Enchanted by the Highlander

by Cornwall, Lecia

  “Gilly,” Callum pleaded. “He means you’re drawing a crowd. Perhaps ye could go back to your sister’s house and write it down in a letter? Your da would tan my hide and make a new scabbard for his claymore out of it if he knew ye were in a place like this.”

  “This won’t take long,” she replied. “I just wanted to ask John where he was going when he left, what he planned to do?”

  “I’m going back where I belong,” he said.

  She colored at that. “Without a thought for me? For the fact that I love you?”

  Callum gave a horrified grunt.

  “It’s the right choice, Gillian,” he said. “You may not know it now, but you’ll understand someday.”

  Her green eyes caught fire, blazed, and she came forward with her finger pointed like a dirk. She stabbed it into his chest. “What I understand, John Erly, is that you have no right to make my choice for me.”

  Her finger was sharp, and it hurt. He grabbed her hand, held it. “Touché, Mistress MacLeod. Yet isn’t that what you’re doing? What of my choice? Why do you think I told you about my past? You’re a clever lass, Gilly. Weren’t you listening? Do you think I’d let you throw your life away like Daniel did, give up everything for me, for nothing?”

  She clasped his hand, and the anger in her eyes softened. “For nothing?” she whispered. “Is that what you think? You said Daniel was happy. He chose to go with you. And he found true love. He told you that. Did you not believe him either?”

  She brought his hand to her heart, held it there. “You’re a fool, John Erly. I’d go to the ends of the earth for you, not to look for true love, but because I’ve already found it.” She shut her eyes. “ Perhaps you haven’t.” She looked at him with such longing his breath caught in his throat. “You have to decide if you want me. My father will say no—at least at first—”

  “He’ll kill him, Gilly,” Callum muttered.

  “He might try,” she admitted. “But he won’t.”

  “He’d never let ye marry a—” Callum continued.

  “A Sassenach, an outsider,” John finished for him. “Daniel left home because he hated my father, wanted an adventure, not to find love. That was an accident.”

  Gillian tilted her head. “I want adventures, too, with you. A lifetime of them. And if finding love is an accident, it’s a happy one. At least for me.”

  He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  She sighed and let go of his hand. “If I’ve been selfish, unfair, I’m sorry. I can choose you, but I cannot choose for you.”

  She stepped back. “I’m going home to Glen Iolair. It’s for you to decide if you want me, if loving me is worth the risks.”

  She turned to Callum. “Now I’m ready to go,” she said and walked away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The MacLeods were very surprised to see Gillian when she arrived home at Glen Iolair by ship two weeks later, still unwed.

  “It just didn’t work out, Papa,” she said quietly when her father asked for an explanation. Her father had pinned Callum—the only MacLeod warrior left in her escort—with a fierce glare. But he’d promised Gillian he’d say nothing about her adventures with outlaws, or John.

  Callum dutifully reported a wee skirmish on the road, which left the rest of Gillian’s escort injured. He left out the part where Gillian heroically captured or killed or escaped from anyone at all and said only that she had been kindly escorted the rest of the way to Edinburgh by the MacKenzies of Kinfell.

  Gillian saw her sisters’ disbelieving stares. They cast her pitying looks, sure that their shy, timid sister must have been so terrified by the events on the road that she’d been unable to go through with her wedding. They surrounded her when Callum finished talking and tried to coax her to tell them everything. Even her father regarded her with furrows of confusion in his brow.

  “I’d like to rest for a wee while, Papa,” Gillian said, and she went upstairs to sleep for two whole days, happy knowing there were no adoring clansmen standing guard outside her door, and here she was just Gillian again and not heroic at all.

  * * *

  Two days later, the four missing men from Gillian’s tail arrived home with new scars and a different tale to tell. They were surprised to hear that Gillian had returned unwed.

  “Gillian is a heroine, Laird,” Tam MacLeod told Donal. “We were savagely attacked on the road, struck down, but we held out long enough for Gillian to escape into the wood.”

  “All alone?” Donal MacLeod demanded.

