“My husband was killed in a skirmish three years ago,” she said in a wooden voice.

Without doubt, she was not yet done grieving the loss. He well knew how mourning could linger. Even after two years, he still missed his wife.

“I’m sorry to hear it. And he was…?”

The healer’s gaze speared him. “I’m certain you didn’t know him. What is your name?”

“Angus MacGrath,” he lied, thinking she’d likely recognize his real first name.

She frowned, but curtsied nonetheless. “A pleasure. You are chief of the MacGrath clan, are you not?”

How had she figured that out? Mayhap his clothing had given him away. Or his ring—the weight of it was missing from his finger, but he dared not ask her about it. He studied her curious expression. For his own protection and that of his clan, he must seem like an unimportant person. She might deliver him to the MacIrwin if she knew his true identity.

“Nay, I’m the cousin of the chief.” Since he had a cousin named Angus MacGrath, he’d simply pretend to be him.

She surveyed him with narrowed eyes.

“Disappointed, are you, that I’m not the earl and chief?”

Gwyneth studied the smirking Scot, unsure whether to believe him. She’d been almost certain he was the chief. He’d had the seal ring, fine clothing and the treaty on expensive parchment. If he were trying to mislead her, she’d let him think he’d succeeded, while she figured out what he was up to. Maybe he feared she’d turn him over to Donald.

The longer Angus MacGrath talked to her, the more flustered she felt. He had a noble, pleasant way about him that should’ve put her at ease. But it didn’t.

His steady eyes were unreadable, penetrating and mysterious. Dark as she’d imagined. And at times amused and gleaming with sensuality. If she had to be in his presence much, such a man would be dangerous to her sanity and soul. Not wanting him to see into her thoughts, she erected that familiar defense wall about herself. The wall that had protected her from Baigh Shaw or any other man who thought to intimidate her.

“I ken you must fear your cousin will find out I’m here,” he said. “I owe you my life, so if anything happens, I’ll protect you.”

What was wrong with the big lout? He couldn’t even rise to his feet, much less defend her. “A lot of good that will do me now. If they show up, I’ll have to protect you.”

“You would do that for me, m’lady?” His dark brown eyes twinkled, teasing yet still suspicious. His strong accent turned lady into leddy, an address she’d only been called with a derogatory slur while in the Highlands.

“I’d prefer you not call me that.” Though still a lady in truth, she didn’t think of herself as such, nor had she for six years.

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, shadowed by a new growth of black whiskers. She couldn’t gaze at him overlong. His eyes had a look in them she didn’t trust, a look of mischief and interest she dared not think about.

He sobered and shifted his gaze away. “Our clan didn’t come here to fight. We were to meet with the MacIrwin and establish a peace agreement. He invited us to his home, and then attacked us. His word means naught.”

“Are you saying Laird MacGrath wants peace?” She suspected it was true, but she wanted confirmation.

“Aye, m’lady. Above all else, he wants peace for the clan.”

A hint of relief flowed through her. “I found the peace agreement in your doublet,” she confessed.

“’Tis not worth a wee pebble in the River Spey now. Burn it if you will. ’Haps it will provide fine heat to cook your porridge.”

How could he be so pessimistic and give up so easily? “Will you not try again for peace?”

He snorted. “’Tis useless. There is no peace to be had with Donald MacIrwin. They ambushed us—fired pistol shots at us from the cover of the brush, then came out with their swords. As you can see, ’tis the reason we fight. They understand no other language. We must protect what is ours—our clan, our land, and our cattle. We won’t let him run roughshod o’er us.”

“Of course not.” She well knew how ruthless her cousin was. He had always dealt with her in a wretched manner. Without a doubt, if she did something to displease him, he would have no qualms about killing her. That was why she now questioned her judgment in helping a MacGrath.

How many of those tales of the cold-blooded, murdering MacGraths were true? If what this man said was true, Donald and the MacIrwins were the ones who kept the blood feud going. Which meant she was more in danger from her own clan than this enemy.

“You must leave here as soon as you’re able.”

“Aye, I won’t argue about that.” He glanced aside. “Come on in, then. Don’t be bashful, lad.”

She followed his gaze to the door and found her son standing there, white-faced and wide-eyed.

“Rory, please stay in the cottage.”

“I heard horses—lots of horses coming.”

She froze. “Oh, dear God. ’Tis Donald!

Chapter Two

“The MacIrwins will be here in a matter of minutes. I need my dagger.” With a growl, MacGrath moved to get up from the dirt floor of the byre. A grimace contorted his features.

Gwyneth rushed to him, icy anxiety knotting her insides. “There is no time, sir. I must hide you. Rory, go stay in the cottage with Mora, and don’t say a word. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Her son sprinted away.

“I won’t play the lamb to his slaughter,” MacGrath said between clenched teeth, fierce determination emanating off him in waves.

“I’ll cover you in straw and they’ll not see you, even should they look in here. You must trust me. There is nowhere else for you to hide now.” Please, God, make him listen to me.

His stark gaze speared hers. “You should’ve let me keep my dagger.”

“Here, take mine.” She pulled the small dirk from the busk of her corset and handed it to him.

“This? ’Tis naught but a wee toothpick!”

“That’s all I have. Do not move unless you’re certain they’ve found you.” Hands trembling, Gwyneth covered MacGrath from the top of his head to his toes with the blanket, then piled more straw over him until the blanket was hidden.

On the way out, she pulled the door closed behind her. Thank God, Donald wasn’t in sight yet. She ran toward the cottage. The rhythmic staccato of hoof beats grew loud like her own pulse.

Inside the cottage, she met Mora’s worried gaze. Why was Donald paying a visit? Did he suspect something?

May God protect us.

“Rory, sit over here and…shhh.” She pointed to a short stool, then clasped her trembling hands together. “Remember what I said? Not a word about the man in the byre.”

Rory nodded. His rounded eyes told her he knew if he said the wrong thing, something terrible would happen. She hated that her son had to grow up in this harsh way of life.

Pounding hooves drew closer, the sound making her stomach ache. If Donald and his men discovered MacGrath…. Heavens. She didn’t want to think of the consequences.

The horses snorted and kicked up rocks outside the cottage. Donald and his men talked in Gaelic as they dismounted.

Inhaling a deep breath, Gwyneth approached the open door and faced her cousin.

“Did you happen to find Robert or Red John in yon glen?” Donald MacIrwin asked in an ill-tempered tone.

“No, we didn’t. Why?” The stench from Donald’s stocky body forced Gwyneth to breathe through her mouth. His shaggy brown and gray beard contained a few crumbs from his last meal.

“We couldn’t find them after the skirmish yester eve. The MacGraths must’ve took them hostage. Cursed mongrels.” He spat upon the ground.

“Why did the MacGraths attack?” Pretending ignorance, she hid her clenched fists in the folds of her skirts.

Donald’s mouth turned to a snarl, and she was unsure whether he was disgusted by her bold question or the subject matter.