“I will have your decision first,” Southwick demanded.

Her decision? Was he back to the ridiculous proposal of marriage? She had already told him she wouldn’t marry him. He prayed she hadn’t said something to give the knave hope she might change her mind. Alasdair’s own helplessness infuriated him. He couldn’t command anyone to do anything, as he was used to. Gwyneth had to make her own decision. And her only consideration was Rory. Not Alasdair.

He hated himself for his selfishness. But he couldn’t make himself stop loving her.

It seemed Gwyneth had been holding her breath when she inhaled deeply. “I will give it to you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow! Damnation, you will tell him “no” tomorrow!

Southwick sighed. “Very well. You can see my son now, but I’m staying in the room.”

Gwyneth glared at Southwick as if she would kill him herself.

Would you like to borrow my dagger, m’lady?

Southwick opened the door and murmured a few words to the steward. Two armed footmen entered, eyeing Alasdair with trepidation, and stood guard. He sent them a snarl-like smile. Southwick then sauntered across the room and poured himself a drink.

“Would either of you care for sherry?” he asked Gwyneth and Alasdair.

They both declined.

But I will be happy to shove the bottle up your arse.

Southwick raised his small crystal glass to them and downed a large swig.

Gwyneth pressed her eyes closed and held her face in her hands as if she had a terrible headache.

“Are you feeling well?” Alasdair murmured to her. Of course she wasn’t, but he wanted her to know he was there for her. Though he could do naught at the moment like he wished to, he understood what she felt.

Her eyes met his. Her raw fear showed through clearly.

“You two stop whispering and making moon eyes at each other. You sicken me!” Southwick said.

“A mhic an uilc,” Alasdair said, wishing he could tell him exactly what he thought in the tongue he understood.

“I allow no swine language spoken in my house.”

“Cac. Bidh ceannach agad air.”

Before Southwick could whine any further about his use of Gaelic, the door creaked open and Rory stuck his head around the door. “Ma!” The wee lad bounded forward and leapt into her arms.

“Oh, Rory, I missed you so.” She caught and held him tightly. Tears glistened on her cheeks.

Fortunately for Southwick, the lad, dressed in English style garments, didn’t look any worse for wear.

“I missed you too, Ma! I want to go home.” Rory then noticed Alasdair. “Laird Alasdair!”

He moved toward the lad.

Rory clamored into his arms, and Alasdair held him like he might his own long lost son. He fought back the tightening of his throat. “How are they treating you, lad?”

“I don’t like it here,” Rory declared in his high-pitched voice. “I want to go home, back to Kintalon.”

That the lad considered Kintalon his home clutched at Alasdair’s heart. “Aye, I know you do.” And I will be taking you, all in due time.

Rory glared at Southwick. “I don’t want him to be my da. I want it to be you, Alasdair.”

“Och.” The tenderness he felt for the lad intensified. Rory liked him that well? This was almost more than he could comprehend.

“Why, you little—” Southwick slammed down his glass and took two steps forward.

Rory tightened his arms around Alasdair’s neck.

“You won’t hurt the lad!” he warned, just wishing the weasel would try it. That would give him a good reason to finish him off now.

“Or you’ll what?”

“He’ll run you through! You English whoreson!” the lad said.

“Rory!” Gwyneth gasped.

Southwick’s face turned purple. “I see what the fine Scot is teaching him!”

Alasdair bit back a grin at the lad’s courage. “Nay, he taught me that one.”

Rory smiled at Alasdair and the first ray of happiness he’d felt that day shined through him.

He mussed Rory’s hair. “He’s a good lad. The best I’ve ever seen.”

“Put my son down,” Southwick commanded, but Alasdair ignored him.

“He does not know you,” Gwyneth said.

“Well, I intend to get to know him. That’s why I’ll have custody. To teach him some manners. And teach him how to be English.”

“He has manners. But you’ve scared him. You haven’t treated him with kindness, as Laird MacGrath has.”

“We are good swordsmen, are we not, Rory?” Alasdair asked.

“Aye.” The lad beamed at him. “Cho luath ri seabhag.”

As fast as a hawk, indeed. Alasdair grinned.

“I will not have my son talking like a filthy, heathen Highlander!” The words exploded from Southwick’s mouth.

Rory jumped, his wide eyes focusing on the marquess.

And you are a dung-covered mongrel, Alasdair wanted to retort, along with several other worse insults, but ’twas best to hold his tongue in front of the lad.

“I will have your answer to my marriage proposal in the morn. Come, Rory.” Southwick held out his hand. “And why the hell did you give him such a name as Rory?”

Gwyneth narrowed her eyes at the man. “I was banished to the Highlands, and I wanted my son to fit in.”

Alasdair set Rory on his feet, but the lad clung to him, then hid behind his leg. “I don’t want to go with you. I want to stay with Ma and Alasdair.”

“Rory, do not make me angry.” His face red and jaw clenched, Southwick gave a false smile.

“Come, we will take you to the room you’ve been using. Show us the way.” Gwyneth held out her hand to Rory.

He refused to release Alasdair’s hand and the two led him from the room and across the foyer. They climbed a wide oak stairway to the second floor.

Alasdair felt he had a family of his own—Gwyneth his wife and Rory his son. He couldn’t let Southwick steal them away from him when he’d only now realized they were a family.

“I slept here last night.” Rory released their hands and opened a wide door. The bedchamber was so large it would stretch half the length of the library they had been in. And the monstrous four-poster bed was sure to swallow the lad.

“’Tis a fine room, Rory.” Alasdair tried to sound happier than he felt.

“I don’t like it. There’s naught to play with and I can’t go outside.”

That reminded Alasdair…he dug into his sporran and pulled out a small wooden horse. “I carved this for you.”

Rory beamed and took the animal. “Oh, I thank you, Alasdair.” He bounced on his toes, then knelt and galloped the wee horse across the floor.

Gwyneth glanced back at Alasdair, affection and raw emotion in her eyes.

He shrugged. He’d needed something with which to occupy his time the last few nights, when all he’d wanted to do was sneak into her bed. As well, he had worried about the lad and how he was faring.

“I’m going to name him Tasgall,” Rory said.

Gwyneth faced forward again, and Alasdair clasped her shoulders in his hands. He had yearned to touch her for two days but had refrained. Now, his hands savored the delicate feel of her. She was too thin, her shoulder muscles too tense. Gently, he dug his fingertips into them. A quiet sigh escaped her and she dropped her head forward. That she allowed him access, silently asking for more, made him feel even more possessive. You are mine, Gwyneth, whether you acknowledge it or not. He caressed the sides of her slender neck, wishing he could kiss her there instead. Her skin was smooth as finest ivory silk…beyond tantalizing.

“Can you carve a warrior to ride on Tasgall’s back? Holding a sword?” Rory’s words jolted Alasdair from his reverie.

He stilled his hands but left them lying on Gwyneth’s shoulders. He could not yet bear to break the contact. “Aye, that I will, lad.”

Rory stood before them, his innocent yet wise gaze darting between Alasdair and Gwyneth. “You like my ma, do you not?”

Now what was he about? Playing the wee matchmaker? “Of course, I like her.” Indeed, I love her.