Pulling the seal ring from his sporran, he frowned. No doubt Gwyneth knew its significance, but no time to worry about that now. He replaced it and strapped the pouch around his waist.

Being careful of his broken toe, he slipped on his shoes. His injuries were not severe enough to stop him from escaping this godforsaken place as soon as he could.

Nighttime would be the best time to leave, but he would have a harder time finding his way. How he wished he had a sword.

Gwyneth returned a moment later. Her gaze stroked over his bare chest. He knew it wasn’t so appealing with its bruises, cuts and scars. But her face flushed just the same. Did she see him as a man now, since he was dressed, rather than just her patient?

“I see you had no trouble dressing. You are more recovered than I thought.”

“Aye. Why did you not tell me Baigh Shaw was your husband?” His question came out harsher than he’d intended.

“You knew him?”

“Indeed.”

Her eyes rounded. “Did Rory tell you that?”

“Never mind how I figured it out.”

“I take it you were not fond of Baigh.”

“Canny lass,” Alasdair muttered, then narrowed his eyes, gauging her fearful expression.

She took one step back and clenched her hands before her. “What did he do?”

“I don’t wish to speak of it.” Hell, why had he said anything.

“Very well. I’ll leave you alone then.” Her wary gaze remained locked on him until she disappeared out the door.

Long minutes later, Alasdair limped to the door and peered out at the surroundings. The byre and cottage sat in a tiny sheltered cove just off the glen. A stand of black pines grew thick on the sloping hills behind the cottage, and a few shaggy black cattle grazed further down toward the glen. He spied no one around. It was time to take his leave of this place.

Holding onto the rough stone wall of the byre, he limped outside. The fresh air, washed clean with the rain the night before, pushed back a bit of the fogginess in his throbbing head. The sun warmed his face and lightened his mood. He said a prayer of thanks that he had survived. Glancing around, he made sure he was alone.

Pain shot up from his foot with each step, but he continued on his way, hobbling toward the edge of the wood. God’s truth, if he was going to limp like an old man, he’d need the staff of an old man. He would sharpen the top and make a spear. More cumbersome than a sword, but still highly effective for defense.

After choosing a small oak tree to his satisfaction, he whittled at the wood with his dagger. Inhaling the scent of green tree sap, he wondered if Gwyneth could have provided the powdered meadow saffron Shaw had slipped into Alasdair’s father’s ale. Why, then, had she saved his life? Perhaps she was trying to appease her own guilt.

Since Rory was almost six, obviously she’d been married to Shaw at the time.

His spear sharpened, Alasdair didn’t have time to linger and discover the truth. He glanced back to make sure no one watched him. All remained silent and still. He limped deeper into the cool forest, his footsteps releasing the scents of moldering leaves and black dirt.

By the sun, he gauged he was traveling east, toward his own land. He would never be so glad as to see MacGrath sod, and his clan. He listened for the sounds of hidden enemies, but the high-pitched calls of crossbills feeding in the pine branches overhead thwarted his efforts.

Hearing a different sort of bird, this one screeching in the distance, he paused. The MacIrwin call, he would recognize it anywhere. It sounded again, closer this time. Searching out a place to hide, he crept down an embankment, careful not to disturb the brown pine needles, and hid below a gigantic decaying tree stump, one of many that littered the area.

Minutes later, a MacIrwin strode by, humming a ballad, his rawhide shoes padding over the damp leaves. Crouching, Alasdair held his breath and watched. He did not want to kill a man this day.

Once the other man moved on and the sounds of the forest returned to normal, Alasdair crawled from his hideout and continued on his way.

The more steps he took, the more intense the agony from his toe—stabbing pain that shot halfway up his leg. He ground his teeth. The exertion spiked the aching in his head as well.

The trees thinned and gave way to scrubby bushes and tall gorse. He paused at the edge of a moor swathed in heather and other short vegetation. Only a couple boulders and larger bushes dotting the land would provide any sort of cover. Crossing without being seen would prove a hellish task.

Perhaps he should wait for nightfall before attempting it.

Keeping a close watch on the landscape spread out before him, he rested for a spell between gooseberry bushes.

The gash on his abdomen smarted and burned. He glanced down and found it bleeding again despite the fine stitches. The bonny healer would’ve scolded him over that.

He’d never gotten the chance to ask her what an English lady was doing here in the Highlands. Likely, she wouldn’t have told him anyway. And it was just as likely he’d never see her again. He didn’t care for the feel of that, despite her possible guilt.

Something about her had held his attention, not just her clear, vivid blue eyes that met his with courage and intelligence. She was a wee, slight thing but appeared to possess the hidden strength of a mighty oak. Perhaps he had enjoyed too much making her blush with his compliments. He glanced back in the direction of the woods and her cottage, some small aching spot within his chest making him yearn to see her one more time. To thank her again for saving his life.

Sometime later, thick gloaming settled over the land along with a faint gray mist. Surely it was murky enough that he wouldn’t be seen easily. His predominately blue and black tartan was dull in color, and he wore no light-colored shirt that would glow at a distance in the twilight.

His gaze scanning the deserted moor, he stood and limped forward. Though he had to be careful where he stepped among the rocks and heather so as not to further injure his toe, he made good progress across the damp ground until a distant noise met his ears. Hoof beats.

He turned. A horse and rider approached at a trot from behind. God’s bones! He’d been spotted. Glancing about for cover, he found no bushes nearby. Only a large rock. Teeth gritted against the piercing pain in his foot, he limped forward and crouched behind the rock.

“Who are you?” the rider called out in Gaelic. Too close, the man drew up, but Alasdair dared not peer out.

The horse clomped closer. A sword swished from a sheath in a metallic hiss.

Chapter Three

After returning from a visit to a sick clanswoman, Gwyneth stepped inside the byre and found it empty.

Good lord! Where was MacGrath?

She darted outside again and surveyed her surroundings. Nothing moved but the cattle and sheep. Had Donald captured MacGrath while she, Mora and Rory had been gone? Or had he left? Surely if Donald had come, he or his men would have tracked her down and asked questions. Or worse.

Since there was no sign of a struggle, MacGrath must have left on his own power. How could he journey with a broken toe? He was a madman to think he could cross that many hills and moors without a MacIrwin seeing him. She and Mora might have saved his life, only to have him limp about like a clumsy toad and get himself killed anyway. Such a blunder would put all their lives in danger.

Shaken, she ran to the nearby wood and searched for him in the deepening gloom. Maybe he had staggered out here and passed out again.

No, she didn’t see him.

Gwyneth hoped MacGrath was already on his clan’s land. Perhaps he’d been wise to leave. At least she wouldn’t be found guilty of harboring the enemy.