My Fierce Highlander by Vonda Sinclair

eyes.
    Alasdair scrutinized Weems for a long moment,
then turned his attention to another servant. “Tessie, what do you
think?”
    “Me, m’laird?” The girl swallowed hard and
her gaze searched out Gwyneth. She nodded at Tessie to give her a
bit of courage. Both Alasdair and Weems could be
intimidating—Alasdair put her on the spot and Weems could make her
life miserable.
    “Aye. The truth please.”
    She flicked a nervous glance at Mistress
Weems. “I think what Eileen says is true.”
    The housekeeper turned and glared at her.
    “Do you now?” Alasdair asked.
    Tessie nodded.
    “Does anyone else agree with Tessie? Raise
your hand if you do.”
    Several hands went up tentatively.
    “They’re liars, the lot of them,” the
housekeeper yelled.
    “Mmph.” Alasdair stepped down from the dais
and limped toward Gwyneth. “Has Mistress Weems shown any ill will
toward you?” he asked in a low tone.
    “A little. But I don’t know why.”
    He paced before the servants again. “Very
well. Mistress Weems and Eileen, both of you will spend some time
in the dungeon until I decide what to do with you. I won’t tolerate
such aggression within my own household. If you wish to wield a
blade, you can ride into battle with the men during the next
skirmish.”
    The male servants and clan members cackled at
that. The wide-eyed females whispered amongst themselves. Eileen
covered her eyes and cried, while Mistress Weems, with her
red-faced snarl, appeared angry enough to slaughter ten warriors.
Her glare bore down on Gwyneth, but she again refused to look away.
She would not be intimidated by the bullish woman. Not that Weems
could do much damage to anyone while in the dungeon, except
Eileen.
    “Laird MacGrath,” Weems said, drawing his
attention again. “The MacIrwins killed my husband years ago, when
you were no more than a wee bairn. And she’s a MacIrwin.” Weems
pointed a condemning finger at Gwyneth.
    Low mutterings and grumbles issued forth from
the crowd, and a cold surge of dread arose within Gwyneth.
    “Silence!” Alasdair demanded. “Weems, you may
be older than me, but I’ll tolerate no insolence from you!” He
paused and let his glare slide over the people. “Most of us here
have had a loved one killed by the MacIrwins. But Gwyneth Carswell
didn’t do any of that. She grew up in England and has only lived in
the Highlands a short time. Because she helped me, the MacIrwins
want to kill her, too. That puts her on our side.”
    The room remained quiet.
    “Now, does anyone else have any ill will
toward Mistress Carswell?” he asked. “Anyone else here going to pin
all the MacIrwins’ misdeeds on her?”
    Several heads shook negatively in response.
And a few murmured, “Nay, m’laird.”
    “If you do, you’ll have me to answer to, and
I won’t be so lenient with the next offense.” He turned toward two
men, guards carrying swords and outfitted in metal studded leather
armor, and spoke quietly to them.
    Now that she was fairly certain the clan
wouldn’t lynch her, Gwyneth tried to calm herself, despite her
knees being a bit unsteady. She was most thankful to Alasdair for
defending her. Still, she was concerned for Eileen and bewildered
by her. She feared the girl wouldn’t be safe in the cell with
Weems.
    The two guards escorted the women through the
ranks of the silent clan. And Alasdair headed toward her.
    “Come with me, m’lady,” he murmured as he
passed her. She could not fathom the way he switched from calling
her ‘Mistress Carswell’ in front of his clan, to a more elevated
form of address in private. He had deduced too much about her,
insisting on using a form of address she no longer claimed. But
because of the way he said it, almost as a friendly endearment, she
could not bring herself to ask him to stop.
    Urging Rory before her, she followed Alasdair
up the stairs and down a short corridor, past his room. He flung
open a door. “You’ll both use this room. ’Twas cleaned