Enchanted by the Highlander

by Cornwall, Lecia

  John didn’t answer, couldn’t. Why hadn’t he thought of it before, considered the possibility? He’d always been careful—but he hadn’t . . . they hadn’t . . .

  “John?” Now both Dair and Fia were staring at him, concerned. He heard words like tired, hungry, long ride, from a distance. He felt Dair’s hand on his shoulder. “Ye’d better sit down.” He blinked at him, stared at the concern on his friend’s face. He didn’t want to sit down. He counted the days, the weeks.

  Would she know by now, if—?

  John tried to speak, but it came out as an inarticulate grunt. He turned on his heel and walked out of the hall and went back to the stable.

  Dair followed him. “Are ye going somewhere? Ye just got here.”

  John reached for the saddle he’d just put away.

  “I’m going to Glen Iolair.”

  Dair gaped at him. “You’re going where?”

  “Glen Iolair,” he said again, and felt the certainty of it growing in his mind. He wouldn’t turn back this time.

  “Are ye daft? Donal MacLeod hates Sassenachs. He’ll kill ye.”

  “Probably, but I have to see Gillian . . .”

  Dair frowned. “Gillian? What for? Isn’t she with Sir Douglas MacKinnon on her wedding trip? His estate is near Aberdeen, and that’s nowhere near Glen Iolair.”

  “She’s not married. The wedding didn’t happen,” John said, tightening the girth around the horse’s belly.

  “Didn’t—? Why?” Dair asked.

  “Long story,” John said again.

  The chief of the Sinclairs folded his arms over his chest and squinted suspiciously. “And how does it end?”

  John grinned at him. “I’ll let you know. It isn’t over yet.”

  “Ach, lad—as I said, Donal MacLeod hates Sassenachs. He’ll kill ye.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Dair’s scowl deepened. “Ye’re not making any sense. Why are ye going to Iolair to see Gillian MacLeod? Tell me that much of the tale.”

  John wondered if his friend would stop him, or even hit him. “She loves me. And I—”

  But Dair interrupted. “Gillian? Shy little Gillian? I’ve never heard her say two words together. How did—? Och, come back inside. Have something to eat, sleep on it.”

  Forget her, he meant. He couldn’t do that. He’d tried. John slipped a bridle over the head of a fresh garron.

  “Donal MacLeod’s not known as Fearsome for naught—especially where his daughters are concerned. I know that from experience, lad. Ye’d best talk to Fia about this.”

  John strapped his gear behind the saddle. “You mean I should let her talk me out of going.”

  Dair didn’t deny it. “Why not marry Elspeth if ye want to settle down? She’s a good woman, and no one’s going to gut ye for daring to ask for her hand.”

  “Connor Sinclair might,” John said, shrugging. “He’s the one who wants to wed Elspeth.”

  “Do ye love her?” Dair asked

  “Elspeth? No. That was over nearly a year ago.”

  Dair rolled his eyes. “I meant Gillian.”

  Surely Gillian should be the first to know. He tightened his lips and said nothing.

  Dair groaned. “Ye love her that much, do ye?”

  A lump formed in John’s throat. “Aye.”

  Dair put his hand on the garron’s bridle, stopping John. “It’s over a hundred miles across land. That’s at least five or six days of hard riding—if ye travel fast. Ye could go by ship. The Virgin could have ye at Glen Iolair in two days, and ye’ll need someone to watch your back when Donal hears.”

  John considered, but shook his head. “No. I think I’d best do this alone. A longer journey will give me time to think of what I’m going to say when I get there.” He led the garron out of the stable, and Dair followed.

  “There’s something ye should know before ye leave. It’s important,” Dair said as he mounted, but John grinned. Now he’d decided, nothing would stop him.

  “Tell me later,” he said and kicked the garron to a gallop.

  “I love her,” he told the horse as they flew along the cliff top before turning west. “I love her!” He shouted it again, to the sea, hoped that if Daniel’s spirit was still out there, beneath the waves, he’d hear and approve.

  The fact that Gillian might be carrying his child wasn’t the reason he was going. It was just the excuse. He’d made his choice at last, and love trumped all else. He wanted her, and children, and every joy life would give them, and he’d face any peril for her, take any risk.

