Alasdair’s face darkened, and his gaze grew sharp. “If they insult you, they’ll regret it, I vow.” His brogue intensified, and he muttered a few Gaelic words of dubious meaning.

“I thank you,” she said, trying to keep the wistfulness out of her voice. He was as chivalrous as an old-fashioned armored knight. “But their words can no longer hurt me. The only thing that will hurt me is to lose Rory to an aristocratic beast who would abuse him.”

Indeed, that would be like death to her.

“You won’t be losing him to anyone. Trust me on that.” Alasdair rose, strode toward where his bed had been last night and rolled up his plaid.

His determined tone gave her pause. She didn’t doubt him. No, indeed, she trusted him to the depths of her soul. Adding a silent prayer for her son, she choked down the remainder of the bannock and a few sips of ale. By the time she arose, the men had everything packed, loaded and were ready to mount.

She joined them. “I thank all of you for your help.”

The men murmured responses and bowed slightly.

Angus stood closest to her. “You should marry the lad,” he said in a low tone. “Alasdair, I mean to say.”

“What?”

Angus sent her a wise but fleeting glance. His cheeks above his dark beard were ruddier than normal. Good heavens, he knew she and Alasdair had spent the night together.

What had Alasdair told him?

She glanced at Sweeney, not far away. The young man, close to her own age, averted his gaze but she did not miss the grin he tried to hide. She scrutinized the other men. They all knew. She could see it in their mock blank expressions and lips, tight or clamped between their teeth to hide their snide smiles.

Mortified, she turned her back on them and focused on her saddle—not hers, but Alasdair’s late wife’s. A woman who had lain with him without shame, without the smirks of others lashing down at her.

Leather and harness squeaked and jingled as the men mounted.

Alasdair approached, stopping close behind her. “’Tis time to mount.”

Angus and the other men walked their horses ahead, giving them privacy.

“What did you tell Angus?” she asked.

Taking her arm, Alasdair gently urged her to face him and shielded her from the others. “What do you mean?”

“He told me I should marry you.”

“Damnation,” he muttered and darted a glare in his cousin’s direction.

“Did you discuss it with him?”

“Nay more than I had to. He was wanting to ken what I was doing leaving your tent this morn.” Alasdair shrugged and kissed her hand. “Don’t pay him any mind.”

Easy for him to say that. He was not the whore in this equation. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from savoring the softness of his lips on her skin as he kissed the back of her other hand.

Because she had little choice in the matter, she allowed Alasdair to assist her into the sidesaddle. She tried not to think about his hands gripping her waist. Or the way the other men watched them.

She would not be spending the night with Alasdair again.

***

A mist of cool, drizzling rain greeted them the next evening as they reached Edinburgh. All was gray and drab in Auld Reekie—the grimy streets, the tall buildings, the sky with its low-hanging clouds. Even Edinburgh Castle on the steep hill above them looked mournful and bleak with its gray stone walls. The foul air of the smoke-filled city and its sewage near turned Alasdair’s stomach. He glanced back at his drenched and bedraggled party. The rain matched everything else on this miserable trip.

His men thought him a heartless rogue, bent on torturing horses and debauching women. He had done neither. And it irked him like a thistle between his trews and arse that they would believe such of him.

Angus had been right; they couldn’t reach Edinburgh as quickly as Alasdair had hoped. Which meant, in all likelihood, that Southwick now had an even greater lead.

Alasdair drew up at a coaching inn on Grassmarket and dismounted.

Since yesterday morn, Gwyneth had avoided him. She was polite and civil but not receptive to any private conversation or intimacy.

He’d told Angus he shouldn’t have said anything to Gwyneth about marriage.

“Someone needed to tell her,” his obstinate cousin had replied. “As much swiving as the two of you are doing, you need to be getting hand-fasted or married. What’ll you do if a bairn results?”

“Let me handle it. ’Tis not your concern,” he’d said.

Now, neither Angus nor Gwyneth was very friendly toward him. He would not propose to her again until he was certain she would say yes and until Rory was safe, but if she wanted him in her bed, he would readily comply. Betrothal or not, each time he made love to her, he further tied her to him. Perhaps she didn’t realize that.

He would prove to her he could straighten things out with Southwick, and recover Rory. Though he didn’t yet know how he would do it, he had to. He refused to let her and the lad down.

Alasdair approached Gwyneth sitting atop her mare. When he reached up to help her dismount, it was obvious she was trying to avoid looking into his eyes. She didn’t want even that small connection, but he felt her body tremble when he touched her.

By the saints, I shall have you, Gwyneth, body and heart. Don’t doubt it.

But he would not tell her that; he would show her. He would prove they were right for each other.

As he lifted her down, her narrow waist and slight weight within his hands bombarded him with instinctive urges, to hold her close and protect her. Comfort her. To carry her to the nearest bed for a repeat performance of two nights ago. Deep pleasure and devotion. He would show her a love so pure as to be blinding, if only she would let him.

Instead, he set her to her feet and pulled away to instruct two of the men to take care of the horses.

Within the inn’s dining room, their party ate decent mutton stew, cheese and bread. The men shoveled the food in as if they had not eaten in weeks. Alasdair noticed, however, that Gwyneth picked at her food. Hating the worried slant of her brows, he vowed to take it away and set everything aright. Vowed to make her smile. Deep down, he prayed her lack of appetite and her bout of sickness early that morn signified something else—that she carried his child.

A half hour later, after he had handled the business of accommodations for their party and sent two of his men to find Lachlan, Alasdair climbed the narrow, dark stairway and knocked at Gwyneth’s door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“’Tis me.”

She opened the door slowly and stepped back.

Her vivid blue eyes, wide with caution, provided the only bright color in drab Edinburgh, but he forced himself to look away, toward the newly kindled blaze. He approached the small fireplace, hoping the heat would dry his clothing a wee bit.

“I’m thinking you would like a bath after being on the road so long, m’lady.” He admitted he was trying to get back into her good graces.

“That would be lovely.” Gwyneth cleared her throat. “Are you…staying in this room as well?”

He glanced back at her, for a moment perversely enjoying her discomfort. “I told the proprietor we were married.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Why? Why did you do that?”

“You’re a woman in the company of six men. ’Tis better this way. No one will question your position.”

She frowned, apparently mulling that over. He was right, and she knew it. He hated the mockery of pretending to be married to her when he wanted it in truth.

“You mean to sleep here, then?” she asked.

He couldn’t tell whether she hoped he would or wouldn’t sleep there. How could she look so innocent, virginal and demure of a sudden, when she had been such a wanton in his arms? Wallowing in every carnal thing he’d done to her.

An image came to him, of her on top, riding him into the mattress, her eyes closed, head thrown back. Almost as she had done in the garden, but this time she’d be naked. Her creamy skin lit by the sun and her long, unbound hair tickling his legs. Her expression naught but pure rapture. He hardened instantly, wanting the image to be true so badly, sharp desire trapped his breath.