Enchanted by the Highlander

by Cornwall, Lecia

  John turned to go with another chuckle. “Then I’ll bid you goodnight, Moire o’ the Spring, and leave you to your secret task.”

  The old woman waited until he’d disappeared and his footfalls had faded to silence.

  “Ye can come out. Your secret’s safe with me,” the old woman said. She turned toward Gillian’s hiding place.

  “My—secret?” Gillian said.

  “Ye were following English John.”

  Gillian held up her bow. “Nay—I was hunting,” she said, sounding breathless. “I do hope I haven’t stepped on the plants.”

  “What plants?” the old woman asked, cocking her head.

  “The rare ones you were gathering.”

  The old woman cackled. “I’m a midwife. I was on my way home after helping a village lass birth her babe. You’re the only flower I was seeking. I saw ye come into the wood, and I was curious.”

  “Curious?”

  “Aye. You’re Fia’s wee sister. And he’s—” She shrugged.

  Gillian raised her chin. “I saw him hunting last night. I was curious, too.”

  “Were ye now?” The midwife’s voice was full of amusement. “Then ye know he helps where he can, keeps it to himself. Will ye tell?”

  “No.” Gillian shifted. “Is it safe to move? I won’t crush any plants?”

  “Ye might, but you’re standing in naught but a patch of honeysuckle, and that’s best gathered at night.”

  “For a spell?” Gillian asked.

  The old woman chuckled. “For a child in the village with a cough. Steep the leaves and flowers with honey. Your sister would know that. She knows plants and their healing powers almost as well as I do myself.”

  “Oh.” Gillian felt a trifle foolish.

  “I’m a midwife, lass, not a witch. Ye’ve no cause to fear me. There’s magic in all living things, power that can harm or heal. It must be respected, treated with care,” Moire said more gently and began to cut the plant. The sweet scent of flowers filled the air.

  She found Gillian’s hand in the dark, pressed a sprig of blossoms into it, and folded her fingers over it. The scent was heady, cloying.

  “They say that if ye take honeysuckle blossoms into your house, ye’ll wed within a year. It will draw true love to ye. Do ye want that?”

  Gillian took a breath. Yes. Oh, yes. “You’re the second person today to tell me I’ll wed within the year.”

  “Does that please ye?” Moire asked.

  Gillian didn’t answer. Instead, she looked down the path that John had taken, but there was no gleam of blond hair, no sound of footsteps.

  The old midwife laughed at her silence. “’Tis no matter. The goddess knows, even if ye don’t.”

  She shooed Gillian away. “Ye’d best go in where it’s safe.”

  And Gillian went, hurrying down the path with her heart still beating fast, and a sudden longing for the safety of her bed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I won’t be attending the masked ball,” John said to Dair.

  Dair slowly set his cup down on the table and leveled a glare at him. “If I’m going, so are ye—even if I have to order ye at sword point to do so.”

  John folded his arms over his chest and sat back. “Wouldn’t matter. I’m a better swordsman than you.”

  Dair didn’t rise to the jest. He glared harder still. “I don’t like it, either. I think it’s a daft idea, but Fia wants to do it, has her heart set on it. She expects ye to be there. It would disappoint her if ye didn’t come.”

  “How would she know?” John quipped. He had his own reasons for hating masked balls. A masked lady in a dark garden, a trap . . . He pushed the ugly memory away.

  “She’d know, and she’d have my head for it. Ye know that. Dress as anything ye like—an English king, perhaps, but not one of the ones that tried to invade Scotland,” Dair said.

  “That’s most of them, I’m afraid.” John looked at Dair’s frown. “What’s she making you dress up as?”

  Dair grimaced and reached for the pitcher that stood on the table between them. “Pirate,” he muttered, as he refilled both cups with more whisky.

  John grinned. Then he laughed, which only made Dair’s scowl deepen.

  “If I have to get myself up as a pirate, ye can bring that infernal flute of yours and come as Pan.” He sipped and sent John a steely scowl. “And that’s an order.”

