“Of course not,” she lied. She blushed when she lied, he noted. Shy as she was, she had the untamable pride of all the Fearsome MacLeods.
“Then why? Why me?” he asked. He saw the panic in her eyes, knew she wouldn’t tell him, though there was a reason—he was certain of that. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re killing me . . .”
“Good evening, Gillian,” Angus Mor said, arriving to sit on her other side. “What a fine summer evening it is. Fia’s garden is in full bloom if ye wish to take a turn after supper. I always find the roses smell sweetest at twilight, still warm from the day, and there’s a lovely view of the sun setting over the sea from the garden.”
Gillian’s teeth found her lower lip again, and John took a gulp of wine, cool, sweet, and heady. “I shall see if Fia is well enough to join me,” she said to Angus.
“You’ve no need of a chaperone at Carraig Brigh. There’s nothing—no one—to fear here, mistress,” John said, drawing her attention back.
Her eyes flashed. “I’m not afraid.”
Angus chuckled. “No doubt ye’ve got a sharp dirk, just like your sisters.” He leaned across her and grinned at John. “The Fearsome MacLeod has trained his lasses how to defend themselves, English John. This lass will not fall prey to your charms.” He winked at Gillian. “But best be on your guard, mistress. John has bewitched half the Sinclair lasses, and the other half are waitin’ for their turn. They swoon just watching him at work with sword and ax.”
John remembered the day Gillian and Fia had stopped to watch him on the training fields. The lass’s cheeks were the color of ripe summer plums now. She kept her eyes lowered, and Angus’s smile faded.
“Och, I’m sorry, lass. Such bold talk.” He changed the subject. “I understand ye’ll only be here a few days, and then ye’re off to your grand wedding just as soon as Dair arrives home to take ye.”
John saw concern in Gillian’s green eyes. “Is he very late, Angus? I can tell Fia’s more worried than she’s letting on.”
Angus sighed. “I know. We all know. She’s putting a brave face on it for the clan’s sake, and we’re putting a brave face on it for hers.” He took a sip of wine. “I’ve never met a man who knows the sea as well as Dair Sinclair. He’ll be back. No doubt there’s a storm somewhere that’s keeping him in port a wee bit longer than he planned.”
“I’ll wait with Fia until he comes,” Gillian said.
Angus winked at her and chuckled. “But if it’s more than a fortnight, ye’ll risk being late for your wedding, and none of us wants that. I’m sure ye have a good number of things to see to in Edinburgh before the ceremony. I could take ye myself, but my Annie is also with child, and due within the month.”
She glanced at John. “Will you be coming on the voyage?”
“Who? English John?” Angus scoffed before John could reply. “Nay, he won’t sail. He hates the sea.”
“In truth, I have duties here, Mistress MacLeod. A shame to miss your wedding, but you’ll have a full compliment of Sinclairs and MacLeods. The kirk will be quite crowded with so many Highlanders present. The townsfolk will fear it’s an invasion or a reiving,” John quipped.
Angus frowned at the jest. “She’s one of our own, kin by marriage, and we’ll give her a proper escort. If anyone thinks badly of it, then we’ll sack the place.”
Gillian smiled at Angus’s joke, and it was like seeing the sun after days—months—of rain and cold. John tried to concentrate on his meal, but she buzzed in his veins like warm whisky.
A few days, a week, and then she’d be gone again. He knew nothing about the man she was going to marry, but he could imagine what he was like—a braw Scot, handsome and rich, hand-picked by her father. The next time John saw Gillian—if he ever saw her again—she’d be married, giving her kisses to another man, big with his children, in love. That man would be the one with the right to touch her, to kiss her in dark gardens, to lay her down and love her . . .
Not that it had ever been his right. He tried not to resent the man, but he did. Once, John had been Gillian’s social equal—higher in rank than her father, actually—a suitable match for Gillian MacLeod—a fine match, as the English said. Not now. He had accepted his lot, the loss of his family and his position, but now he felt the old familiar bitterness fill him once again, and he rose.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve things to see to,” he said, needing to get away from her, away from the ridiculous desire to grab her hand as he’d done at the ball, and pull her outside, or upstairs, or anywhere private.
