“You could be my new da, could you not?” The lad’s tone of voice, hopeful yet so vulnerable pricked at Alasdair’s heart.

“Rory, I would be honored to call you my son, but ’tis up to your mother.”

Within his grasp, her shoulders shook, and she pressed her hands to her face. Perhaps what he’d said wasn’t fair, considering how Southwick had her suspended over an abyss. If she would but give Alasdair the word, he would take command of this situation and Southwick would regret having ever come up with the idea of stealing Rory away.

“Don’t cry, Ma.” Rory stopped in front of her. “You like Alasdair. And you could let him be my da, ’cause I never had a real one that I can remember.”

God’s teeth. If the lad didn’t close his mouth they would all be blubbering into their sleeves.

Gwyneth sniffed. “It isn’t that simple, Rory. I’m sorry.”

Rory hung his head.

Gwyneth knelt. “How has Southwick treated you? Has he struck you?”

The lad shook his head. “I don’t like him.”

“Why?”

“He talks mean and yells,” he said on a sullen tone.

“Did he give you enough to eat?”

Rory nodded. “But I didn’t like it.”

A footstep sounded outside the door, and Alasdair glanced around. One of the marquess’s men stood out in the gallery, guarding Rory from the background.

“I must talk with you alone,” Alasdair told Gwyneth.

“Rory, we will be in the gallery having a discussion,” she said. “Leave the door open, and I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Very well.” He knelt and resumed playing with the wooden horse.

Once in the gallery, Alasdair discovered that Southwick had sent three guards this time—armed footmen of short stature. He could take them all if he wanted.

He guided Gwyneth away from the men, then stopped her before a tall, stained glass window. Afternoon sunlight blazed through. The colored glow lit the shimmering, golden-brown highlights in her hair and lent unnatural azure tones to her pale skin. Anguish shadowed her eyes.

“You cannot marry Southwick,” Alasdair whispered.

“I do not want to!” she said in a low but firm tone. “But if he won’t release Rory into my custody, what are my choices? I have no means. I have nothing. Only Rory.”

“Gwyneth—” He shook his head. How could he make her see?

“My own father won’t help me,” she whispered, her eyes pleading with him to understand. “I have no pull with anyone else. Except you. And I hate to say it, Alasdair, but we both know King James does not hold Highlanders in high esteem.”

Indeed, he did not, but Alasdair’s family and the whole MacGrath clan had always been on decent terms with the Stuarts. And there was something Gwyneth had forgotten—Highlanders were resourceful, tenacious survivors. One did not thrive in the rough Highlands without being so.

“This is a very delicate situation,” Gwyneth said. “I would not want to ruin Rory’s chances of possibly inheriting property or even a title, but I cannot leave him alone in the care of that snake.”

Aye, Rory’s future, that was the stumbling stone. Otherwise, Alasdair could steal him back and be off to Scotland. Since the situation was so complicated, he would have to think on it more and come up with a strategy. He would engage the help of Lachlan and the other men. Surely together they could find a way to free Rory and Gwyneth from Southwick’s filthy talons.

Regardless, Alasdair had to make Gwyneth understand some things. “There are two reasons you cannot marry him.”

She looked startled and perplexed. “What are they?”

“He doesn’t love you like I do. And I won’t allow the bairn you carry—my son—to be raised by a Sassenach bastard.”

Chapter Seventeen

Gwyneth’s mouth dropped open, and her lips worked as if she had forgotten how to speak. “Good heavens. Have you lost your mind?” she whispered. “I’m not carrying—” Her words came to a strangled halt, and her face turned the color of Highland snow.

“Aye, you are with child. I ken the signs.” One part of him rejoiced, while another part stood frozen with fear. Fear that she would reject him and refuse to see reason. Or that she’d ignore his help and let Southwick dictate her future. “The past few days you’ve been sick more often than not.”

“Because I was so worried.” Her words rushed out. “And…and seasick.”

Must she always deny the truth? “Can you be certain of that?”

“Well—” She frowned and pressed a fist to her mouth.

“What if I’m right? You cannot marry Southwick if you carry my bairn. Not only will I not let it happen, Southwick won’t marry you if he kens of it. We must find another way to fight him. Will you agree to it?”

“If I cause Rory to lose his inheritance, I will never forgive myself. That’s his future. He would never have to go hungry in winter. Or be cold. He would have incredible freedoms and anything he wants, his whole life. And he wouldn’t have to ask anyone for it. It would be his alone. He could easily provide for a family of his own one day.”

Certainly Alasdair understood that. He would not want to part with his title and lands, either. Not because he was greedy but because his possessions gave him power over his own destiny, as she said.

The situation was murky. But his feelings for her were clear as a summer’s day. “M’lady, I’m wanting to hear how you feel about me.”

She pressed her eyes closed. “Please do not pressure me any more than Southwick is. I cannot consider more than one thing at a time.”

“Well, you must, because there’s more than one thing at stake here. When we made love, a new life was created. We both knew it could happen. And I hoped it would, because I want you for my wife. I love you, Gwyneth. He doesn’t.”

“I cannot leave Rory alone with him!”

Alasdair pulled her into his arms. “I’m not planning to.”

She gazed up at him. “What will you do?”

***

A seething rage possessed Alasdair at his own helplessness. And yet he couldn’t let his men see his desperation and vulnerability.

Lachlan followed him into his room at the inn. Alasdair slammed the door. “Mo Dia! I cannot believe she’s spending the night with that whoreson!”

“She’s staying to be with Rory, not Southwick.”

Something about Lachlan as the voice of reason didn’t fit, but Alasdair didn’t let that stop his diatribe. “She’s considering marrying the pile of cac!”

“What?” Lachlan frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

Alasdair lowered his voice marginally. “I don’t want the men to ken of it. Southwick is forcing her to marry him if she wants to be with her son.”

“God’s teeth, man, you cannot mean it.”

“Aye. Never should I have imagined a future with her. Hell, she should marry him—the father of her child. She’s English like he is. ’Tis where she belongs!”

Lachlan gave him a long, skeptical stare.

Alasdair turned away. Something fierce and rebellious tore through him. “But I cannot let it be so! She will be miserable with him. He will beat her and mistreat her. The son of a bitch! He is a coward of the first order.”

“Muire Mhàthair! For a wee bit there, brother, I thought you’d gone daft. Glad I am that you’re not giving up.”

“Why do you care?” Alasdair growled. “You found her employment. Either way she isn’t with me.”

“Marrying this hell-hated Southwick is far worse than her becoming a governess in Edinburgh, because you might be able to marry her one day, if Donald is imprisoned or hanged.”

“It matters not. She can marry a murderer like Baigh Shaw and ’haps even the cowardly bastard Southwick. But I’m not good enough. I’m but a fool.” How could he have let a woman delve so deeply under his skin? Even into his very bones. He had lost control…of everything.

“We must think this over rationally, brother,” Lachlan said in a calm voice. “Southwick is forcing her to marry him. ’Tis not her choice. If she had a choice, I wager she would marry you.”