  Even asking the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair for her hand.

  * * *

  Gillian looked around her father’s hall. The huge room hummed with conversation and laughter, and every table was full. Each laird assumed she’d choose him, and they all sat smug and smiling among their equally smug clansmen, puffed with pride.

  She clasped her hands together so tight the bones ached. Her suitors were becoming impatient.

  It had been four weeks and two days since she’d left Edinburgh, and John hadn’t come.

  Gillian had been given a place at the head table beside her father, so she could survey the strong, doughty Highlanders who wished to marry her, and they could survey her. She could barely eat with so many people watching her.

  “Davy MacKenzie seems like a pleasant fellow,” her father said as she crumbled a piece of bread in nervous fingers.

  She glanced at Davy and blushed when he grinned at her and winked. “Laird MacKenzie was very kind to me, and to all the injured men in my tail at Kinfell,” she replied carefully.

  “Then is he the one ye love?”

  She looked at the wee pile of crumbs before her. “No, Papa.”

  Her father’s gaze fell on the fine figure of Cormag Robertson, his red hair glowing in the candlelight, his blue eyes keen upon Gillian. “Then is it the Robertson?”

  “He was kind enough to give a dozen men, including himself, to escort me to my wedding, but no, he isn’t the one.”

  “Then what about Padraig Grant, eh? He’s handsome enough, surely, to please any lass.” The laird in question was busy flirting with Meggie. Gillian shook her head.

  “Then who, lass? Ye don’t know anyone else.”

  She raised her chin and looked around. Callum caught her eye and smiled a trifle sadly.

  “Nay—it isn’t Callum, is it?” her father said. “How long has—”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Nay, Papa. Callum is like a brother to me. I love him, but not . . .”

  “Not the way a woman loves a man,” her father finished for her. “Are ye sure ye know what love is, Gilly? You’ve had a sheltered life—at least until ye left to be wed.”

  She met her father’s eyes. “Aye, Papa. I know what love is, and I know what I want.”

  He scanned her face. “Ye could save me a great deal of trouble if ye’d just tell me who ye do want, Gilly. Then perhaps I could help.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “He hasn’t come yet, Papa.”

  Donal MacLeod looked around his overflowing hall with a scowl. “How many more men are ye expecting?” he asked. “Did ye charm all of Scotland?”

  She blushed and said nothing.

  Her father frowned. “Did he say he would come? Who is he? I could ask him to come. Or insist.”

  “It’s his choice, Papa.”

  He put his hand under her chin. “Can ye whisper his name to me, lass?”

  But before she could say anything more, the door opened.

  John Erly walked into the room.

  For a moment Gillian stared, hardly daring to believe it. “He’s here,” she whispered. She half rose from her seat, but her father clamped his hand on her wrist.

  John crossed to stand before her father, but his eyes were on her.

  “You’re the bloody Sassenach from Carraig Brigh,” her father said. “Did Alasdair Og Sinclair have the audacity to send ye here?”

  “Dair didn’t send me,” John sa
id.

  “Then ye shouldn’t have come.” Her father reached for his dirk and started to rise from his seat.

  Gillian gripped the fist that held the weapon. “Papa, no—he’s here for me!”

  He turned to her. A look of pure horror dawned in his eyes.

  “Nay.”

  She managed a wobbly smile. “Aye, Papa. John Erly is the man I love.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  He’d ridden across the width of Scotland, thinking about exactly what he’d say when he saw Gillian. And now that he was here, in her father’s hall, with the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair glaring at him, his eyes bulging and his face turning a dangerous shade of plum. Every Scot in the room looked like he’d happily gut John where he stood.

  He felt no fear. He looked at Gillian—brave, sweet, beautiful Gillian. She was wearing a gown of emerald green, her braided hair looped atop her head, her face flushed pink, her lips parted in surprise. Her eyes were so full of love that he felt his breath catch.

  “Laird MacLeod, I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” John said. A cry went up in the hall, horror, dismay, anger, but he didn’t care.

  “Oh, Papa—” Gillian began, squeezing her father’s hand.

