She now realized she was the one who’d been selfish. She’d wanted all these material things for Rory. But what benefited Rory also benefited her. Now, they both had far more monetary possessions than she had ever wished for. And it did not complete either of them. Rory’s future was like the dawn of a clear day, brilliant and full of promise, but the present was gloomy as the rain-gray moors outside.

“Do you think Alasdair carved a warrior for the wooden horse?” Rory asked.

Gwyneth turned from the window.

Her son slumped back in the chair before the table covered with books. He asked her that question every day without fail.

“I don’t know,” was always her answer.

“He said he would. And he doesn’t lie.”

“No, he does not.”

And, dear God, the things Alasdair had said to her. Not lies, but truths so beautiful she was almost overcome every time she recalled them. Words of profound love and fierce passion such as she had never imagined. Words she did not deserve. Her eyes burned with regret.

“I want to go see him,” Rory said.

“So do I, sweetheart. But we cannot right now.”

“He said he would be my new da if you would let him.”

Oh, goodness, that again. “Rory…someday you will understand.”

“I don’t like it here!” he snapped. “There’s nobody to play with.”

She sighed. They were wearing each other’s nerves thin. In truth, he could not play with the crusty old steward. And none of the servants brought their children to the house.

“I have to go to Edinburgh at the end of the month to testify against Laird MacIrwin. To tell them about the horrible things he did when he killed Mora and burned our cottage.”

Rory jolted upright, and his eyes flared wide. “Will Alasdair be there?”

“I think he will.”

Rory leapt to his feet and hopped across the floor toward her. “I want to go! I want to go!” He waved the wooden horse about. “Can I go, please? Ma! Please!”

“Yes, you may.”

Rory dashed toward the door. “I’ll go pack my trunk!”

Goodness, the trial wasn’t for three more weeks. Anticipation energized her at the thought of seeing Alasdair again. “I think I’ll start packing, too,” she murmured into the silence and rushed toward her bedchamber.

***

Alasdair sat with Fergus at a small table in the public room of a coaching inn in Edinburgh, the same one they’d stayed at two months before, on Grassmarket. Candles lent the room a dreary atmosphere. The scents of ale and roasting mutton were thick in the air, but he had no appetite for them. His clansmen, scattered about the room, and the inn’s other patrons produced a murmur of conversation around them.

The trial they would testify at tomorrow would lead to the one thing Alasdair had wanted his whole life. Indeed, what his father and grandfather had wanted their whole lives as well. Peace between the MacGraths and the MacIrwins. He and Donald’s second son, Carbry, who was next in line to become chief, had already come to a genuine peace agreement—one he had confidence in, because Carbry was of a completely different nature than his father.

Aye, this was what Alasdair had dreamed of, yet he felt no happiness. No satisfaction. Those things he had not experienced since he’d left Gwyneth in London two months past. Now, each night was too long. And once he slept, the morn and the memories arrived too soon to once again cast bleak clouds over his day.

He’d had his steward send her a missive about when the MacIrwin trial would be. He’d had no response and didn’t expect to see her face again outside England.

The possibility she carried his child was a double-sided coin—one side agony and the other joy. He would see her again; he promised himself that much.

The wide door to the inn opened with a loud squeak, and he glanced up. The vision he saw there was both too beautiful to believe and too painful to look at. Gwyneth. Dressed as he had never seen her, in fine fabrics sewn into the latest fashion. Her hair styled to perfection. The epitome of a stunning English lady. And with her, three servants—a middle-aged maid, a snobbish-looking graying man, and a tall younger maid carrying the sleeping Rory. His gaze locked on Gwyneth, talking to the chamberlain about rooms for her party. She seemed a dream-like illusion. He could not draw breath.

“What is it?” Fergus glanced behind himself toward the door. “Och, good lord.”

Indeed.

Fergus gauged his reaction. “Are you going to go speak to her?”

Speak to her? Hell, he wasn’t even certain he could stand or form a coherent sentence. He stared at the tankard of ale between his hands. “Nay.” He had tried to tell himself he’d only imagined how much her rejection had hurt. But it was not his imagination.

A moment later, rustling silken skirts stopped by the table. Shimmering blue fabric and the scent of fresh flowers. But even those things did not dazzle him. It was Gwyneth’s smile and the vague hint of moisture in her eyes. “Laird MacGrath.” She curtseyed.

God’s teeth, man, say something.

“M’lady.” He gave a mock bow but remained seated. He did not trust himself to stand without overturning the chair or some other such blunder.

“It is good to see you again,” she said with extreme politeness.

“Likewise.” Though in truth, this was not good for his heart since it now refused to beat properly. And his soul shriveled into a tight ball against the torture of looking at her.

“Could I speak with you?”

Though he was determined not to have a conversation with her, curiosity won. “Aye. Here?”

She darted her gaze about the crowded room. “In private.”

Hell and the devil! What is she up to? He could not tolerate much more of her torment.

“Come.” He rose from his chair, and without waiting for her, proceeded up the narrow stairs. One part of him prayed she wouldn’t follow, that she’d find him crudely insulting and scurry the other way. Another part of him waited, breath suspended, as if it would suffocate without her presence.

Along the dimly lit corridor, he opened the door to his chamber, stood back and waited for her to enter.

She swept past him. Her wide skirts brushed silk against his legs. Refusing to think or feel anything, he followed her inside and closed the door.

Her French perfume overcame his senses. And yet she did not smell like his Gwyneth of smoke and sex, making love to the glow of a balefire. She was a different Gwyneth. English Gwyneth. The woman she was meant to be from birth. A woman who knew how to wear privilege and wealth like the finest clothing.

It was easier to think of her as a stranger. Perhaps then the abyss that always yawned before him would be a little further away. But she spoke.

“I missed you so.” This was his Gwyneth’s voice, the Gwyneth he knew in the Highlands. The one who saved his life and made his bed. Before he took her upon it. And her eyes, vivid blue as a clear spring day when the snow melts, they were his Gwyneth’s eyes.

He looked away. “Indeed?”

“Yes. I’ve come to say how sorry I am.”

Sorry. Aye, he kenned it well.

“And I wanted to tell you—” She wrung her hands and then crossed her arms over her breasts. “Goodness, this is harder than I’d thought.”

He was in no mood to wait upon the delicate sensibilities of a woman. Especially one who had hacked his heart from his chest with an ax.

“Just say it.” So we can both go about our lives again.

“Well, Alasdair…”

Good lord, she was getting intimate with his name. Perhaps his glare had not been cold enough.

“You were right about everything.”

What the devil was she talking about? He watched her carefully. Her gaze darted about.

“And I realized I was afraid to take what I wanted…which was you.” Her eyes softened upon him. Her lips lifted a wee fraction.