“Are you thinking they need a reason? Nay! They’re outlaws, the lot of them, wanting to steal more of our land.” Lowering his bushy brows, Donald stepped across the threshold and glanced about the room, even peered into the two box beds, neatly covered with woolen plaid blankets.

Surely he didn’t expect to find his men there. She dared not move a muscle or even breathe too hard.

Donald’s gaze lingered a bit too long on Rory where he sat like a tiny gentleman on a stool by the fire in the center of the floor.

“The wee bastard’s shooting up like a weed, aye? I’ll see to it he starts training with a sword and targe in a year or two. I’ll be needing a few more fighting men.”

Upon my faith, you will not get your hooks into my son! Gwyneth clenched her teeth until they ached.

Donald turned and left the cottage. “Search yon wood,” he yelled to his men and pointed at the forest beyond the byre. “They may’ve crawled off and died.”

One of his men moved toward the byre.

No! Let him pass by. They simply could not find MacGrath or they were all dead.

The man yanked the door open and stuck his head inside.

After a long moment, he closed it and moved on.

Thank you, God. Gwyneth released a breath, her knees threatening to buckle.

She forced herself to go about her outside chores as usual, feeding the chickens and milking the cows, all the while watching for Donald’s men from the corner of her eye.

About an hour later, they appeared to have left the area. Concealing her items in a feed bucket, she carried oat porridge, bread and ale into the byre.

“They’ve gone.” She approached the corner where MacGrath lay and set the food on the ground.

“Mo chreach.” He pushed the blanket and straw from his head. “I thank you for the use of your wee dirk, but I’m wanting my dagger now.” He handed her the weapon.

“I’ll bring it to you. But you must eat and regain your strength.”

“When I heard them open the door, I was thinking I was a dead man for certain sure.”

“We’ve outsmarted them for now.” She placed a rolled-up blanket beneath his head and shoulders so he might sit up a bit. “Careful you don’t cause that wound to bleed again.”

His direct stare unnerved her. He seemed intent on catching a glimpse of her thoughts—as if he wanted to know her secrets.

“I thank you for your help,” he said, his voice low and deep.

“You’re welcome.”

But he was the enemy, she had to keep reminding herself. An enemy she had given a weapon to, and had it returned. That connection of fledgling trust was something new to her.

Gwyneth knelt beside him, picked up the bowl and scooped a spoonful of oat porridge for him.

“I’m not so maimed I cannot feed myself, m’lady.”

Stubborn male pride. “Don’t be silly. You’re injured, and I would rather you didn’t spill porridge all over my blanket.” She held the wooden spoon to his mouth. “Open.” If she treated him like a lad, mayhap she wouldn’t see him as such a tempting man.

He hesitated, but eventually complied. He took the bite, chewed and swallowed. “’Tis verra good.” A hint of a smile lightened his expression, but his perceptive gaze remained steady upon her.

“Mora taught me her secret recipe,” she said to fill the uncomfortable silence. She was certainly not accustomed to men praising her cooking…or staring at her with such attentiveness.

“Who’s Mora?” he asked.

“A good friend and a healer, also. This is her byre, and Rory and I live in her cottage.”

“Ah.” He accepted another bite and swallowed. “She trained you in the healing arts, then?”

“Indeed.”

“Not only are you a good cook and a gifted healer, you’re lovely as a spring morn. You ken the kind—when the sky is so brilliant and blue it hurts your eyes.” He winked.

Her face felt singed of a sudden. Good heavens! Such extravagant words, she could not credit. The knock on the head had addled him. But a wink from those darkly seductive eyes was captivating and potent. She fed him quickly so he would stop spewing nonsense. Men did not compliment her looks. Certainly not her late husband, Baigh Shaw.

I’m glad he’s gone. Time and again, Baigh had mistreated Rory, and her as well. She was thankful they didn’t have to suffer any more bruises at his hand.

“Tell me, m’lady, what is your name?” MacGrath’s deep voice murmured the words in an intimate tone that sent tingles down her neck. She was not even that close to him. Though she did wonder what it would feel like if he whispered against her ear. He watched her as a cat watches a sparrow before it pounces.

“Mistress Carswell.” She hated the Scottish custom in which the wife did not take her husband’s last name when she married, but kept her maiden name. The children, at least, took the husband’s name. That was the reason she’d agreed to marry Baigh Shaw, so her son would have a name besides her own.

“And your Christian name?” MacGrath asked.

She dropped her gaze to the bowl of lumpy porridge and the spoon she stirred it with. Not near as appealing as his visage, but safe. “It matters not.”

He tilted his head. “I but wondered if your name fits you.”

She lifted another bite, trying to focus on the spoon and not his enticing mouth. Not the amused quirk.

“And if my name doesn’t fit? What am I to do, pick another one?”

He smiled with a flash of strong white teeth. “Aye, and why not?”

A grin formed on her lips, but she squelched it. This was the senseless banter of a flirtation. Ridiculous here, in a Highland byre. This was no dance in a great hall or fine castle. No need to be coy.

“Gwyneth is my name.”

“’Tis Welsh, not English.”

His astuteness impressed her. “My mother spent a few years of her youth in Wales. She had a close friend by that name.”

“’Tis a bonny and fitting name for you as well.”

“I thank you.” She lifted a small chunk of bread to his mouth. He opened and took it. Her finger grazed his lip, the silkiness and heat intensifying her awareness. Her hand was much less steady as she lowered it.

MacGrath chewed and swallowed. “’Tis you I must thank. I cannot remember when I’ve had better porridge and bread. Or someone with such a gentle hand to tend my wounds.”

He was a charmer in the guise of a whiskered barbarian, and unfortunately, she was not immune.

She gave him the wooden cup of ale, gathered her wooden utensils and stood. “You’re welcome. Now, you must rest so you can heal.”

He drank, then handed her the empty cup. “I’m hoping you’ll hurry back afore long. I’m enjoying your company.”

Ignoring his last statement and the engaging look in his eye, she hurriedly said, “I’ll bring your supper later, sir.”

“And my dagger, too, aye?”

“Yes.” Disliking the heated sensation that covered her body, she strode out the door and closed it before he could utter any more sugared compliments. She’d felt this way years ago when a dashing lord had asked for a dance. Now she knew no good could come of it.

Not for her. Not ever for her.

Her two older sisters had been more fortunate and wiser than she, and they’d married well. She didn’t yet know whether her three younger sisters were married; she hadn’t seen them in six years. She had no doubt her only brother was doing well at university. He was their father’s favorite, after all, his heir, and would never want for anything.

Best not to think of her family, England or men. All were beyond her reach. And she was glad she didn’t have to bow down to a man’s wishes anymore. She now had the greatest measure of freedom she’d ever had, thanks to Mora. If her friend hadn’t taken her in, Donald might have married Gwyneth off to another of his wretched friends.

No, she would never marry again and be under a man’s command.

***

Alasdair shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable on the hard packed floor. With his belly partway full and his mind floating with images of a lovely lass, he was as content as could be expected. His foot, his head, and various other spots pained him, but he tried not to think on it.