  But Donal MacLeod threw off his daughter’s restraining hand with a roar. A dozen men drew their weapons. John recognized MacLeods, Grants, MacKenzies, and Robertsons.

  “Bring me my claymore!” Donal MacLeod bellowed, and a clansman scrambled to lift the huge sword down from where it hung on the wall.

  Gillian rushed around the table, running toward him, and he opened his arms to catch her.

  “Stop!” Donal MacLeod growled. A clansman caught her before she could reach him. Two more men grabbed John, pinned his arms, and held him fast. Donal MacLeod had his sword in his hand now—four feet of bloodstained steel—and he was coming toward John.

  Would he kill him here, in front of Gillian? John held the laird’s angry gaze and waited, showing no fear. Donal MacLeod had a reputation as a fair man, and an honorable one. John hoped that was true.

  Other men were rising from their own seats. He recognized Davy MacKenzie and Padraig Grant. He saw Callum MacLeod, too—he was the one holding Gillian, and he was frowning at John, more worried than angry.

  Then the MacLeod was upon him. The fearsome Highlander came nose to nose with John, pinning him with a terrifying, hateful glare. John regarded him calmly, silently. For Gillian, he’d dare anything, brave anything.

  The MacLeod looked away first. “Throw the Sassenach in the dungeon,” Donal commanded. He turned to Callum. “Lock Gillian in her chamber.”

  Meggie shook her father’s arm, ignoring the deadly blade. “Do you trust Gilly, Papa?”

  Donal MacLeod cast a thunderous look at Gillian now. “Nay. Nay, I do not.”

  Gillian blushed scarlet.

  “Laird MacLeod—” John began, but Donal waved his hand to silence him.

  “Never before have I suffered an Englishman on my land. If ye speak one more word, Sassenach, I’ll kill ye where ye stand.”

  “I was told you were a fair man,” John dared, resisting the clansmen who held him.

  “What idiot told ye that?” Donal growled.

  “Gillian did. I love her.”

  Donal MacLeod glared at him for an instant before he pointed around the hall, stabbing the air with the claymore. “I don’t care. Three good men—Scots lairds with fortunes and brave deeds to their credit—have already offered for her. You’re too late. I’d never allow—”

  Gillian broke free of Callum’s grip, put herself between John and her father, ignoring the claymore. “You always said we’d have our choice of husband if it was true love, Papa.” Her voice was loud and sure, not shy, and she faced her father fiercely, her chin high, her eyes bright.

  “No wonder the outlaws were afraid,” someone murmured.

  Donal glared at her. “And so you will—as long as it’s one of the three lairds. Or anyone else—even the lowest MacLeod cowherd or ghillie—but not a Sassenach.”

  Callum stepped forward. “Laird, I think it’s my duty to speak for him. The Sass—John Erly—was part of Gilly’s escort from Carraig Brigh. He was the one who got her safely away from the attack. They overwhelmed us, and if not for him . . .” He swallowed and glanced at Gillian.

  Donal’s scowl deepened. “Are ye saying I owe this man a debt?” he asked Callum. He cast hard glances at the other men who’d been part of Gillian’s escort.

  “’Tis true, Laird,” Ewan murmured.

  “Why did ye not tell me this before now?” Donal demanded.

  Tam shrugged. “He’s a Sassenach. We knew ye wouldn’t like it. We had no idea that Gilly—and he . . .”

  “Fools! I ye sent to keep her safe.”

  “They all fought bravely, including John.” Gillian said. “He’s Dair’s captain. Fia might have picked Angus Mor, or Niall, but she chose John to escort me to Edinburgh because she knew he’d keep me safe.”

  “Safe? Safe?” Donal demanded, regarding his daughter. “Ye weren’t safe though, were ye? Saving your life is a matter of honor, his duty. I’d expect no less, even from a Sassenach. But he’s bewitched ye, charmed ye with sweet, worthless words, tricked ye into throwing over an honorable man like Douglas MacKinnon. It’s not true love. It can’t be. He’s after your tocher, your dowry, and I’ll not have it.”

  “A Sassenach is nothing compared to a MacKenzie,” Davy MacKenzie said. “He’s not fit to touch the hem of her gown.”

  “I wish to renew my proposal for the lass’s hand,” Cormag Robertson called out.

