the fact she was no longer a naïve girl.

Long before they reached Pitlochry, sunset gleamed over the land in bright orange rays. The gently sloping land here was not as majestic or dramatic as the Highlands.

Alasdair slowed his horse to a walk, and the rest followed suit. He stopped in a secluded spot near a stream and swung down from his bay. “We wouldn’t be able to catch up to them even if we were to ride all night. And ’tis apparent Lady Gwyneth may fall out of the saddle soon.”

“No, I will not.” She had promised him she would keep up with the men, and she meant to do it—even if it should kill her.

“The horses need rest as well.”

She was disheartened that they hadn’t yet spotted Rory or the knaves who had abducted him. How far would they have to ride to catch up to them? All the way to London? She prayed that would not be the case.

The other men dismounted and started unloading the packhorse to make camp.

Alasdair approached and stroked her mare’s muzzle. “Are you ready to dismount?”

“Yes.”

He reached up to her, placed his hands at her waist and lifted her from the sidesaddle. Her feet ached and prickled once set firmly on the ground. She wiggled her numb toes within her leather slippers.