He shrugged. “It did not suit me at the time.”

Such was the marquess’s good fortune in life. He did not even feel compelled to come up with a decent excuse for his cowardice.

“You were greedy, wanting a duke’s daughter instead.”

Southwick sent her a smirking half-smile. “Yes.”

“Marrying me now will not make Rory legitimate.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Of course she wouldn’t marry the snake. But what would he do about Rory if she refused him?

Gwyneth slid another glance toward Alasdair where he sat in silence. This time his gaze locked upon her. The full impact of how he felt was clear on his face. He had asked her to marry him. In his native tongue, he had told her he loved her. She loved him, as well.

Of course, she had never loved Southwick. That had been a stupid, childish infatuation. But the emotion Alasdair stirred up inside her had a life of its own. He loved her in truth. Not just in the heat of passion.

“It will do you no good to look to your lover for his approval. He will not want to share you, I don’t imagine.”

Alasdair turned his cutting glare toward Southwick. “The lady is capable of making her own decisions.”

“I thought you worked for him,” her father bellowed, his glare filled with disdain.

Whether she was Alasdair’s paramour or his servant, she knew it was all the same in her father’s eyes. She could sink no lower.

“I did. I was his temporary housekeeper. And I’m grateful to him for allowing me to earn my keep.”

He grunted with disgust. “You should’ve stayed put at the MacIrwin’s holdings. He is your blood kin, and that’s where you belong.”

Dare she say she didn’t belong anywhere in the Highlands? She belonged here in England with her family. But no, that was her fault. Everything was. “Your illustrious cousin Donald wanted to kill me, and Laird MacGrath provided me protection.”

“Why should MacIrwin want to kill you? I’m paying him for your upkeep.”

“I knew it!” Why else would her barbaric cousin allow her to live on his lands? He would do anything for coin. The money was likely from her dowry.

“And you’re showing precious little gratitude for it,” her father grumbled.

Gratitude? Why should she be thankful for being outcast and exiled to the remote and barbaric Highlands, never to be seen again…at least she was certain he’d hoped never to see her again. She was equally certain he’d hoped she would die from the elements or starvation and her bastard with her.

“What did you do to enrage MacIrwin?” her father asked.

“I saved the life of his mortal enemy, Laird MacGrath. After Donald and his men left him for dead.”

Her father’s glare shifted to Alasdair.

“Ah. How sweet,” Southwick mocked. “They’ve saved each other’s lives. I do believe they are in love.”

Gwyneth dropped her gaze to Alasdair’s fist, clenched by his leg, and tried to fight down the embarrassment that both her father and Southwick knew the true nature of Gwyneth’s association with Alasdair.

“’Tis not your concern,” Alasdair seethed.

“It is my concern if my future wife now carries a Scots bastard. And she better hope she does not, or she will never see Rory again.”

How dare Southwick say such? “I do not! I am not with child!” Gwyneth said.

Alasdair’s fury became palpable, his muscles tense and his breathing faster. She was thankful for his control but feared he might lose it at any moment.

“Good.” Southwick’s speculative gaze darted back and forth between her and Alasdair. “If you want to be with Rory, you will marry me,” he said nonchalantly. “I will be petitioning the king to claim Rory as my heir and to obtain full legal custody. You had best cooperate because you do not have a leg to stand on, my lady.”

“You cannot mean it!” Even her arms and legs ached with the emotion and denial. “He is my son alone! You disowned us both. You would have nothing to do with us. Not until it’s convenient for you. You destroyed my life, and now you want to take the last thing I have left! The only thing that matters to me.”

Southwick steepled his fingers before him and observed her with urbane coolness. “I do not think Rory is the only thing that matters to you. If he was, you would be falling on your knees at my feet, thanking me for proposing.”

“What have I ever done to cause you to hate me so? I refuse to marry you because you have treated me lower than gutter trash. You cast me aside when I needed you most.”

He released a long-suffering sigh. “Such is the lot of women.”

Alasdair shoved to his feet. “’Tis time to go!” he growled and stomped across the floor.

Rooted to her chair and feeling torn, Gwyneth shook her head. “I cannot leave Rory.”

His back to them, Alasdair halted and clenched his fists at his sides. “M’lady, if we don’t leave now, I won’t be responsible for my actions!” His accent thickened.

A knock sounded at the door, and the steward poked his head in. “My lord, pray pardon. We have more visitors. Scotsmen to be sure.”

Alasdair strode into the entry hall, the steward scuttling out of his way.

Oh, please don’t leave me with these wolves, Alasdair.

“What a ruffian,” Southwick muttered with a grimace. “The choice is yours, Gwyneth. If I see fit, I can provide for you beyond your wildest imaginings. You would never want for anything. Perhaps we could even have a few more children.”

She quaked with revulsion. If he saw fit? He would like as not send her to Bedlam to get her out of the way.

“Humph,” her father said. “Everyone knows you cannot sire any more children since your illness.”

Southwick glared at Darrow. “How dare you, old man?”

“Oh, I dare. I dare! You wretched little peacock.”

“Upon my faith! That’s why you want Rory.” Gwyneth leapt to her feet, but the arguing men ignored her. Rory was Southwick’s last chance for an heir of his own loins. And she knew his pride demanded nothing less.

“You two deserve each other.” Her father shoved himself to his feet. “The whore and the unmanned peacock. Perfect!” He strode from the room.

Red-faced, Southwick flicked his hand. “What of it? I don’t need the crusty old earl’s backing. King James is right fond of me.”

***

In the foyer, the earl of Darrow strode past Alasdair and his men without so much as a glance. The crotchety buffoon disappeared out the door.

“That bastard is Gwyneth’s father,” Alasdair muttered to Lachlan in Gaelic. “But Southwick is a thousand times worse. I swear, I want to kill him. He is naught but sheep caochan.”

Never had he been so possessed of a killing fury and yet unable to act upon it. If he said or did the wrong thing, he could ruin Gwyneth’s chances of getting Rory back legally. He was willing to restrain himself for her alone.

“You must remain calm,” Lachlan said.

“Aye.” Alasdair tried to shake off his anger. “I must go back in there. We will be out in a short while.”

After Lachlan and his men retreated out the front door, Alasdair returned to the library.

Southwick jumped to his feet. Alasdair almost smiled at the fear that shone on the Englishman’s face.

Aye, you’d best fear me, for I have plans for you. How dare the whoreson treat Gwyneth with such scorn?

When Southwick had mentioned Gwyneth carrying his Scots bastard, he’d wanted to strangle the swine. Aye, most likely she did carry his bairn, but it would not be a bastard. He would marry her before long, of that he was determined.

Gwyneth’s face was pale as blanched linen. Wondering what had been said in his absence, Alasdair strode forward and stood beside her near the fireplace. She darted him a glance of gratitude. He hoped his presence made her feel marginally safer.

Gwyneth crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to see Rory now,” she said in a strong voice. Alasdair was glad she was holding up so well.