Sunset lit the depths of Alasdair’s eyes to rich brown. “Are you well, then, m’lady?” His low, intimate tone turned her insides to sweet plum pudding.

“Yes, are you?”

“Aye.”

Awareness of him threatened to fluster her. “I thank you for doing this favor for me. ’Tis a grand service, indeed.”

“You have done more than this for me.” He cupped her neck and stroked a thumb over her ear. “You risked your life to save mine when you dragged me off that battlefield.”

Alasdair’s eyes grew too intense, and she dropped her gaze to that vulnerable, sensual hollow at the base of his throat. Had she ever kissed him there? No, she didn’t think so, but she wanted to.

Nonsense. I must not kiss him anywhere, ever again. She glanced aside. I must think only of Rory and getting him back.

She had to believe he was safe. Surely Southwick would not injure his son, though he might not treat him well. He might hit him or starve him as punishment. Rory was a little warrior and he might anger Southwick with attempts to escape or fight back. Southwick probably had him tied up and thrown across a saddle. Her sweet child was likely terrified beyond reason.

She wanted to take her dagger to Southwick.

***

Later that night, Alasdair lay in his bedroll looking up at the stars, thankful it was not raining. Except for Boyd, who took his turn at watch, the other men snored nearby—as well they should. It had been hours since they’d all gone to bed.

Rory and Gwyneth disturbed Alasdair’s thoughts. He prayed the lad was unhurt. No matter what it took, he would return him to his mother.

And Gwyneth…by the saints, at some point, she had become as important to him as his next heartbeat. It had nothing to do with her saving his life over a month ago, and everything to do with the way she’d burrowed into his soul.

In truth, he was the greatest imbecile for letting her steal his heart away. He’d never wanted to feel such depth of emotion for a woman again. When Leitha died, he’d almost died with her. A long time passed before he’d felt alive again. Maybe he hadn’t truly reclaimed his life until Gwyneth saved it.

To look at her was to want her in every way—in his bed, in his life, in his heart. Though he knew he was foolish for wanting her love, that was the thing he craved most.

“Alasdair,” Gwyneth whispered in the darkness, almost as if conjured by his thoughts.

He sat up. The dim light of the dying fire revealed her standing in the opening of her tent, not twenty feet away. She wore a glowing-white smock with her arisaid draped over her shoulders. She looked like a dream come to life.

“Aye. What is it?”

“I cannot sleep.”

“Nor can I.”

She shivered and rubbed her arms. What was on her mind? Did she want to talk? Or something else?

“Come. Cover up here.” Alasdair lifted the edge of his woolen blanket.

He would welcome her into his bed by any means, fair or foul. He craved the softness of her skin and the whisper of her words.

She glanced at the men lying closer to the fire.

“They’re asleep.” Alasdair darted a look toward Boyd where he stood watch on the far side of the small clearing. His back was to the fire, and none of them moved.

Now that the tempting idea of her sharing his bed had invaded his consciousness, Alasdair had to fulfill it, whether she wanted innocent sleep or something deliciously naughty.

Gwyneth crept toward him and slid beneath his plaid. Happiness and arousal flowed through him with the warmth of fine whisky. She snuggled up against him, pressed her face to his chest…and burst into tears.

Damnation.

Alasdair wrapped her in his arms. “Och, Gwyneth, I ken how hard this is on you.”

“Yes.”

After a few moments, she wiped her eyes and nose on a handkerchief she’d brought with her and apparently tried to calm herself with deep breaths—warm breaths that fanned against his bare chest and teased him.

He didn’t know whether he was relieved or irritated that he now wore trews. ’Twas more convenient if he had to rise in a hurry. But not convenient for spontaneous lovemaking.

Gwyneth was an emotional woman needing comfort and reassurance that her son would be safe. But he was an aroused man wanting the woman he cared deeply for—nay, indeed, the woman he loved.

“’Twill be all right.” He stroked a hand over her back and up into the silkiness of her loosened hair. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“We must get Rory back. He’s all I have.”

“Aye, and we will. You’re needing a wee bit of faith.” Though he was certain Rory meant more to her than anyone or anything, he wasn’t all she had. Can you not see that you have me as well? If you would but open your eyes.

“What if we don’t? Southwick is a powerful man. The courts will always side with the man.”

“But Rory’s illegitimate. ’Haps that will give you the advantage.” Alasdair hoped what he said was true. Regardless, he needed to reassure Gwyneth and take away some of her worries.

“Why can Southwick not simply marry someone else and have legitimate children?”

“’Twould be the best solution. But mayhap there is a reason he didn’t tell us.”

“He doesn’t even know or love Rory. I’ve raised him almost single-handedly. He’s my son. The reason I push forward every day.” Her whisper held the fierceness of a tigress protecting her cub.

“You’re a good mother,” Alasdair murmured. Aye, why could you not be the mother of my own children?

“I wager you’re the only one who thinks so.”

He kissed her forehead. “It doesn’t matter what other people think. We both ken the truth. You’re the most devoted mother I’ve ever seen.” He stroked his fingertips over her cheek and chin, relishing the feel of her velvety skin. “Aside from that, you’re a healer. You oft ignore your own needs to care for others. Even strangers, like me, when you saved my life. You didn’t ken whether I would be friend or enemy when I awoke, but you didn’t let that scare you. You’re a strong woman, Gwyneth. The bravest I ever met.”

“You had a peace treaty, so I knew you would be kind. I had a feeling, even before you awoke, that you were a good man.”

“Och, I’m not that good.” If he were such an angel, he wouldn’t be thinking of ravishing her right here and now, outside on the ground with several other men within speaking distance.

His body tightened and yearned for her, but alas he must fight his urges.

Through her thin smock, her breasts pressed against his bare chest, near stripping away his sanity.

She kissed the base of his throat, and pleasure flowed through him like melted butter mixed with honey.

“You’re warm,” she whispered.

Either he was daft or that was an invitation. “And you’re soft.” He stroked his palm up from her waist and over her breast through the material. Her nipple hardened. “Except right here,” he murmured and rolled her nipple beneath his thumb.

She gasped. In the abandon he loved, she thrust her breast into his hand. When she lost control, he couldn’t help himself. He moved down and licked her nipple through the fabric, plucked it between his lips. The earthy scent of woman with a hint of green herbs filled his senses. Lust washed over him. She lay flat on her back and buried her hands in his hair, embracing him close.

He glanced around and found that none of the men had moved.

“Hold onto my shoulders.” He lifted her as he rose and carried her to the tent. Inside, he lowered her to her bedroll and woolen blanket.

Once he’d covered them again, he kissed her, deep and thorough, relishing the wet, hot feel of her mouth and her unique taste. He loved the way she followed his mouth and sucked at his tongue.

What a rogue he was for taking advantage of her vulnerable emotions. But he wanted her. Forever. And he would use any means to tie her to him. He wanted his bairn growing in her belly. Not just because he needed an heir, but more, he never wanted her to leave him. He would have an excuse to make her stay. That probably made him a desperate bastard and a barbarian, but he didn’t care. His clan, his lands, his title—those were his duty. But Gwyneth was his delight. His reason to smile.