Enchanted by the Highlander

by Cornwall, Lecia

  “But I have coin,” John said, still stunned. “We could have just paid.”

  “Nay, they’ll be happier to receive the venison, and they’ll cook it for us, share it. It’s the Highland way,” Lachlan MacLeod said, watching Keir and Ewan carry the carcass back across the stream. The creature hadn’t suffered. She’d hit it cleanly, killed it with one expert shot.

  She would have made a fine trapper. There’d been plenty of Scots trappers, and Englishmen, and Cree, and Frenchmen, but it was a dangerous life for one not suited to it, or for a woman.

  He glanced at her again. While her men dressed the deer, Gillian picked blaeberries from a lush patch of the dark fruit, filling a pouch with them.

  She looked as placid as an English lass out on a picnic.

  When the men carried the deer out of the wood, Callum returned her arrow, freshly cleaned in the stream, and she thanked him with a blush and a sweet smile, as if he’d presented her with a rose. She put it back into her quiver. As Lachlan led her garron back to the track, John took Gillian’s arm and guided her through the ferns. He didn’t say a word. But he felt his heart blooming in his breast.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The farm was small but well-kept, John noted when they rode up to it in the late afternoon as the shadows were growing long. The cott and barn sat on the edge of a field at the base of a hill, away from the main track. A cow regarded their arrival placidly from her byre.

  The crofter came out onto the step, and three half-grown, rosy-cheeked bairns came with him. The man cast his eyes over Gillian, and the big men who surrounded her.

  “Feasgar math. Good afternoon.”

  “We’re hoping for a night’s shelter for our mistress and ourselves,” Callum said. “We’ve more meat than we can eat, and it would please us to share it.”

  The bairns were already crowding around the fine deer slung over the packhorse and gazing at Gillian. “A’bhean bhoideach,” one lass said, “a beautiful woman.” Gillian blushed and smiled shyly at the child.

  “You’re welcome here,” the farmer said. He laid his work-roughened hand on the top of one on the children’s heads. “Go fetch your mam, tell her we have visitors. We can give the lass a bed inside, and the rest of ye can sleep in the barn, if that suits ye.”

  “One of us will sleep inside if there’s space, to be near the lass,” Callum said mildly, but his meaning was clear. They were there to protect her. The farmer nodded.

  The farmer’s wife appeared with another babe on her hip. “This is my wife, Annag. I’m Jock MacCulloch.”

  Callum introduced the MacLeods, including Gillian, and John.

  John watched the woman’s face light up at the sight of the venison. She handed the babe to one of the older children and came forward. “We’d best get this on to cook so it’s ready for supper. Gair, go and pick some herbs and some wild garlic.”

  Gillian handed her the pouch of blaeberries. “May I help in the kitchen?”

  “Aye, I’d be glad of the chance to chat as well,” Annag said. “Jock, show the men where they can wash, and Fin, ye’ll help see to the garrons.”

  With all organized, she led Gillian inside, chattering as happily as if they were old friends.

  * * *

  The venison was served with barley porridge, bannock, and the blaeberries. There was ale and a wee jar of whisky to share out around the crowded table, and everyone was merry. Gillian stayed shyly quiet during the meal, though she smiled often and ate with a good appetite.

  “A wedding!” Annag MacCulloch gushed when Callum explained the reason for their journey. “How wonderful!”

  Her husband raised his cup. “A toast to the bonny bride,” he said, looking at Gillian, and drank deeply. Everyone else followed suit. Then Jock MacCulloch looked around the table at the men and settled on John. “Are ye the groom?”

  The MacLeods roared with laughter. “Nay—he’s a Sassenach. Our laird would never allow such a match,” Keir MacLeod said.

  Annag’s smile was replaced by a look of horror. “A Sassenach!” She looked at him as if the old wives’ tales were true, that Englishmen had horns and cloven hooves and tails. She sidled closer to her husband, put her hand on his arm. John sent her a charming smile, but before he could speak, Callum MacLeod did.

  “Nay, there’s no cause to fear, Annag—John Erly’s a good man, and Chief Sinclair’s captain of the guard. He can wield a claymore like a Highlander.”

