Enchanted by the Highlander

by Cornwall, Lecia

And this time, he hadn’t a clue how she’d answer him.

  Worst of all, she did not seem to appreciate the situation she’d put him in. Three Highland lairds had offered for her, powerful, important men, and he could hardly snub them and give his daughter to a penniless Sassenach. “They proposed first,” he said.

  But would Gilly ever forgive him if he chose for her, tore her away from the man she thought she loved and married her where he thought best?

  She would not.

  He poured another cup of whisky and tried to think of a way out. No matter what he did, someone was going to be unhappy. When lairds as powerful as MacKenzie, or Robertson, or Grant were unhappy it usually led to a world of trouble. Rejecting an honorable proposal was something feuds were built on, wars. It was not just a marriage he had to consider—it was politics and honor. “And my own pride,” he said.

  Perhaps this was his own fault. If he was honest, he felt a wee bit guilty for his part in pushing Gilly to wed Douglas MacKinnon, a man who was three years older than he was himself. “I had no idea she wanted love. I offered her security, a dull, quiet, ordinary life.”

  There was a knock on the door, and four of his daughters entered in a rustle of silk and a drift of perfume. Donal MacLeod’s eyes narrowed. “What are ye up to?” he asked, for silk and perfume always meant they were up to something, especially when paired with such canny wee smiles as they wore now.

  “We have an idea, Papa,” Meggie said, and the other three smiled sweetly at him.

  “A contest!” Isobel cried.

  Donal clasped his hands behind his back and looked at their shining, eager faces and saw trouble, mayhem, and tangled plots.

  “A contest,” he said flatly.

  “It’s a good idea, Papa,” Aileen said, and he dismayed that even his eldest, most sensible daughter was in on the scheme.

  “Gilly’s suitors will compete for her hand, perform brave deeds,” Meggie said. “It was Gillian’s idea.” Her canny smile widened. “She’s agreed to wed the winner.”

  Donal considered. A contest . . . he wished he’d thought of it himself. On the surface at least, it looked like the perfect solution. The contest would decide who won Gillian, not him. It would be up to the lairds to prove which of them was the best man. There’d be no insult, no favoritism, no feuds or bad blood.

  And love? Well, surely Gillian couldn’t help but love the man who proved himself most worthy of her. Aye, this could fix everything. Someday, when he was bouncing Gillian’s fine Grant or MacKenzie or Robertson sons on his knee, he’d remind her of her long-ago silliness over a Sassenach, and they’d both laugh.

  “A contest,” he murmured. “’Tis a good idea.”

  “Aye, Papa,” Meggie said eagerly. “We thought Gilly’s suitors could compete in things like—”

  Ah, there it was, the plot, the trick. Warning bells clattered in Donal’s head.

  He frowned at them. “No, ye don’t—I’ll be the one to set the challenges.”

  Aileen frowned, and Meggie swallowed. Their smug little smiles faded.

  “You, Papa?” Meggie murmured.

  “I am the laird here, am I not?”

  “Of course you are, Papa—the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair,” Aileen said. “Known as a fair man, just, brave, and clever . . .”

  “You won’t make it too hard, will you, Papa?” Isobel asked. “Like combat with claymores, or hunting, or—”

  “That’s precisely what I mean to do,” Donal told them. “The kind of challenges all three men would expect, would face with pride—”

  “Four men, Papa,” Meggie interrupted. “Davy MacKenzie, Cormag Robertson, Padraig Grant and—”

  Donal held up his hand. “Nay. Don’t even speak his name. He’s not eligible.”

  His daughters cast sideways looks at each other.

  “Gillian said ye’d say that, Papa,” Aileen said. “She said to tell you that a contest was the only fair way that she could see to make sure the lairds she didn’t choose would leave happy.”

  She understood that? He hid his surprise.

  “Gillian says she won’t wed anyone unless you allow John to compete,” Meggie said. “If you do, then she’ll agree to wed the winner—even if it isn’t John Erly. But if it is . . .”

  For a moment Donal stood in stunned surprise. His daughter was negotiating with him? “Gilly said that? She’s always been the reasonable one, the one biddable lass among ye!”

  “That was before she fell in love,” Aileen said. “Love can make a lass very determined. A lass’s heart is—”

  He held up his hand. “I’ve had nine wives and twelve daughters. I know all about the hearts of women, thank ye. I know about their stubbornness and how they think they can bat their eyelashes and make a man do anything they wish . . .” He paused. Whether he liked it or not, Gillian was right. There was no way around it, not if he was to get out of this sticky situation with honor and dignity and some measure of control.

  “All right—the Sassenach can compete.” He cut through the happy cries of triumph. “But I will be the one to set the challenges,” he said again, and sternly. “Ye can go and tell your canny sister that.”

  But his daughters stayed where they were. “Will ye make the challenges fair, Papa? For Gillian’s sake?” Meggie asked.

  He raised his chin. “The Sassenach is on Scottish soil, among Scots. We have traditions here, manly Highland ways of doing things. He’ll have to keep up—if he can.” Still they stood frowning at him. “Och, if he’s to wed a Scottish lass—and if by chance he wins against three fine Scots—I need to know he can keep her safe. He’ll have to be as good—better—than any Scot. The Englishman must—”

  But his daughters weren’t listening. They were grinning again, casting sleekit wee looks between them that always meant they thought they’d bested some poor man. In this case, himself.