  * * *

  Fia smiled as she held up the pretty blue velvet gown, the skirt wide with damask panniers, the petticoats and the white silk undergown edged with lavish layers of French lace. It was trimmed with pearls and yards of blue ribbon. Gillian stared at it, blinking.

  “Well, what do you think? Isn’t it pretty?” Fia asked. “And there’s a pair of matching slippers, blue velvet, embroidered with more pearls.”

  “I think it looks like nothing any shepherd lass would wear,” Gillian said slowly.

  Fia frowned slightly. “Well, no—it’s simply meant to remind folk of your simplicity, your innocence, your—”

  “Ability to herd sheep?” Gillian quipped. She looked at the crook, painted gold and tied with ribbons, silk flowers, and bells.

  Fia flushed. “You’ll look very pretty, Gilly.”

  Gillian didn’t reply. She crossed to touch the edge of the mask that lay on the table—gleaming white silk edged with pearls—and wondered what it would feel like to be anonymous. Yet the shepherdess costume would make her feel more ridiculous than anonymous. Diana the Huntress would suit her better, something completely outside her character, something that wasn’t in the least demure, or sweet, or very pretty.

  She forced herself to smile at Fia. “Thank you,” she said. She took the shepherdess costume back to her room—such a lot of silk and lace, and three ruffled petticoats—and set all of it carefully over the back of a chair. She sat on the bed and stared at it, trying to imagine herself wearing it. What did one do with such a costume after the ball? It wasn’t something she’d ever wear again, and she could hardly offer it to a real shepherdess. She picked up the mask and went to the mirror, held it up to her face and studied it. Her eyes sparkled through the almond-shaped slits, and below the edge of the mask, her lips were curved, plump, and pink. She hardly looked like Gillian MacLeod. She looked . . . exotic.

  Like a woman ready for an adventure.

  With a forbidden Englishman.

  A blush suffused her face under the mask, but the silk hid the telltale sign of her shyness and uncertainty.

  What harm would it do to flirt with a handsome gentleman? She’d watched her sisters flirt. How hard could it be? A lass allowed a handsome lad to pay her outrageous compliments while she batted her lashes, cast cow-eyes at him, laughed often, and gave away nothing.

  And that would be easy enough—and perfectly safe—from behind a mask.

  But on the night of the ball, Gillian decided not to wear the shepherdess costume for a number of reasons. Fia would keep her close to her side like a child on leading strings. Her sister would introduce her to the right people, gentlemen who would do their best to hide the disinterest and faint embarrassment in their eyes while Fia replied to everything they said to Gillian. And her father would stand behind her and beam his encouragement at them. She really wouldn’t need to be there at all.

  Adventure, she reminded herself, required her own voice, her own choice.

  She selected a gown from the dazzling, glamorous creations that had been made for her in Edinburgh, a luscious deep pink silk that was lined with shimmering yellow satin. It had gold bows down the front of the bodice, and gold embroidery along the hem and the edge of the sleeves. The neckline was low cut and daring, edged with a delicate froth of lace. A cape of matching pink silk, lined with gold, attached to her shoulders with small diamond clips, and floated behind her.

  Gillian bit her lip as she looked at the gorgeous gown. It was the kind of gown that attracted attention, made people stare and imagine the woman wearing it must be bold, daring, and ut
terly charming. If it weren’t for this ball, Gillian would never have the courage to wear it. Yet the Edinburgh dressmaker had created it just for her—she said the deep pink silk was reminiscent of Gillian’s maidenly blush, and the yellow set off the copper lights in her hair and the green-gold of her eyes. It was made to whisper when she walked, make people think of intimate conversations and candlelight. And when she wore it, the dressmaker promised, no one would be able to look at any other woman.

  Perhaps that might have pleased any other woman, but it had sent Gillian into a panic at the thought of being so very much on display.

  Until now.

  She had thought she’d give the gown to Meggie, who was the kind of bold, outspoken, flirtatious lass who liked being the center of attention.

  But tonight, Gillian wanted to be the flirtatious one. And with her hair covered, and the pretty silk mask, no one would recognize shy, mousy Gillian.

