Instead, he closed his eyes and forced his thoughts toward his own safety and that of his clansmen. Did they think him dead? Would Donald MacIrwin return?

Something poked his arm, and his eyes sprang open.

The lad jumped back and clutched a weathered wooden sword to his chest. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Not with you poking at me like that.”

Rory’s sky-blue eyes remained round.

Alasdair smiled, hoping the lad would lose some of his fear. “’Tis a nice sword you have there.”

He held it out and looked at it. “I found it in the wood.”

“Did you now? That was a bit of luck.”

“What’s your name?”

“Angus.” Alasdair hated to lie to the child, but ’twas safest for him. “And you’re Rory?”

“Aye. Are you a warrior?”

“I suppose I am.” Though fighting was not something he chose. He would much rather simply lead his clan in peace.

Rory glanced at the door and lowered his voice. “Will you teach me to be a warrior, too?”

“You’re a mite young.”

“Next month I’ll be six.” His eyes lit with excitement. “One time I got to watch the laird’s men practicing with their swords and pistols and axes. I want to do that. Someday, I’ll be a great fighter.”

“That you will, lad. I’ve no doubt of it.”

“Watch this.” Rory launched into some fancy footwork and thrust his sword about.

Fine entertainment, but Alasdair dared not laugh. He maintained a solemn expression, and when Rory, breathing hard from the exertion, halted and looked to him for reaction, Alasdair nodded. “Well done indeed. I see you already ken a few things.”

Rory came forward, curious eyes examining him. “What kind of sword do you have?”

“None at the moment. I’m guessing someone took my favorite sword and made off with it. But I shall get another. A basket-hilted broadsword is a good weapon, for you can wield it one-handed and hold your mount’s reins or a targe in the other hand.”

“I want a great two-handed Highland sword.” Rory stepped back, clasped his small sword in both hands and slung it about as if fighting an invisible enemy.

Alasdair almost laughed. “Aye, another fine weapon when you’re wanting to mow down a few dozen of the enemy.”

Rory paused, mouth agape. “Have you done that?”

“On occasion.”

“How many men have you killed?”

“I didn’t keep a count, lad. Doing battle is a lot worse than you’re imagining. ’Tis not anything to be happy or excited about. ’Tis simply a sad and gruesome necessity to protect the clan.”

“Aye,” Rory mimicked his accent and pressed his mouth into a solemn line. “I’m going to protect my ma and Mora from Laird MacIrwin.”

A cold frisson ran thorough Alasdair. “Why is that? What would he do to them?”

Rory frowned and thought for a moment. “I don’t know. But he’s mean.”

“Make sure you don’t tell the MacIrwin or any of his men I’m here.”

“I know. He would kill you on sight.”

“That he would.” Canny lad. Alasdair wondered whether he might spill the information his mother had denied him. “Tell me, Rory, what was your father’s name?”

“My da? Baigh Shaw.”

Saints! The man who murdered my father? Alasdair could scarce draw breath for a moment. Surely he’d misheard.

“In truth? Baigh Shaw?” He tried to keep his voice calm, when all he wanted to do was yell.

Rory nodded. “But I don’t remember him. He died in battle.”

“Rory,” Gwyneth scolded from the doorway. “Come out of there at once and leave Master MacGrath alone.”

Slumping, Rory shuffled toward the door.

The child was innocent of any crime his father had committed. But his mother might be a different matter. “He’s not bothering me.”

“You must rest. Come now, Rory.”

“Yes’m.”

Alasdair listened to the two walk away even as he pushed himself up. Pain wracked his body but determination made it bearable. He had to get out of his enemy’s pocket. Grasping the blanket around his waist, he stood and limped along the byre’s stone wall. With each step, his big toe throbbed as if a hammer pounded it. Dizziness almost overwhelmed him, and he staggered. When the blackness abated, he continued onward.

“I must find my clothes and shoes,” he muttered to himself.

“What are you doing up?” The demand came from behind him.

Turning halfway, he glared at the woman—Gwyneth. “Your porridge has worked a miracle. I’m near recovered.”

“You are not.” She stamped forward, treating him as she would Rory. “You must lie down, sir.”

“Nay, I don’t wish to lie down.”

“I knew Rory would upset you.”

“I’m not upset!” he growled. Upset? Damnation, he wanted to destroy something.

“Very well.” She took several paces back. “I was but trying to help.”

He froze, realizing she feared he would hit her. Nay, he would never strike a woman, even when angry. With a deep breath, some of his rage slipped away. “Pray pardon.”

She surveyed him with wide eyes for a long moment. “May I examine your wound?”

“And which wound would that be?” He turned fully toward her, holding the blanket in place at his hips. He still couldn’t believe it. She was the widow of a murderer, the man who had poisoned Alasdair’s father in his own home. Perhaps she had even helped, given that she was a healer who knew about herbs and their properties.

She bent and examined the stitched cut that smarted and burned on his lower abdomen. “As I suspected, you are bleeding again.”

He couldn’t help but watch her. She was so close to him, her breath fanned against his stomach. His imagination turned wicked and he visualized her brushing her lips over the skin beneath his navel, kissing him, moving lower. No matter that he could barely walk, he felt himself tingling, hardening, wanting her. He had not experienced such keen desire in many a moon.

“Devil take it,” he muttered under his breath, hating his uncontrollable reaction to her. She was a woman; he was a man. That was the only explanation. No matter that she might have concocted the poison that killed his father more than five years before.

Indeed, it did matter. He fought back the nausea gripping him.

“Where are my clothes and shoes?”

“Your shirt and doublet were ruined. Your plaid fared better but ’tis still bloody.”

“I thank you, but I would have it back now. As well as my shoes, belt, sporran and sgian dubh.”

“Of course.” She frowned. “You are not thinking to leave now, are you?”

“Nay,” he lied. “I but wish to have my belongings.”

She eyed him suspiciously, then left.

Combating dizziness and disorientation, he limped forward, pain shooting through his foot with each step. He’d walked from many a battlefield more broken up than he was now.

She returned a few minutes later, carrying his possessions. “I suppose you need help with your plaid.”

“If you would be so kind.” He hated asking for her assistance with anything.

She set his shoes, sporran and dagger aside. He was thankful to have at least one weapon left with which to defend himself.

She laid his wide leather belt on the earth floor, flung out the four-yard-long blue and black plaid on top of it and quickly gathered it into pleats. She had done this before and plenty. For Baigh Shaw, the venomed whoreson.

“There now.” She rose. “Can you do the rest yourself?”

“Aye and I thank you.” Cursed kilt. He should’ve worn trews on the day of the battle, but he hadn’t expected to be fighting.

When she disappeared out the door, he limped over and lay down naked on the pleated material. No easy task with pain wracking his body. He grasped both sides of the belt and fastened it around his waist. Teeth clenched together, he pushed himself up onto his feet and adjusted the kilt until it hung to his satisfaction. After finding his brooch in his sporran, he fashioned the top ends of his plaide into a sash. He wished he had a shirt. He didn’t relish going about like a bare-chested barbarian.