“What things?” Angus asked, his guileless eyes wide.
“Things,” John said through gritted teeth.
Angus Mor grinned and winked. “Och, aye. Things. Elspeth or Rhona?” he asked.
He watched as Gillian’s jaw tensed. She thought he was going to another woman.
He grabbed her hand after all. He brought it to his lips, kissed it, breathed her in. Her fingers curled against his palm, and it almost undid him. He let her go. “I wish you good night, mistress, and if you should sail before I see you again, I hope your journey to your beloved is swift and uneventful.”
He didn’t offer his congratulations on her nuptials. He walked away, took Angus’s suggestion, and went to the rose garden. He stood staring out at the sea as the sun sank into the blackness of the deep water.
If he expected—hoped—that she’d follow him there, he was disappointed. Not that he really thought she would.
He’d stood here and relived their brief encounter over and over in the past months. He thought if he only knew who she was, it would make it easier to forget her.
But if he’d invented the perfect woman, the face he’d have wanted to find if he’d had the opportunity to unmask her, he’d want all the things that made up Gillian MacLeod. He plucked a rose and stared into the pink heart of it. It was as soft as her skin, as warm and sweet.
He dropped the flower and strode away.
One week. All he had to do was avoid her for one short week.
It would be better once she was gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
One week turned to nine days, then ten, with no sign of Dair Sinclair’s ship.
Moire o’ the Spring sat with Fia and Gillian in the rose garden, where the lady of Carraig Brigh spent every afternoon, watching the sea for sails.
Moire gathered roses, cutting them with her crescent-shaped knife. The heavy blossoms drowsed in the afternoon sun and hummed with bees. The honey would be sweet this year, the midwife thought as she placed the flowers into her basket. In the meantime, she’d steep the rose petals with lavender for Fia, make a tea to help her sleep, to soothe headache and melancholy.
Fia rested in the shade, her expression tight, her face pale, and her hand on her belly, holding the troublesome child within. She scanned the empty sea again and sighed.
“He’s been late before,” Moire said.
“Yes. He won’t sail if there’s a storm, but there are other things, worse things, that could happen. I can’t help but worry,” Fia replied.
Moire knew the tale, had seen what the English had done to Dair Sinclair. He’d been broken, mad, scarred. The Sinclairs owed English John a tremendous debt for rescuing him from the hell of an English gaol. Just what English John had done to be sharing Dair’s cell had never been made clear. He kept himself to himself, and guarded the secrets of his past like a miser. She’d discovered for herself that he was kind, clever, and honorable, but not happy, not whole.
Moire looked at Gillian MacLeod, who sat holding Fia’s hand, lending her sister strength. There was another one who held her secrets close. But still waters often hid treasures under a placid surface. Moire suspected it was so with this lass, that she was deep and full despite her quiet nature.
Fia’s restless sigh rivaled the wind off the sea, and Gillian looked to Moire.
“Worry does the babe no good,” Moire said. She laid her hand on Fia’s belly. The child moved under her touch, and Moire smiled. “O
ch, she’ll be a strong lass, this one.”
“It feels different this time,” Fia said fretfully. “I wish Dair were here.”
“He’ll be home soon,” Gillian said soothingly. Fia squeezed her hand tight.
Moire looked at Gillian MacLeod. What did a maid know of such things as babies and longing for a man who was far away? What would she ever know, planning to wed a man three times her own age? Fia spoke of the match as if a husband older than her own father was a blessing for the shy lass. Moire suspected Gillian wasn’t truly happy. When others chattered happily of the wedding, Gillian MacLeod’s smile never quite reached her eyes.
Moire frowned at the girl. She was doing as others expected her to do, when she’d do better to follow her heart. Moire had a strong idea what—or who—Gillian’s heart yearned for. She’d caught the lass following English John in the dark when she was last here, and now she saw how Gillian blushed whenever John was near. She was sure it wasn’t from being shy or fearful of Sassenachs. Nay, there was yearning in her eyes, desire. It made Moire wonder if there was more to it, a part of the tale that she didn’t know.