  She’d be anonymous, free, adventurous.

  She braided her hair and tucked it under a velvet cap set with pearls. Then she donned the white velvet mask that covered her face from her forehead to the tip of her nose.

  When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized the elegant beauty looking back at her. And if she didn’t recognize Gillian MacLeod in the shimmering gown, surely no one else would.

  Not even her sister, or her father.

  Gillian smiled, a quirk of her rouged lips below the mask, and felt a thrill of anticipation rush along her spine. If she happened to attract the attention of one particular man, not a gentleman or a wealthy Highland laird, but an English rogue, well, then—the adventure would be all the better for it.

  Gillian’s courage nearly abandoned her when she reached the top of the steps and looked down into the hall. The room was teeming with people, and Gillian stopped, gripped the polished wooden railing, and wondered if she dared to go forward, to be among strangers—and masked strangers at that. Her eyes darted over the glittering costumes, the black dominoes, the mysterious masks, sinister in the flicker of candlelight. She tried to identify people she knew, but she recognized no one.

  She’d seen the guest list—the pirates and princes and Greek goddesses were only people—ship’s captains, Scotland’s greatest lords and ladies, the lairds and chiefs of several allied clans. Some were too proud to be anonymous. Masked they might be, but they wore their plaids or a brooch identifying their clan.

  She saw her father waiting at the bottom of the steps, dressed as a French lord, with the great MacLeod ruby gleaming on his shoulder like a splash of blood. And Fia stood beside him, costumed as a sea goddess with shells and pearls in her hair, and a mermaid’s tail embroidered on her frothy skirts. She looked beautiful and exotic.

  Gillian bit her lip. She should go and stand with them, be dutiful and polite. But they barely glanced at her as she approached, too busy scanning the crowds, looking for someone. Gillian walked right up to them, but they looked through her. “Where can she be?” Fia asked.

  “There are six shepherdesses here—nay, seven . . . and none of them are Gillian,” her father said.

  “Her gown is blue,” Fia said. She glanced at Gillian and offered her a polite smile and nod, but there was no recognition in her sister’s eyes.

  Gillian raised her hand, about to touch her sister’s sleeve, but then she realized that she was truly anonymous, unknown, and as close to invisible as one could be.

  The possibilities of that were endless and delightful.

  Tonight, she wasn’t Gillian MacLeod. She was the lady in pink, and she was free to say and do as she pleased, if only she dared. She smiled as she reached for a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant. She sipped. It was golden, sweet, and cool. It flowed down her throat and curled seductively in her belly, warming her, brightening the room.

  She took a breath and swept past her father and her sister, crossed the room, and smiled at those who smiled at her from behind their masks. She floated through the hall as light as a feather, giddy and free.

  She stopped when she caught sight of John Erly. She knew him by his height and his blond hair. He stood in a circle of people, dressed as a satyr and playing a flute. He wasn’t masked, but he’d painted his face with exotic black lines. He wore horns on his forehead.

  “There’s not a lass at Carraig who hasn’t had her head turned by English John. Flattery gets him everything, and he knows just what to say to win a lass’s heart and her—Well, he isn’t for novices, Gilly, and he isn’t for you. Stay away from him while you’re here.” Fia’s words echoed in her head. But what would it feel like to be charmed and flirted with by such a man?

  Gillian took another glass of the seductive white wine and walked toward John Erly.

  * * *

  John hated masked balls. A tryst with an unknown lady was all the more delicious, made men careless and bold, and when things went too far . . . well, it was easy to blame a man for something he didn’t do, liberties he would never have taken if he’d known. Ah, but she’d known him from the start. She’d had no honor to protect, but he’d done so anyway, and it had cost him everything.

  He’d sworn he’d never attend another masked ball, and yet here he was, dressed in a ridiculous costume because it made Fia happy and Dair had insisted.

  He intended to stay well away from masked ladies tonight and to remain in the light where he could be seen. He’d retire early and alone.