  John felt like an idiot as the farm wife sighed with relief, and her husband regarded him soberly. “If he isn’t here to pillage and maraud and rape, then he’s as welcome as the rest of ye,” he said in Gaelic, speaking to the other men.

  “I’m just here for supper,” John replied in Gaelic, and they stared at him as if he were a trained bear, able to dance on command.

  He did what he always did when he was in mistrustful company. He took out his flute. He began to play a soft tune. Silence fell around the table.

  “Another one!” one of the bairns cried when that song ended, and John looked at Gillian. For her, he played a Scottish tune. The words told the tale of a shepherd on a moonlit night who dreams of spying on a fairy maiden bathing in a pool made of starlight. Night after night he watches, until he’s not sure if it is a dream, or if she’s as real as he is. By day he pines for his love until one night, much to his surprise, the lass rises from the pool and walks toward him, silver moonlight cascading from her body. And when she takes his hand and leads him to a fragrant bower of heather, he knows it isn’t a dream, but true love . . . Yet when he wakes with the dawn, he’s alone with his flock, and his fairy lover is gone forever.

  The bairns curled up against their mother, their sleepy eyelids drooping. The adults listened with rapt attention, but John was playing for only one person, for Gillian.

  He closed his eyes as he played the notes, remembering Gillian by moonlight, masked and mysterious, her lips softly parted as he drew her into his arms and brought his mouth to hers. He opened his eyes to find her watching him.

  Softly, she began to sing the words, her voice pure, sweet and high. The room disappeared, and he was lost in her eyes, deep in the heather with her in his arms, as bewitched as the shepherd. When the song ended, and the last notes died away, Annag sighed, and one of the MacLeods sniffled. Even burly Jock wiped away a sentimental tear, finished his ale, and got to his feet.

  “Thank ye for that, and for the pleasure of good company, but we’ve chores at dawn,” he said. He looked at Gillian. “You’ll sleep in the loft with our lasses, mistress, if that suits ye.”

  “Very well, thank you,” Gillian said. She rose to help Annag clear the cups and dishes from the table.

  Jock looked at the men. “Our two oldest lads are out with the cows tonight, so there’s space by the hearth for one of ye if ye still wish it. The rest of ye can bed in the barn.”

  Callum nodded. “Ewan, ye’ll bide here in case Gilly needs anything in the night. Thank ye, MacCulloch—the barn will suit the rest of us.”

  John followed the MacLeods across the yard to the barn. The hay smelled sweet as they bedded down, but soon the MacLeods were snoring like a herd of noisy cattle.

  John gave up trying to sleep and went out to the yard. The moon had risen, and the stars were coming out, one by one. The air was soft and cool, and he crossed to the well and filled the bucket. He stared at the moon’s reflection in the water and remembered—

  “May I have some?”

  John spun and found Gillian standing behind him, wrapped in her plaid against the chill.

  “Are you real, or am I dreaming?”

  “I’m real.”

  “Are you going hunting?”

  “Not tonight,” she said. “I’m just . . . restless.”

  He understood what she meant, felt it, too. Her braid hung over her shoulder, and the copper strands glowed in the moonlight. Escaped tendrils fell over her brow, and he longed to brush them back, to banish the shadows they cast over her eyes so h
e could read what she was thinking in the green depths. Instead, he filled the dipper and held it out to her, the way he had at the masquerade. Her fingers brushed his as she took it, sending shivers through him.

  “Do you wish to walk?” he asked her. Perhaps there was a pool made of starlight or a bed of heather . . .

  “I’d best not. If Ewan wakes and I’m not there, he’ll shout the whole house awake. Won’t the lads in the barn wonder where you’ve gone?”

  “They snore. They’ll probably assume I went to find some peace and quiet.”

  She looked around the quiet farmyard. “’Tis quiet here, and a beautiful night.”

  He couldn’t resist. “The kind where a shepherd might find a fairy lass?”

  She smiled. “And a soft bed of heather.”