Moire liked English John. He was a good man. Tira Fraser wasn’t the only Sinclair who found game and bread on the doorstep in times of need, or the only one daft enough to think it was fairy-given. They just didn’t want to believe the bounty came from a Sassenach.
But Moire knew. She’d seen John hunting rabbits and grouse in the wood at night, though he ate all his meals at the castle. Folk thought him a rogue and a seducer, but Moire knew at least half the tales of his dealings with women were false. He was chivalrous, gentle, and honorable—especially with women. He kept company with one or two widows from time to time, but far less often than folk believed. He was careful not to breed bastards or offer hope of a wedding. He trained hard with his sword, taught others, recognized each man’s talents and brought them out, gave them pride, but took no credit. And he played his flute, of course, and made flutes for the children in the spring when the willow was green and supple. In Moire’s opinion, English John deserved a good woman, a home, and bairns of his own.
It hadn’t escaped Moire’s notice that John had been different in the past months, quieter, more serious, restless. Elspeth had been seen keeping company with Allan Fraser.
Moire had considered slipping a tonic into English John’s cup, something to stimulate his desires—lovage, perhaps, or hawthorn, or damiana. But she’d seen something spark in him when Gillian MacLeod returned.
And the lass flared like a pine torch whenever John so much as passed by her.
Moire slipped up behind Gillian now. “English John,” she whispered in the lass’s ear. She hid a grin as Gillian jumped and blushed, and scanned the garden for the Englishman. Now who needed to peer into the goddess’s spring and beg for secret signs when it was so plain to see that the lass was smitten with John Erly? She suspected he was smitten with her, too. Och, but the goddess liked a challenge—or a bit of fun. The lass was betrothed elsewhere, and John didn’t dally with women who belonged to other men. She was leaving soon, too, and John was staying at Carraig Brigh.
Moire sent up a wish to the goddess, and silently promised to leave a gift at the spring when next she visited.
“The roses are sweeter, bigger, more fragrant this year,” Fia said, taking a blossom from Moire’s basket and holding it her nose. “They say they grow stronger when true love is in the air.” She smiled at Gillian. “I’ll send you cuttings, and you can plant them at Sir Douglas’s estate.”
“Thank you,” Gillian said simply.
“Do ye love him?” Moire asked Gillian.
The lass’s blush renewed itself. “I—oh. You mean Sir Douglas.”
Moire raised her eyebrows. “Who else could I mean?”
“I hold him in the highest possible regard. He’s a fine man, and very kind,” she said as if she were reciting a lesson.
“Kind?” Moire squinted at her. “Kind? Is he the kind who would kiss a lass senseless?”
Gillian MacLeod raised her eyes fast enough at that. Her blush rivaled the reddest, most passionate rose in the whole garden, and Moire knew it wasn’t for her elderly groom.
“Sir Douglas is writing a book,” Gillian said, flustered now. “About the tides. I shall help him with that.” She looked to her sister for help, but Fia’s thoughts were for her own man, her eyes on the sea, and she was oblivious to her sister’s fate. “Perhaps we should go in, Fia, out of the sun,” Gillian said, rising to her feet.
“Aye, moonlight’s what’s wanted,” Moire muttered. When Fia and Gillian glanced at her, she tilted her head. “Gillian’s right. It’s time to go in and rest awhile.”
“You’re right. I’ll go in and see the twins. I’ve ordered a watch set. They’ll call me as soon as the ship is seen,” Fia said. She cast one more look at the empty sea.
“Of course they will.” Gillian smiled at her sister as she helped her rise. “You’re as round as a plum, Fia.”
Fia patted her belly. “I know. Dair won’t find me pretty now.”
“You’re beautiful,” Gillian said. “You’re radiant, full of new life, his child.”
Moire caught the wistful look on the young woman’s face. Fia had said that Sir Douglas was past her father’s age, and he had a grown son. He didn’t expect or want more children. Gillian was a young and beautiful, and surely she deserved a full life with a virile, adoring husband.