  Tam looked at Keir and shrugged. Lachlan and Ewan looked sheepish. “Aye, all alone,” Tam said.

  “The MacKenzies found her the next morning,” Lachlan said. “By then she’d captured the outlaws who attacked us, a terrible band of thieves and murderers that had plagued Kinfell for three years.”

  “Gillian captured an outlaw?” Donal asked, his eyes popping.

  “Nay, Laird—she captured three of them,” Ewan said.

  “At least three,” Tam added. “Some accounts say there were more.”

  “Some accounts?” Donal stared at his men. They’d obviously fought hard—their wounds were proof of that. Yet Gillian didn’t have a scratch on her that he could see. Her sisters hadn’t reported anything, nor had Ada, the healer.

  “Ye say my Gillian—wee, shy Gillian MacLeod—captured three outlaws by herself—”

  “Or more,” Tam said again. Donal held up his hand.

  “You’re telling me that Gillian captured a band of outlaws on her own, men who’d bested the five of you, my best and my strongest?”

  His men hung their heads. “It’s the dirks the lasses carry,” Ewan murmured.

  “A lass with a dirk cannot stand against three outlaws,” Donal said. “Or more.”

  He looked at Meggie, who sat listening to the incredible tale. “Go and fetch your sister. It’s time—past time—I heard what really happened.”

  But before Meggie could return with Gillian, there was the sound of arrival at the castle gates.

  * * *

  Davy MacKenzie, the laird of Kinfell, entered Donal MacLeod’s hall with a dozen clansmen behind him. His bonnet was set at a rakish angle on his dark curls, and his plaid was clasped with a fine, jeweled brooch the size of a saucer. He wore gleaming silver buckles on his boots and a fine basket-hilted rapier on his hip.

  With a gallant flourish he dropped to one knee before Donal MacLeod.

  “Laird MacLeod, I wish to wed your daughter.”

  “Which one?” Donal asked in surprise.

  Davy Mackenzie looked confused for an instant. “Why—”

  But Gillian arrived at that moment, coming down the stairs with her sisters to answer her father’s summons.

  Davy grinned. His clansmen squared their shoulders and grinned as well, their eyes on Gillian. Donal watched his shy lass stop where she was, halfway down the steps. She looked at the troop of fine MacKenzies with wide eyes and a blush rising over her cheeks.

  Davy MacKenzie strode to the bottom of the stairs and dropped to his knee again, gazing up at her with what Donal could only think of as keen admiration. The man didn’t even look at his other daughters. He gave Gillian a toothsome smile as he dragged his bonnet off his head.

  “There ye are, Mistress Gillian—ye’ll be very happy to know I’ve come to marry ye.”

  * * *

  The day after that, Donal opened his gates to Laird Padraig Grant of Gilmossie, who arrived with twenty warriors in his tail. Since the heroic Gillian MacLeod had not married in Edinburgh after all, Padraig had come with the sincere hope that Gillian would agree to become the next Lady Grant and bear him a dozen strapping sons, each one as bold and brave as the lass herself.

  Gillian had blushed prettily once again, but demurred to give an answer to either proposal for the moment. “Perhaps ye’d like to join Davy MacKenzie for a dram while she considers,” Donal said and called for whisky.

  And just when he had the two lairds and their men had settl
ed in to await Gillian’s decision, Laird Cormag Robertson of Drumelinn showed up, accompanied by thirty men, with pipes, drums, and fife at his back, and a fine white mare meant as a wedding present for Gillian, if she’d agree to marry him.

  Donal stared at his daughter in surprise—everyone stared at Gillian. But the lass herself just smiled shyly and glanced at the gates, as if she were expecting more men to arrive.

  Donal called for more whisky for his guests. Then he took Gillian’s arm, and led her to his chamber for a wee chat. He sat her down and looked her straight in the forehead, since she kept her eyes on her clasped hands.

  Gilly looked and behaved the same as she always had—she was quiet, shy, and she preferred her own company. However, he’d noted she got a certain look in her eye when her sisters—and even himself—tried to give her advice. Donal could only call it stubbornness, but he suspected it might be something else, something she wouldn’t speak of. The adventure, the outlaws. The tales that had arrived with the lairds were almost impossible to believe, though they all seemed like honest, sensible men.