  “And I,” Padraig Grant said.

  Their clansmen rose to stand behind their lairds, a show of strength, of power. No one stood with John.

  Then Meggie hurried to stand beside him. “She’s been waiting for you,” she whispered.

  Other lasses—no doubt more of Gillian’s sisters, joined Meggie, casting appraising looks at him.

  With a frown, Callum joined the MacLeod lasses, and so did Tam, and Lachlan, Ewan, and Keir, though they looked like they feared it would be their last act on earth.

  Donal surveyed them with sour disapproval. “It’s still no.”

  He took Gillian’s arm and firmly propelled her out of the room. No one in the hall spoke. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed.

  The men holding John looked at the lasses and the clansmen who stood with him. “Ye ken we can’t disobey the laird’s command,” one said to Callum.

  “Aye.” Callum looked at John. “There’s no help for it. Ye’ve got to go. I’ll do what I can.”

  “We’ll do what we can,” Meggie said.

  “Just keep Gillian safe,” he said to Callum, and let his captors lead him away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Donal MacLeod paced the floor of his chamber. Of all twelve of his daughters, he never would have thought Gillian, shy, quiet, sweet Gillian, would turn out to be the difficult one.

  Six months ago her sisters were helping Gillian prepare her wedding trousseau, dozens of fine gowns and linens suitable for a quiet, refined life as the wife of an aging scholar.

  He thought she was happy.

  But with Gillian it was hard to tell. She smiled shyly, a faint curving of her lips, or she blushed and stared at her hands, and silently let others voice their opinions and ideas. Her sisters were so full of opinions that it was difficult for anyone—especially their shy sister—to get a word in.

  Ah, but he hadn’t missed the way she smiled when the Sassenach walked into his hall. Her whole face lit up. Her opinion had been clear enough then. Anyone could see she was in love with the bastard.

  Or she thought she was.

  It was his job as her father and guardian, her laird, to keep her from making such a dreadful mistake.

  “If she had to start having her own ideas, why now? Why him?” he muttered to the air. He looked at the room’s décor—the ancient shield of the first Fearsome Mac
Leod hung over the fireplace with his mighty Lochaber axe. The axe was still stained with the blood of a long-dead English knight who had tried to invade Scotland with his blasted king. “He won six feet of Scottish soil, and only because we buried him in it,” Donal said aloud.

  And in the hundreds of years that had passed since the grim day the first Fearsome MacLeod had fought with Robert the Bruce against the English, no Sassenach had dared to set foot in Glen Iolair.

  Donal shook his head at Fearsome’s axe. “A perfect record, ruined.”

  He didn’t know who to blame—Gillian or the Sassenach.

  He shut his eyes. Gillian’s face had been filled with such love, it made his heart sing with joy for her—until he realized who she was looking at. “She never looked at Douglas MacKinnon that way,” he muttered. He crossed and poured a cup of whisky.

  “Ye can’t choose who ye fall in love with,” he said as he stared into the amber depths of the whisky. The man was Dair Sinclair’s friend, his captain. “Perhaps . . .”

  He set the cup down untouched and resumed pacing. The Sassenach was penniless, disowned by his kin, a faithless charmer, a rogue—even Fia said so. “I can’t—won’t—let her throw her life away on a man with no fortune or family—and no sense, either, if he’s willing to walk into my hall as bold as you please and ask to wed one of my daughters.” But what else was the man to do? It was honorable, at least, if stupid. “He’s brave, I’ll give him that, but no more.”

  He went back and picked up the cup after all, sipped, let the fine, sweet burn of the whisky slide along his throat to explode in his belly. “Och, Gilly, what happened to ye? You’re slaying outlaws and jiltin’ gentlemen, and refusing the suit of three damned good lairds, any one of whom could make ye happy.” He imagined saying that to her . . . And he knew just how she’d answer him. She’d give him that shy, fragile little smile, the one that had always made him want to protect her, shield her, keep her from the cruelties of life, and she’d say, “I love him, Papa.”

  He smiled slightly, a grimace really, at the idea of Gillian in love. What did this man have that the others didn’t? Besides English blood. “What d’ye see in him?” he’d ask her.