“She wouldn’t when I asked her at Kintalon, before Rory was stolen away. She wishes him to grow up in England or the Lowlands, far away from the Highlands and the feuding. And me.”

“Damnation.”

“Another thing I haven’t told you, I think Gwyneth is carrying my bairn. And if she is, I won’t allow her to marry anyone but me. Southwick already suspects it, and has said if she is, he won’t marry her and will not let her see Rory.”

“What a gnarled mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Alasdair glared at his brother. “Are you thinking I don’t ken that?”

Lachlan lifted his brows. “Well, ’tis not over yet. We will think of something.” He poured wine into a pewter goblet. “Sack?”

“’Twill suffice, but I would prefer whisky.”

“Aye, but we must think clearly.” Lachlan handed him the wine, then took a chair by the cold hearth.

“’Haps Southwick isn’t as upstanding as he appears,” Alasdair said.

“’Tis rare to find anyone who is. I have acquaintances, contacts here in London. Some in high places…and some not so high. Mayhap Southwick has enemies.”

“He must, considering how cruel and full of himself he is. A man who ran off to France to avoid marrying the lady carrying his child must have done other dishonorable things.”

“Aye.” Lachlan looked abashed for a moment. “Hell, I’m as bad as he is.”

“What?”

“I didn’t marry the lasses who carried my bairns.”

This was the first time Alasdair had seen his brother in a fit of conscience. “’Tis not legal to marry two women at the same time in this kingdom.”

Lachlan’s brows lifted. “That’s a right good excuse. ’Twas impossible to choose between them.”

Alasdair drank a long swallow of the wine. “I wager, one day ’twill come back and bite you on the arse.” Or at least he hoped it would. He’d relish seeing Lachlan lovesick, considering the number of hearts he’d broken.

“Forsooth.”

“I hope you don’t have to endure the pain of love lost. ’Tis worse than any battle wound.” Aye, he hoped if Lachlan did find love, he would be happy.

“Aye. Which is why I’ll never fall in love.”

Alasdair snorted without humor. “If it happens, you won’t be able to stop it. You don’t get to choose. Either it happens or it doesn’t.”

Lachlan grimaced. “I don’t care for this subject. And you haven’t yet lost Gwyneth’s love. Now, about Southwick, I shall go visit some friends. Are you with me?”

“Aye.”

***

Gwyneth trusted Alasdair and believed in his ability to get things done. But what would he do? Would it be legal? Would anyone get hurt? She lay in the huge bed and held Rory’s hand. Her son snored in the darkness but she had not closed her eyes in this malevolent place. She stared through the shadows at the canopy overhead.

At least she had gotten to tell her son a story this night. And she made sure he ate well and then gave him a hug. Yet, despite this small comfort, she felt emotionally drawn and quartered.

If she now carried Alasdair’s babe, Southwick would not let her stay with Rory. She would do almost anything to avoid marrying Southwick…except give up Rory.

She loved Alasdair, but she couldn’t let him know that. That would make it all the harder for them both when she had to let him go.

Alasdair had not wanted her to stay here the night, but she had insisted. Surprisingly, Southwick had let her. Of course, he’d left four guards stationed in the gallery just outside the door. Several more probably lurked outside the window in the back garden.

And this way, the knave could harass her for her answer to his proposal first thing.

Dear lord! What if I have to marry Southwick? What if Alasdair didn’t come through with his miraculous solution?

Though she was certain she couldn’t sleep, she must have. A banging noise woke her from a nightmare.

A pistol fired downstairs. Running footsteps and shouts moved toward her. She sprang upright in bed, her pulse thumping in her ears.

What in heaven’s name?

Someone burst into the room and slammed the door. Chills covered her body. She pulled her sleeping child close, her gaze darting about. The darkness prevented her from seeing who’d entered. Breathing loudly, the person dragged a heavy piece of furniture in front of the door, the wooden legs screeching over the floor.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

“Is Rory awake?” Southwick’s voice was high-pitched, panic-stricken.

“Why? What’s happening?”

Something pounded against the blocked door. “Open up, Southwick! I ken you’re in there!”

Alasdair?

“Stay back or I’ll kill Gwyneth!” Southwick shouted.

Survival instincts kicking in, Gwyneth dragged Rory toward the edge of the mattress, onto the floor and pushed him under the bed.

“Ma?”

“Shh, you must be quiet,” she whispered. The dust beneath the large bed irritated her nose as they crawled toward the center. But if Southwick had a pistol, hiding under the bed wouldn’t benefit her or Rory. He surely wouldn’t risk killing his son by shooting at her. She put Rory behind her and lay facing outward.

All remained quiet out in the gallery. What in heaven’s name was Alasdair doing? Why was Southwick running from him and threatening her life?

“Gwyneth,” Southwick muttered through his teeth in the darkness. Something thumped. “Oomph. Devil take it!” He hopped across the floor.

Weak light from a freshly lit candle illuminated sections of the wooden floor and Turkish carpets in her narrow range of vision.

“Where are you, wanton whore?”

A crash exploded at the door, as if it had been knocked from its hinges. She jumped, her heart rate accelerating. The large piece of furniture slid aside, tipped over and slammed onto the floor.

Be careful, Alasdair.

“Scots swine!” Southwick shouted.

“Where is she?” Alasdair strode across the floor.

Blades clashed with deafening clangs.

Rory clamored from behind her. “That’s Alasdair. He came to get me. I knew he would.”

“Shhh.” She grabbed Rory and pulled him into her arms. They watched the feet of the two men in the throes of swordplay. Dancing back and forth, advancing, retreating. They hurled insults at each other in both English and Gaelic. She covered Rory’s ears, lest he hear more curses and insults he might use.

Another piece of furniture smashed against the floor. Metal objects from it clanged and slid across the room. Glass shattered.

“Coward! What did you do with Gwyneth, a mhican uilc?” Alasdair yelled out the window. “Iosa is Muire Mhàthair,” he muttered. “Go after him while I look for Gwyneth and Rory.”

“Aye!” Two of his men, whom she had not noticed standing near the door, ran into the gallery.

Alasdair strode across the room and threw open the dressing room door. “Gwyneth? Rory?”

Loosening her paralyzed limbs, she scooted to the edge of the bed and found Alasdair alone in the room. “We’re here.”

“Thanks be to God!” He sheathed his sword and pulled her to her feet with a strong grip that bit into her arms.

“What is happening?”

“You and Rory are free.” He grinned in triumph. “I told you I would find a solution. With plenty of help from Lachlan, of course.”

She could scarcely breathe, fearing this was a dream. “But—how?”

“That mongrel Southwick is at the center of a conspiracy to assassinate the marquess of Buckingham, George Villiers.” Alasdair laughed as if this were the best news in the world. “When we informed the king of it, he sent his best guards to bring Southwick in. And Southwick ran because he’s guilty, of course. I don’t ken what else King James will do, but ’twill not be pleasant, considering Buckingham is the king’s favorite courtier. I expect Southwick will be hanged or beheaded for a traitor if he’s caught.”

“Oh.” Shock and disbelief froze her to the spot. Gwyneth could not even imagine the ramifications. Would Rory lose his opportunity to inherit a title or property? Had he ever had the opportunity to begin with or had that all been Southwick’s grand delusion? Either way, thank heavens, they were safe from Southwick and she would not have to marry the viper. “I thank you.”