Fia touched her sister’s cheek. “You should be radiant as well, Gilly, but you aren’t. Are you unhappy about your marriage?”
“Of course I’m happy. It is an honor, and Sir Douglas is . . .” She hesitated and blushed under her sister’s frown, glanced at Moire. Moire narrowed her eyes. He isn’t John Erly. Gillian looked away.
Fia leaned on her sister’s arm. “No doubt Sir Douglas is anxiously waiting for you to arrive. What a terrible tangle! Dair has two days to get here—two days—if you’re to sail on time. If you don’t leave soon, you’ll have no time to prepare for the wedding.” Fia frowned at Moire. “She can’t be late for her own wedding.”
“If the goddess wills that she’s meant to be there, she will be,” Moire said. “Pity English John isn’t going on the journey.” Gillian focused her gaze on the path at her feet.
“He hates the sea,” Fia said. “I asked him why once. He said only that he’d been on a ship before, found the voyage unpleasant. He wouldn’t say why.”
“If Dair doesn’t come, I suppose she’ll have to choose—she can stay here, or go home, or travel by land if she can’t have a ship,” Moire said.
Fia glanced up. “Aye, I suppose she could go by land, but it will take much longer. Perhaps Angus Mor can take you aboard the Maid, Gilly.”
“Angus Mor?” Moire said, frowning. “But Annie’s with child, due before the full moon, and that’s in a sennight.”
“But Annie births her bairns so easily,” Fia said.
“If the goddess wishes it,” Moire said with a shrug. “Angus won’t want to be away when she’s so close to her time.”
Fia’s eyes widened, and she stopped walking, her hand on her own belly. “What have you seen, Moire? Is Annie . . .” She shook her head. “No, wait—I don’t want to know. Dair will be home on the evening tide, and Annie will have another fine, strong lad, and Gilly will sail to Edinburgh in plenty of time for her wedding and will live happily ever after.”
Moire made another sign to the goddess “Then may it be as ye decree, Countess.” But it wouldn’t matter what Fia wanted. Fate had a way of interfering with human plans, and the goddess had a sense of humor.
“Aye, happily ever after,” she murmured as she took Fia’s other arm and helped Gillian to lead her inside to rest.
CHAPTER TWELVE
By the following afternoon, there was still no sign of Dair. John saw how worried Fia was, noted the dark circles under her eyes, saw how drawn and pale she was. She looked thin behind her pregnant belly.
Gillian was
supposed to sail the next morning, but it was clear that wouldn’t happen now. He wasn’t sure if he was glad or dismayed. He’d avoided her company as much as possible, but he couldn’t help but see her. It had been torment and pleasure. He couldn’t look into her eyes or smell her perfume without wanting to drag her into his arms.
Best she was gone, he thought, and soon.
When Fia asked to see him, he expected she would tell him that plans had changed, and Angus would take Gillian to Edinburgh aboard the Maid. That was fine by John—he could easily manage things until Dair arrived home.
Gillian’s MacLeod escorts were anxious. They’d been given the task of taking their laird’s daughter to her wedding, and Donal MacLeod would expect a full report of any problems. He didn’t like bad news, had no patience with delays or misadventures, or so Fia said. All five MacLeod warriors were pacing the floor of the hall as John made his way to the library.
The only one who didn’t seem concerned was Gillian herself. She was calmly playing with her niece and nephew as he passed. She’ll make a wonderful mother, he thought, and gritted his teeth.
He found Fia using Dair’s telescope to scan the sea. “Is there any sign of him?” he asked her, and she turned.
“No, not yet.”
He helped her to a chair, watched her try to find a comfortable position. She frowned at him once she was settled. “You look like you haven’t slept,” she said to him.
“Me?” He looked at her in surprise. Trust Fia to notice even the subtlest changes in the people she cared about. “I’m fine,” he assured her, then forced a grin. “Better than fine.”
She sent him a look of mild rebuke. “I hope the same can be said of Elspeth, or Rhona, or Effie . . .”
He winked, played the rogue. “A gentleman never gossips.” He sat beside her. “And how are you feeling?”
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