  He leaned forward and raised his daughter’s chin and met her eyes. He feared he’d upset her if he brought up outlaws now, since she clearly wished to forget the whole incident. Instead he tackled the problem at hand. “Three men have come to ask for your hand, lass,” he said gently. “Three very fine, brave, wealthy lairds for ye to choose from, and they’re impatient for a decision. So which man will ye have?”

  She lowered her gaze again. “None of them, Papa,” she whispered.

  Donal frowned. “Ye can’t reject every man who wants to marry ye.”

  She met his eyes then. “You have always said the man we choose must be the right man.” For shy Gillian, that was a remarkable show of spirit.

  “Then whom do ye wish to marry?”

  She blinked hard, and he suspected tears. He reached for his kerchief and braced himself. The full tale would come tumbling out now. He kept his expression calm, reassuring, and wondered if he was going to need his claymore.

  But she rose to her feet, stood before him. “I’m not ready to marry yet, Papa.”

  And with that she took her leave and left him still wondering just what she was thinking.

  * * *

  Gillian climbed to the top of the tower and looked out over the glen. It was full of campfires and men, and all of them were waiting for her to make a decision. She scanned the dusty track that led up and over the lip of the glen, the road that John would travel when he came.

  If he came.

  “What of my choice?” he’d said. She hadn’t given him one. She, who had always had the will of others imposed on her, decisions made for her, hadn’t given him a choice until the end, when it was almost too late.

  She put a hand against her aching heart. There was still hope, wasn’t there? There must be. But it had been three weeks and five days since she’d arrived home, and there’d been no word.

  Then someone on the field below caught sight of her standing on the tower, and a shout went up among the Robertsons, and they began to cheer and wave. The excitement quickly spread to the Grants and the MacKenzies, until it seemed that the whole glen was roaring at her.

  Gillian backed up against the wall where they couldn’t see her. She curled her fingers into the yellow stone, felt frustration and yearning and desperation.

  He would come—he must. She loved him.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Gillian turned to find Meggie standing beside her, her hands on her hips, her head tilted as she regarded her sister. “You’ve been up here for hours, and you come every day.” Meggie went to the edge and looked down at the cheering men below. “Are you considering which laird you’ll marry? Who is it you’re looking at down there?”

  “None of them,” Gillian murmured.

  Meggie raised her eyebrows. “None of them? Three strong, handsome lairds have come with offers of marriage, and you don’t want any of them? Who exactly are you waiting for?”

  Gillian blushed and looked at her sister. “Who says I’m waiting for anyone?”

  “I do. I know that look, though I’ve not seen it on your face before. You’re pining for a man.”

  Gillian tried smiling, tilting her head, looking at Meggie as if she was daft, the way her other sisters might have done, but Meggie sent her a level look. “Out with it, Gilly MacLeod.”

  Gillian looked at the track again, but it was still empty. She took a breath.

  “He isn’t—” She paused. “He isn’t someone Papa will like.”

  “Why not? Is he poor, or ill-favored, or from an enemy clan?”

  Gillian hesitated. “Worse,” she whispered.

  Meggie laughed. “Worse! Why he’d have to be a Sasse—” She stopped and gasped. “Oh, Gilly, he’s not, is he? Where on earth did you meet a Sassenach?” Then she gasped again, and her blue eyes widened even farther, till Gillian feared they’d fall right out of her head. “English John. It’s English John, isn’t it? You met him at Carraig Brigh!” She made it sound like an accusation. “I remember him from when I was there before Fia wed Dair. He’s charming, and handsome, but he’s—” Her mouth moved as she struggled for the words. “He’s English, and he’s a rogue, Gilly.” She gripped Gillian’s hand. “Did he—did he seduce you?”

  A hot blush moved up from the soles of Gillian’s feet, over her body to the top of her head. “Not exactly.”

  “What exactly then?”