  A hard jolt of desire crashed through him. What was it about Gillian MacLeod and moonlight? She was silent for a moment, watching him, clutching her plaid at her throat with long white fingers. She crossed the space that separated them, came close enough that he could smell her skin and the soft scent of the fresh hay and sweet herbs that stuffed the mattress she’d lain upon in the loft of the house.

  “Will you . . . will you kiss me again?” she asked.

  He groaned. It was the worst idea he’d ever heard, but he looked down at her face, upturned and silver in the moonlight, her lips slightly parted, soft and lush, her eyes pools of starlight. His mouth watered.

  “It’s not a masquerade this time.”

  “No masks,” she agreed.

  “What about your betrothed?” he asked. “What’s his name? He’s the one you should be ki—”

  She stood on her toes and put her lips against his, stopping his words. Surprise rocked him, but he didn’t push her away. She put her hands up to cup his jaw, ran her thumbs over the stubble on his cheek as she laid butterfly kisses on his mouth until he tilted his head and kissed her back. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She tasted like honey, as sweet as he remembered.

  He broke the kiss while he could still think. She made a soft sound of objection that nearly undid him. “Gillian,” he murmured.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “We must. This is wrong, unfair . . .”

  “Why? If we want this, can we not have it? I want—just once—what my sisters have, what other women whisper about.”

  He stepped away, gritted his teeth, and willed his arousal to subside, for the almost unstoppable desire to reach for her to disappear. But she was standing before him bathed in moonlight, the woman he’d dreamed of for months. Nay, longer than that. Forever.

  He could have her, claim her here and now, if he gave up the last shreds of his honor. But honor was all he had left of who he once was, who he’d been born to be. And if he gave that up, he’d be nothing at all.

  He took another step back. “Not with me,” he said gruffly. “I’m the wrong man. I’m not for you. I hate virgins.” He threw the last in to embarrass her, shock her, but she held her ground, looking uncharacteristically fierce for such a shy lass.

  “All my life people have told me how to choose, what to do, and I have allowed it. But now—”

  He held up his hand. “Don’t say it, Gillian. You’ll regret it. Don’t even think it. What would your father say? Or your husband?”

  She lifted her chin and folded her arms over her chest. “They aren’t here.”

  “Oh yes, they are. They’re standing between us. If any man in that barn woke now and caught me with you, he’d kill me, and no one would say he did wrong. In fact, I think I’ll take myself off now, so I don’t risk it. No woman is worth dying for.” It hurt to lie to her. But she was young and innocent, and even if she didn’t know it, she was going to something, not running away. He’d done nothing but run. He was getting good at it. His life was a secret shame, a past that prevented any kind of future.

  He scowled at her, waited for her to flee in tears, insulted and hurt, but she stayed where she was and watched him silently.

  She didn’t believe him.

  He wanted to take her hand, drag her across the yard and into the meadow, find a patch of heather in the moonlight and lay her down. He damned her father, her husband, and the whole world. And honor, too. Especially honor.

  But he couldn’t do it. It would ruin them both.

  He damned himself most of all. He muttered a filthy curse as he turned on his heel and walked away, left her standing there.

  There were eight days left in their journey—seven, perhaps, if they rode hard and fast, if he pushed the men and the garrons and Gillian.

  And then he’d have to give her away to the lucky man who’d call her wife, and lover, and companion.

  He stopped and leaned on the wall of the barn, invisible in the dark shadows. He should not have kissed her. Not now, and not at the masquerade ball. He was a fool. If kissing her was heaven, then giving her away would be akin to the torments of hell.

  With another curse, he turned and drove his fist into the stone wall.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  John Erly was obviously daft. For once in her life, Gillian knew what she wanted, and it was decidedly not Sir Douglas MacKinnon.

  Had she not made herself clear?

  Her heart pounded as she watched him walk away. Her body ached for him, and so did her heart. One kiss—now two—weren’t enough. He wasn’t what they said he was, or what he pretended to be. He was kind and chivalrous. He listened when she spoke, trusted her opinion.

  Except when it came to her own heart, and him. She put her hand against her heart. In eight days, they’d reach Edinburgh. In ten, she’d be a bride.