  As the satyr, he played a merry tune on his flute for the assembled company. He winked at the ladies and the lasses, made them giggle and simper, but not enough to cause the men escorting them to fear his intentions were anything more than high spirits.

  He caught sight of a lady on the edge of the circle of folk tapping their toes to his tune. An earl’s wife, or a chief’s daughter, no doubt, since she was elegantly and expensively dressed, her gown costly, her jewels real. He scanned her from head to toe, from the saucy velvet cap that covered her hair, over her mask and the plump sweetness of her mouth, to the long white column of her neck. He admired the creamy expanse of the slopes of her breasts, temptingly displayed above a froth of French lace. She was slender, but not without pleasing curves, and tall for a woman. Even though she was masked, he could tell by the elegant lines of her body and that lush mouth that she was beautiful.

  She stood a little apart from the crowd, seemed to hover a few inches above the stone floor, shimmering and magical in her pink and gold silk. He looked into the slits of her mask and felt his heart leap. The beauty was staring at him. Her lips curved to a half smile that would have made him groan if he hadn’t been playing his flute.

  He winked at her the way he’d winked at the rest, a teasing salute, but she didn’t giggle or simper. She tilted her head as if she were deciding something . . . then she smiled again, a slow, sweet, upward slant of her lips that made his mouth water.

  John felt curiosity rise beyond mere interest, become a desire to know more about her—a name, a clan, a title, spoken in a whisper before a kiss.

  He felt warning creep up his spine. He should look away, run.

  But he stared into the alluring sparkle of eyes too dark to see and played a softer tune on his flute, one about an unfaithful lover and a chance-met maiden. Did she know it? If she did, she gave no sign. She moved closer, walking around the outside of the crowd that surrounded him, step by step. She moved gracefully, flowed, and the color of her gown shifted and changed with every step, every breath, making him anticipate the next one.

  Could he smell her perfume? Impossible—she was more than a dozen feet away, yet he was suddenly surrounded by the fragrance of wildflowers, something infinitely feminine and tantalizing. His body responded, grew hard.

  He played a wrong note and grinned an apology at his audience, but hers was the only opinion that really mattered. She hadn’t seemed to notice.

  Slowly the rest of his audience drifted away, but she stayed.

  “Do you play?” he asked, holding the flute aloft, meaning th
at, and yet so much more. Would you like to?

  “I play the harp a little,” she said. Her voice was low and soft and musical, her accent lilting, full of the Highlands. It played him.

  “May I?” He held out his hand to her and waited. After a moment’s hesitation, the touch of her cool fingertips was startling.

  He turned her palm up to the light and ran his thumb over the tips of her fingers, felt the calluses.

  “You play more than a little. You’re good.”

  She lowered her gaze behind the mask and tightened her mouth slightly. “I—I am,” she said modestly. “I practice.”

  “What else are you good at? What else do you practice?” he asked, keeping his tone teasing. He knew better than to flirt with her, a stranger—she could be anyone, forbidden fruit—but the unknown was as tempting as it was dangerous. She was tempting. In a moment he’d release her hand, bow, grin, and walk away, before their flirtation—or whatever this was, this sensation of his brain turning to mush while his cock hardened—turned to more.

  She didn’t reply, seemed tongue-tied, lost for a response. She didn’t know how to flirt, he realized. It drove his curiosity higher still. She flicked her tongue over her lips, and he almost groaned. His own mouth tingled, and he was suddenly desperate to kiss her.

  “A drink,” he muttered.

  “What?” she said, her voice smoky.

  “Would you like a drink? I suddenly find it warm in here—too many candles perhaps, or too many people.” But it was only one woman, one flame, that did it. Her hand trembled slightly in his—he hadn’t realized he was still holding it, but he wasn’t inclined to let it go now. He watched the lace that edged her bodice shiver as she took a breath, knew the lady was as affected as he. Could he still walk away? He tried to focus, to speak of ordinary things, make light, polite, conversation. “Alasdair Og brings wine all the way from France by ship. It is sweet, potent, and quite delightful,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Do you?” He wondered again who she was.

  “It was served earlier.”