“You’re lovely as heather in full bloom,” Alasdair murmured.

His impulsive compliment created a burst of heat in her chest. She caught the longing in his eyes. It too closely matched that in her soul.

“Oh, heavens.” She surveyed the emerald damask skirts and bodice she wore, pilfered from Alasdair’s wife’s trunk. “I thank you.” She should say something to him in return, to let him see a touch of the esteem and admiration she held for him. “And you, sir, look very handsome and noble.”

A half smile tugged at his mouth. His eyes gleamed with amusement and warmth.

What was Alasdair doing flirting with her? Trying to distract her, help her relax? She appreciated his efforts but she wanted this meeting over with. She wanted her son back.

“Good lord, I wish he would hurry.” She paced across the multicolored Turkish carpet and back.

“If we don’t emerge within the hour, Lachlan and the other men will be barging in.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The paneled oak door opened, and the steward showed in Gwyneth’s father.

She snapped her gaping mouth closed and tried to gather her composure in the face of Lloyd Carswell, earl of Darrow. She had never thought to see him again after he’d disowned her with scathing insults and glowers of pure loathing. His hair had turned a paler gray in her absence, and the bitter lines about his eyes and mouth were deeper.

“A good day to you, Father.” She curtseyed.

“Gwyneth,” he said in a sullen tone. His gaze darted over her shoulder to Alasdair.

“How are you? How is Mother…and everyone?”

“Very well.”

The door swung open again and Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick pranced in like a peacock in bright turquoise and yellow. “My most humble apologies for my late arrival.” He gave a flourishing bow.

Gwyneth wanted to leap forward and strangle him, but restrained herself. “Where is Rory? I must see him at once.”

“He is well and fit.” Southwick’s gaze strayed to Alasdair. “I see you have brought your mastiff along.”

“You stole my son!”

Southwick smiled, resembling a blond, pointed-chin weasel. “Ah, my lady, do calm yourself, if you please.”

His disregard for her wishes to see Rory magnified her anger. I’ll kill him!

“You have developed a bitter tongue, Gwyneth,” her father chided.

I have every right to my bitter tongue, Father, she wanted to shout. But doing so would not help her cause. She must play the part of a ‘Lady.’

Her father’s gaze raked her in a disdainful way, then shot to Alasdair. “And you must be MacGrath.”

“Alasdair MacGrath, earl and chief of MacGrath,” he said in a commanding voice. He came forward and shook her father’s hand.

“A Scottish earl?” Her father frowned. “You neglected to tell me this, Southwick.”

Alasdair released Lord Darrow’s hand and stepped back beside Gwyneth.

Southwick blew out a puff of air and flung his hand upward. “It is of no import. As you can see by his apparel, he’s a Highland barbarian.”

“He is no barbarian,” Gwyneth said with an intentional bite to her genteel tone. “He is a far more civilized gentleman than you.”

“Well, I’m sure you know how very civilized he is.” Southwick sniffed.

She glanced aside and found Alasdair’s fierce gaze stabbing toward the smaller man. She sensed the tightening of Alasdair’s muscles, as if he were barely restrained from launching himself at Southwick, blades flying.

“Let’s get to the point,” her father interrupted. “I must be on my way. Shall we sit down, Southwick?”

“By all means.” With much drama, he waved them all toward a sitting area. His strong, perfumed sweat odor wafted to her, and she wanted to hold her breath.

Alasdair claimed the high-backed bench with Gwyneth. The other two men occupied individual leather cushioned chairs.

Gwyneth’s father glared at her. “Against my sound advice, Southwick wishes to claim and support your bastard.”

She fought back the flush of mortification that crept up from her chest. She would not let her father’s judgmental disdain affect her. “I know that, and I have nothing against Rory inheriting if you wish to give him property, but he is too young to leave me now. I propose that I raise him until he is at least twelve, then he can go to boarding school.”

“Twelve? Good lord.” Southwick snorted. “That would be much too late to begin his training. He is no longer a babe. And indeed he has shocking and ghastly manners and speaks like a barbaric Scot. He requires a proper education if he is to live up to my expectations.”

His expectations? As if his expectations were the only ones that mattered. What about her expectations of him, which he’d miserably failed in, abandoning her to poverty like the coward he was.

“I’m providing Rory with an excellent education. When he is old enough, he will be prepared for university.”

Southwick smirked. “That is simply not enough. He requires proper clothing and such.”

“I have provided for him for almost six years. And as you can see, he’s in fine shape. I can continue to provide for him until he is older. I have full legal rights to keep him until he is at least seven.”

“A future English marquess should be raised in England, to learn the English way of life. He cannot learn that in Scotland.”

What could she say to that? She wanted Rory to be raised in England, but not by Southwick. How could she extract herself from this pit?

Gwyneth’s father snorted. “Southwick, I daresay you will have a devil of a time convincing King James to accept your bastard as your heir.”

“Do not worry over that, Darrow. Rest assured I have the king’s ear.” Southwick turned to Gwyneth. “I understand you are a widow now. Did your husband leave you any money or property?”

She almost gave a bitter laugh at that ridiculous notion. “No. The point is not what material possessions I can give my son, but the love and care I can give him. Which you cannot.”

“My lady,” he said in a condescending tone and flicked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “I have enough money to hire ten governesses to care for him if that is what’s required. You would have him grow into a tender mama’s boy.”

“No, he is strong and brave. Laird MacGrath has provided him with swordplay lessons.” Though she’d hated the lesson she’d interrupted, she felt at liberty to use it now to plead her case.

“Of the barbarous Highland variety, no doubt. That will not serve him well when he is marquess of Southwick. He must learn the skills and manners of an English nobleman.”

She clenched her fists on her lap. No argument she had was sufficient for them to see her side. “Rory is illegitimate. Therefore you have no say over him! You didn’t claim him when he was conceived, and now it is six years too late.”

“Well.” Southwick lifted his pale brows and smoothed his slim fingers over the turquoise silk taffeta of his sleeve. “You could marry me.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Marry you?” Gwyneth couldn’t believe what her ears heard coming out of Southwick’s mouth.

“Have you lost your senses, Southwick?” Lord Darrow demanded.

Her father hated her. He believed her such a horrible person that he would question the marquess’s sanity for wanting to marry her. She couldn’t stand to look at her own father a moment longer, and switched her gaze to Alasdair.

He had turned to a statue of marble beside her, and yet through his eyes she saw a destructive storm rampaging inside him. She feared he might slay Southwick where he sat.

“My wife died six months ago,” Southwick said, eyeing Alasdair with a bit of concern. “I don’t feel like marrying a flighty young chit. Gwyneth, you are my son’s mother. It is only right.”

“Why did you not do this six years ago when I told you I was with child?” She could not comprehend how different her life would have been. Not better, but different.