My Fierce Highlander by Vonda Sinclair Page B

the employ of my father,” he
continued. “I feared she wouldn’t be able to find another position
at her age. I’ve a feeling she’s terrorized more than one of the
maids.” He was silent for a long moment. “What she had Eileen do is
unforgivable.”
    Unforgivable? Did he mean to have Weems
killed? And Eileen—she’d practically been forced into her actions.
In Gwyneth’s experience, men often judged women too harshly.
    “What will you do to them?” Surely he wasn’t
the sort of man who would execute women for injuring someone.
    “Let them stay in the dungeon for a few days
while they worry about what I might do to them. As for after
that, I haven’t decided.”
    “I think Eileen is as much a victim as I am.”
Gwyneth hoped he would show her some mercy, at least.
    “In a way, aye. But she should never have
carried out the stabbing. She should’ve come to me instead of
believing Weems. And if any of the other servants or clan members
get it in their heads to stab someone, outside battle, they will
know I’ll dole out a just punishment.”
    Tessie trotted into the room with the water
and whisky, then upon seeing Alasdair, halted and bobbed a curtsy.
“M’laird. Mistress, I’d have been here sooner, but I had to draw
fresh water from the well.”
    “It’s all right.”
    Tessie helped her clean the wound again with
the whisky. Gwyneth mixed the herbs with the water and applied a
paste, and then a bandage, while Alasdair watched from the
background. She could scarce believe he had so much interest in her
wound. The concern in his eyes made her feel self-conscious. She
was afraid his clan would notice and whisper speculations behind
their hands. That was all she needed, to be the focus of another
scandal.
    Once Tessie finished and left, Alasdair
glanced into the corridor and spoke to the large, dark-haired man
who waited there. “MacDade, you are to guard Mistress Carswell and
her son. Don’t let anyone pass through this door without checking
with me.”
    “Except Tessie,” Gwyneth said.
    “Aye, if you trust her.”
    “I do.”
    “Very well, then. I’ll be next door if you
should need anything.”
    “Many good thanks, my laird.”
    He gave a brief bow, and his troubled gaze
lingered on her until he closed the door between them.
    His kindness confused her. Was he simply
repaying the favor since she’d helped save his life days ago? Or
was it something else? She didn’t know how to interpret his
actions. In her experience, men were only kind to women in the
presence of others, or when they wanted something. Such had been
the case in her parents’ marriage when she was growing up.
    Gwyneth paced to the bed and observed Rory
sleeping. He looked pale and exhausted after the turmoil of the
last few days. The dark circles beneath his eyes concerned her.
    She was not the least bit sleepy. The sharp
pain in her arm remained strong.
    In the dim candlelight, she glanced around at
the luxurious room. Green velvet curtains draped the bed. Indeed,
the featherbed was the softest she’d ever touched. Rory had never
slept on something so fine. If the man who’d sired him had taken
responsibility, Rory would have slept on a bed soft as this from
the time he was a tiny babe. And she would’ve been a marchioness.
But such things were of no significance now.
    She shivered and climbed into bed. During the
next few hours, sleep eluded her. Despite the extra blankets she
piled on the bed, she only grew colder.
    ***
    “Laird MacGrath.”
    Alasdair roused from a fitful sleep he had
just fallen into. Thin dawn light strained through the window.
    Trained as a warrior who had to be ready for
battle at any moment, he sprang out of bed and bumped his sore toe
against the floor. Pain shot up his leg. “ Iosa is Muire
Mhàthair !” he rasped, along with a few more words he wouldn’t
utter in mixed company. “Aye, what the devil do you want?” he
demanded of Busby when his breath returned.
    “Pray pardon, m’laird.