A twinge of warning shot through him.

“From the moment I saw you lying on that battlefield with a peace treaty, I knew you were something else. Something I had never encountered before. I feared to hope for anything. I never—” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard. “I never believed a man like you could love me,” she whispered. “I didn’t believe love existed. It was more a fairytale than those stories I tell Rory. And yet, you are real.” She took his hand, lifted it to her face, and kissed his palm. Her warm tears wet his thumb.

His ears would not listen to her words. He was afraid he might misunderstand them. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I love you, Alasdair MacGrath. And the love I have for you is not bland or mediocre. It is a love so grand it consumes every part of me. I have not lived for the past two months. I have existed in a world of gray mist and nightmares, with nothing but the memory of your face to sustain me.”

Was it really him she was talking to? “Forsooth. Am I dreaming?” Maybe he missed her so bad, he’d lost his grip on reality.

She smiled, and yet tears streamed unchecked from her eyes. “Can you still love me? Will you marry me?”

He took her face between his hands, stepped close and ran his fingers over her brows, her nose, her chin. He had to assure himself she was real. “You don’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do.” She cupped his face in her hands in a like manner. “I love you, Alasdair. I’m asking you to marry me. I want to live with you forever at Kintalon and have your bairns.”

His throat tightened. “Gwyneth, don’t toy with me this way! Tell me, in truth.”

She tugged his head downward toward hers and pressed her lips to his. It seemed in that moment his cracked heart shattered and fell into a thousand pieces. Yet that was only a shell around his real heart—born anew and pounding like a war drum.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips. “I want to be with you.”

“But what of England and safety? What of Rory and his title?”

“Donald and his men are arrested. And Rory’s title means nothing if we do not have you. I thought I would be happy with Rory safe and his future so bright with promise. I thought I could sacrifice my heart, my love for you. I knew it would be painful, but I thought I could withstand it. I was wrong. Rory and I were both happiest at Kintalon, with you and your clan. That was home to us both. As for living in England, it doesn’t matter if Rory behaves like an English lord fifteen years hence, if he is so miserable now he cannot drag himself off the chair.”

A ray of hope shined into the bleakness of his soul. “Rory missed me?” For some reason, it was easier to believe Rory had missed him. Maybe because he’d convinced himself Gwyneth hated him.

“Yes, but not as much as I did.” She stroked his face, his chin, with gentle fingers. “Do you believe me?”

“Aye. But you must understand you ripped my heart out by the roots.”

Tears filled her eyes again. “Pray, forgive me. I will make it up to you, I swear, even if it should take years to prove to you how much I love you.”

“You’ll never abandon me again?”

She shook her head. “I won’t. I promise.”

With his thumb, he swiped the tears from beneath her eyes. “I believe you.” Indeed he did, though it might take time for it to sink in. He still felt this was all a dream. “And I love you,” he said on faith that she would never smash his world again.

She took his hand and drew it down to stroke over the silken fabric covering her flat belly. “I carry a part of you within me.”

Elation filled him like a warm summer breeze. “Och! I knew it! Did I not tell you?”

She chuckled. “Yes, you were right.”

He dropped to his knees before her and pressed his face to her belly, as if he might feel his child within. She felt so good in his arms, he wanted to absorb her into himself.

“Thanks be to God. And I thank you, Gwyneth, for coming back to me. I was not sure I could exist another day without you.”

Gwyneth sank to the floor beside Alasdair, and they clung to each other. Exultation whirled through her with such intensity, she laughed and wept at the same time. Oh, how delightful and stirring his big, hard body felt against hers. “Thank you for giving me another chance. I was so afraid you would hate me forever.”

“Nay, I couldn’t stop loving you. Hell, I admit I tried.” He shook his head. “But I couldn’t.” Bending closer, he placed cherishing kisses over her face. His lips tickled her skin and felt like paradise on earth—soft, warm summer rain.

Rising, he lifted her into his arms, carried her to the bed and lay her down upon it. His dark gaze, solemn and fathomless, trailed over her face and delved into her eyes with such intensity, as if he still searched for the truth. As if he still needed reassurance that she loved him.

“You have not given me your answer,” she said.

“Aye, I will marry you. Will you marry me as well, Gwyneth?”

“Aye, that I will, lad,” she mimicked his Scottish burr and laughed, joy infusing her, head to toe, as it never had in her lifetime.

He chuckled. Then kissed her fierce and deep. The way he kissed her in memories and dreams. A kiss that possessed her mouth as his body would possess hers, with sensual power and driving force.

***

Donald MacIrwin couldn’t believe his and his clansmen’s cell door had just swung open, with a soft but ominous screech, in the middle of the night. It could not be morn for he had slept none, and only a few hours had passed. He arose from the filthy, damp, packed-earth floor. Were they to be hanged tonight? Icy fear washed over him, and his empty stomach ached. He turned and glanced through the dimness at his eldest son, in his mid-twenties, young, strong and fit. Donald was proud of the fearsome young man, cut from the same fabric as his da. If he couldn’t escape the hangman’s noose, he hoped John could. Though Donald had other sons, John was his favorite and would make the strongest leader for the clan.

“MacIrwins, come,” the guard whispered, holding a lantern aloft.

“What’s happening?” Donald asked. And why would the guard whisper?

“’Tis your lucky night. Someone has paid for your freedom. Keep your mouths shut,” he warned. “Or ’twill be declared a prison break, and you’ll be killed on sight.”

Someone paid their way out? How and who? Someone must have bribed the guards with a goodly amount of coin. Well, he wasn’t going to turn down such a generous offer.

“Come,” Donald whispered to his men, then crept from the cell. His clansmen silently followed him along the dank prison passageways and down stone steps. Finally, they arrived at a metal gate with bars. Another guard swung it open, and the MacIrwins stepped out into the cloudy night. A mist of rain hissed through the air, but the cool air smelled of freedom. He could barely contain his joy.

Southwick—or rather, the dispossessed Maxwell Huntley—stood nearby, holding a lantern.

“I thought you were in the tower, in London,” Donald said, approaching him. The Englishman did not appear as arrogant and flamboyant as he had on their first meeting. Now, his clothing was little more than grimy rags.

“Indeed, but my good friends helped me escape, just as they’ve helped you. In case you didn’t know, money will buy anything.”

Donald grunted. “Well, I must thank you for saving our lives.”

“Not yet. You are to earn it. I want my son back.”

Was the man a complete lunatic? “Why? You have no title or property.”

“I don’t give a damn. He is my son, and I will have him back.”

“You’re an outlaw, just as we are.”

“I want revenge.” Huntley said through clenched teeth. “I want that whorish Gwyneth dead, and her damned lover, Alasdair MacGrath. They have destroyed my life.”

“I’m in agreement on that.” Rage seethed through Donald’s veins when he thought of the two of them. “Revenge would be sweet right now.” Because of MacGrath, Donald had lost everything, and soon stood to lose his life, as did his oldest son.