  “I believe I seduced him.”

  “You what?” Meggie’s screech echoed off the top of the tower, skipped across the surface of the loch, and made the trees in the wood sway. She began to curse John Erly and all Englishmen, and then men in general after that. She paced in a small, angry circle while Gillian watched. The men camped below looked up to see what the fuss was about. In a moment, they’d start cheering again if she didn’t do something.

  “I love him,” she said when her sister took a breath.

  The next oath died on Meggie’s lips.

  “I told Sir Douglas I could not marry him because I loved someone else. I meant John. And I know John loves me, but he thinks he’s not good enough.” She raised her chin. “I told him that I was going home to give him a chance to decide if he wants me. I told him I’d wait.”

  “Wait? For how long?” Meggie asked. “Gilly—what if he doesn’t come?”

  Gillian felt tears sting her eyes. “It’s his choice,” she said. “His alone.” Then the tears spilled, and she sobbed. “He must come! I cannot bear to live without him. He’s all I think about, all I want. I don’t care if he’s English, or if he’s disowned or poor. I love him, and that’s fortune enough. I told him I would wait. I thought—Oh, Meggie, I thought he’d be here by now. How long should I wait?”

  Meggie considered. “With three handsome men downstairs wanting to marry you? I don’t think you have very long, Gilly. Papa will expect you to choose a husband, and soon. He’d never force you, but he will eventually insist on knowing why you jilted Sir Douglas and won’t consider anyone else.”

  Gillian silently studied her hands, and Meggie sighed and handed her a handkerchief.

  “Dry your tears. Give John another day or two, perhaps. We’ll keep your lairds busy till then.” Gillian nodded, grateful.

  Meggie touched her shoulder. “Just don’t wait forever for a lost cause. Take the chance to be happy. Who’s your second choice?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The trip back to Carraig Brigh took longer than the trip south. John had turned his horse toward Glen Iolair a dozen times, thinking he’d go in person and tell her exactly why he wouldn’t be coming. And when he realized just how daft an idea that was, he turned back toward Carraig Brigh, crisscrossing the Highlands. He had no reason to go to Glen Iolair—other than a love that devoured him. Riding alone made him realize how much he missed her company, her smile, her strength, her bold determination—and kissing her, loving her. He’d given her a pine lean-to—
she deserved far better, a bower fit for a princess. He made excuses, nursed his doubts, fed them, until he was convinced that turning away from Glen Iolair, from her, was the right thing to do.

  At last he stood outside the gates of Carraig Brigh. He stared up at the castle’s bony tower for an hour, fighting the urge to turn west yet again toward Glen Iolair.

  He forced himself to go inside. He unsaddled the garron, rubbed the horse down and fed her, knowing the decision had been made, and he’d never see her again—Gillian, not the garron. Not without a damned good reason—like suddenly finding himself with a fortune and a title, a home to offer her, the hope of a life like the one she was used to.

  “You’re back.” John turned to find Alasdair Og Sinclair standing in the doorway of the stable.

  John crossed to clap his friend on the shoulder. “And so are you. Rough voyage?”

  “An unexpected stop,” Dair said.

  “And Fia?”

  Dair smiled. “I have a daughter, born two days ago. Unlike her father, she arrived early, but she’s healthy, and Fia’s well.” Happiness radiated from his friend, and John grinned.

  “Her name is Eilidh. Come and meet her. And Fia will want to see ye.” He paused. “When ye’ve done your obligatory cooing and cuddling, we need to talk.”

  “Talk?” John said, hanging the bridle on a hook and picking up his gear. “Have you heard already about the wedding then?”

  Dair frowned. “Was there a problem?”

  John sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  Fia was in the library with the child in her arms. She looked beautiful, and her cheeks were once again rosy and her eyes bright with joy. She handed the baby to Dair, and John bent to buss her cheek. He looked at the babe. Wee Eilidh had a frill of red curls around her face, and green eyes, and she looked as sweet and placid as—

  John gaped at the child as a thought struck him with all the force of a hard punch to the gut.

  “John?” Fia’s smile faded.