  But a great deal could happen in eight days

  * * *

  John woke at dawn in a foul mood. He was cramped and cold from sleeping on the ground beside the barn, away from the snoring, and away from Gillian—at least physically. He’d thought of nothing else since he’d left her. He imagined hauling her over his saddle and riding into the hills with her. He’d find someone to agree to witness a handfasting, keep her with him for a year and a day according to Highland custom.

  After a year and two days, Fia would find him and cut his heart with a dull knife. And when she was done, the Fearsome MacLeod would take up his infamous claymore and geld him. Slowly.

  And what of Gillian’s betrothed? No doubt he, too, was a great, strapping Highlander, a wealthy, powerful man like her father, the kind that carried deadly weapons hidden in the folds of his plaid, and more still in his socks and sleeves. His fists alone were probably the size of hams.

  Not that he was afraid of any of that. He’d fight for her, die for her if he had to.

  But she deserved better than an outcast, a man disowned by his own kin, with nothing to offer a woman beyond a pleasant tumble and a witty quip as he left her wanting more. This time he’d be the one left wanting. He doubted he could ever have his fill of Gillian, or tire of her company.

  She’d been one surprise after another from the moment he met her. And now . . . And now it was pointless to consider anything further. He flexed his bruised and bloody knuckles, glad the pain gave him something else to think about.

  He heard the snort and stomp of the garrons, the lowing of cows waiting to be milked, and the MacLeods stirring. He got to his feet and stretched his stiff muscles. He went to the well and drew more water, stripped off his shirt, washed his body and his face, and rinsed the blood from his hand.

  Callum joined him, saw John’s hand and whistled. “What the devil happened to you?” he asked, wincing.

  “Fell in the dark,” John said shortly.

  That was certainly true enough. He was falling in love with a woman he couldn’t have.

  And when she appeared, coming out of the house with Annag MacCulloch, her smile put the glory of the Highland dawn to shame.

  John picked up the bucket and dumped the icy water over his head.

  * * *

  Gillian nearly tripped over her own feet at the sight of Joh
n bared to the waist, his muscular chest slick with water. Even Annag gasped.

  “Ach, there’s no horns that I can see,” Annag whispered. “I wouldn’t mind finding out whether or not he’s got a tail.”

  Gillian felt herself blushing but knew exactly what Annag meant. John was well-built and beautiful. He didn’t wear a kilt like the Scots around him. He wore breeches tucked into tall deerskin boots, and surely a man would find it impossible to hide a tail in such a well-fitted garment. Her eyes fell to the small pouch he wore around his neck, a charm perhaps, or a talisman like the kind a wisewoman might make against spells or the evil eye. Was John superstitious? She longed to ask, to know his secrets. But Fia had said his past was a mystery he didn’t talk about. She stared at the planes of his naked torso, noted a silver scar that ran along his ribs, and wondered about that, too.

  Then Keir noticed that she and Annag were present and nudged John and Callum. John turned and saw his audience. He picked up his shirt, pulled it over his head, and stalked away.

  Annag sighed, and Gillian realized she’d been holding her breath. She slowly let it out, feeling her heart beating like a trapped bird against her ribs.

  She watched John check the packs on the horses and give Jock his thanks. The Scot regarded the Englishman with a guarded expression, as if John wasn’t what he’d expected but was still a curiosity to be marveled at. A Sassenach here, in the Highlands of all places.

  Callum came to lift Gillian onto her garron, and Jock MacCulloch removed his bonnet and stood before her. “We wish ye all the best for your wedding, mistress.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Gillian murmured, and she sent Annag a shy smile, but the Highland housewife was still watching John, her eyes bright.

  John kept his eyes on the road and didn’t look at anyone at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  John kept his back stiff as he rode. He felt Gillian’s eyes on him. It made him sweat. They’d reach MacKenzie territory tonight, find welcome at a keep or a fortified house large enough to offer Gillian a proper bed. She’d sleep among the women, and he’d sleep with the men. He’d make certain it was so for the rest of the journey, ensure there were few opportunities to speak to her alone.