Page 57 of The Return of the Heir

Chapter Eighteen

The flame on the candle by Gwendolyn’s bedside shifted from yellowish orange, to red, then blue, and back again as she waited in the silence of her chamber for news of Alastair. When she’d returned to her chamber, she’d removed the dagger from between her breasts, grateful she hadn’t had to use it, and set it near the candle. Her gaze shifted from the dagger back to the candle. She stared at the light as if in a trance for what seemed like hours, willing her nerves to settle.

“Are you well?”

A deep masculine voice, taut, hard, issued from somewhere beyond the flame.

Gwendolyn jerked her gaze from the flame to the face beyond the candle. Alastair. He was here. Wild joy soared through her at the sight of him. He’d shed most of his finery from tonight’s festivities, wearing only his tartan and the shirt beneath, but to her he appeared even more breathtaking as his presence filled the doorway.

“Answer me. Did Garrick harm you in any way?” He entered her chamber and shut the door behind him.

“Nay.” She threw back the covers, but before she could go to him he came to her bedside.

He sat on the bed and reached out, touching her chin, lifting it to better view the damage to her neck that was now bandaged with a thin strip of linen. “You were bleeding.”

“’Twas but a cut. Nothing serious. When I returned, Lottie washed then dressed the wound. She also helped treat the two guards that Garrick had injured.”

His breath released in a rush and he dropped his hand to his lap. “Three blessings then. I have enough to worry about without adding your assault by Garrick or injuries to my men to the list.”

“I did not mean to cause you more trouble.” Gwendolyn could feel her eyes filling with tears and determinedly blinked them back. “I was only trying to help.”

“What were you and Marcus doing at the MacDonalds in the first place?”

She reached for the small wooden chest on the bed beside her and with it atop her palms, held it out to him. “Even though I had no choice but to take this from you, I wanted to right that wrong.” This time she could not stop the tears that fell from her lashes onto her cheeks. “Forgive me?”

He accepted the wooden chest and with great care opened the latch. His eyes widened in surprise. Inside lay the Fairy Flag. The small golden crosses on the yellowed silk had faded over the years, leaving only the telltale red “elf dots” upon the fabric’s surface. “You are more important to me than any flag. If anything had happened to you. . .”

“It was important for me to do this.”

Alastair set the flag on the floor beside the bed before turning back to her. “Promise me you will never go near the MacDonald clan again.” He took her hand in his. “Now that I have you back, I could not bear to lose you again.”

The words swept over her, sank into her. She heard the care in them and the warmth, and she felt shaky inside. “I promise.”

His arms moved to her arms, slid down to her elbows, over her bare arms. His touch sent shivers through her body, sent longing stabbing straight into her heart. “I was only successful because of Marcus.” She paused, took a breath. “He truly does love Rowena, regardless of his surname. He risked everything for me, for this flag, in an attempt to prove that his loyalty to Rowena was more important than his own clan.”

“I will speak to them both soon. And Marcus can convince me of his affection then.” Alastair reached up and dried the tears from her cheeks. He did not pull his hand away. Instead, he wound his forefinger in one of the curls at her left temple. “You never needed my forgiveness, Gwendolyn. I know you did what you had to do to survive.” The words were thick. “It is I who needs to beg your forgiveness for so many years of neglect. Had I not left Dunvegan, I might have discovered you sooner.”

“Neither of us can change the past.”

“Nay, we cannot. But we must both start thinking about the future.” The tip of his finger rested lightly against her cheekbone while he ran the silky texture of the curl between his forefinger and thumb. The action brought a catch to her breath.

“What about Beatrice?”

“Our betrothal is broken, which leaves just you and me.” She remembered that strange huskiness that came to his voice from when they’d been together on the shore of the loch so long ago. The sound of it worked its same magic over her now. The back of his hand feathered lightly across her bandaged neck and to her left shoulder, while his other hand rested on her right arm.

“How did you know I needed help? I thought no one saw me leave Dunvegan, though I was wrong about that.”

“My mother came to me. She warned me that Garrick and Beatrice had followed you.”

“The Grey Lady followed me?”

“She tried but could not go past the edge of the castle wall, so she alerted me to the danger.” He gave Gwendolyn a half-smile. “I believe my mother has a fondness for you.”

“And I for her.” Gwendolyn paused as her throat went thick. “And her son.”

Their gazes caught and held as Alastair’s hands tightened imperceptibly on her arm and shoulder, slowly drawing her closer until he bent his head. He brushed his lips over hers, rubbing lightly. This time his kiss was an invitation, a challenge for her to accept or deny.

She answered the challenge slowly, leaning into his arms. Her hand slid softly up his shirt. His hands came down to her waist and pulled her closer against his hard chest. Gwendolyn’s heartbeat thundered in her chest as his tongue flicked against her lips, teasing, inviting. And she answered his challenge in the only way she could. She slid her hands around his shoulders and kissed him back with a fierceness she didn’t know she possessed. She allowed him to part her lips and, when his tongue probed, she welcomed the invasion with equal fervor and need.