  “Then you will give your blessing for Gilly to marry John if he wins?” Meggie asked.

  “I—” But that was exactly what he’d said. He’d as good as given his word. If he’d had a dirk to hand, he’d have cut his traitorous tongue out. He’d been outmaneuvered, fooled He scowled at his daughters. “Since that’s never going to happen, aye, I agree. If the Sassenach wins, proves to me and to Gillian’s other suitors that he’s worthy, he can marry her. Now go find your beds. I’ve got thinking to do.”

  And one by one, his daughters kissed his cheek, and he thought how very much he loved his lasses, even if he didn’t trust any of them as far as he could toss the whole pack.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  John stood behind the iron bars of his cell and watched a cloaked woman hurry down the steep stone steps. For a moment, he thought—hoped—it was Gillian, but when she pushed back the hood, Meggie MacLeod’s blond curls appeared.

  She grinned at him. “I never thought I’d see you here at Glen Iolair, English John,” she said. “Yet here you are, wanting to marry Gillian. Someday, when there’s time, you must tell me the whole tale, because—well, you know how shy Gillian is.”

  “Is she—safe?” he asked.

  “From my father? Of course. He just needs a wee bit of time to get used to the idea of—” She shrugged. “I hope you know you’re a lucky man, John Erly.”

  “Am I?” he asked.

  “I have news.”

  He tightened his grip on the bars, even as he forced a grin. “Of what, my execution?”

  She sent him a sharp look. “Will you give up so easily? We’ve come up with a plan—well, Gilly did. There’s to be a contest.”

  “A contest?” John stared at Meggie.

  “A contest,” Meggie repeated. “The prize is Gilly herself. She’ll wed the winner. It was her idea, so you can prove to Papa you’re worthy of her.” She shook her head. “We used to think Gilly wasn’t clever, mostly because she hardly ever said anything to prove that she was. But while we were chattering like puffins and gulls, Gilly was thinking. Turns out she might just be the smartest on
e of all of us.”

  John smiled softly. “I knew that.”

  Meggie tilted her head. “Oh, and how did you know it? You only spent ten days with her on the way to Edinburgh, and in the company of five of my father’s best men.”

  “She was very brave.” And passionate and fierce, and—

  Meggie’s brows rose. “Then the stories about Gillian and the outlaws are true?”

  John paced the confines of his cell. “Mostly. I got her away from the attack on the road, but they caught us. They knocked me out, and when I woke, she’d bested the thieves. Five men.”

  Meggie’s eyes widened. “Did she—did she kill anyone? Was she . . . ?”

  “No. She outwitted them. The outlaws themselves and Davy MacKenzie’s men did any killing that was done. Davy told us they hanged them. Gillian wasn’t there for that.” He met her eyes. “If not for Gillian, we’d both be dead.”

  “Is that why you love her?”

  “It’s only part of it.”

  “I see,” she said.

  He scanned her face. “Do you? Tell me why your father betrothed her to a man like Sir Douglas MacKinnon.”

  She flushed slightly and looked at her hands. “It—it seemed like the only proposal Gilly was ever likely to get. Papa thought—well, we all thought—that she’d prefer a safe, quiet life. No one expected she’d find outlaws, adventures, and . . . well, you—and want that instead.” She looked up at him. “Are you very sure, John Erly, that she’s the one for you? I remember you had a certain reputation at Carraig Brigh for flirtation and seduction. Gilly is so innocent. If you break her heart, it won’t be Papa who cuts your faithless heart out or chops off your—”

  “I love her, Meggie.”

  “Can you win?”

  For her, he felt capable of anything, any heroic deed. She believed it too. With the contest, Gillian was giving him a chance to prove to others what she already knew—he wasn’t just an outcast or a rogue. He was as brave and skilled as any man, and worthy of her father’s respect. “I’ll accept any challenge.”

  Meggie smiled approvingly. “I always knew you were a good man, English John—well, I had a strong suspicion about it. My sister’s a lucky lass. Papa has confined Gilly to her room, but we’ll find a way to bring her to you.”

  He felt longing rise in his breast for that and nodded his thanks.

  She started up the stairs and paused to look back at him fiercely.

  “Win her, John. Don’t lose.” And then she was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It was nearly dawn when Callum and Meggie brought Gillian to the dungeon. Gillian rushed across to him and curled her hands around his where he gripped the bars. She looked at him silently, her heart in her eyes. She didn’t need to say a word—he could read her love for him, her joy that he’d come, in her eyes. He squeezed her hands.

  Callum stood close behind her, his arms folded over his broad chest as he regarded John coolly. “Gilly said ye’d come. I didn’t believe it.”

  “Thank you for your help,” John said, but the Highlander held up his hand.

  “Nay, don’t thank me. I haven’t decided if I’m glad ye’re here or not yet. I’m Donal MacLeod’s man, and I’m here to protect Gillian. I’ll not be letting ye out of my sight or opening this door.”

  Gillian stood silently, her hair a copper flame in the light of the pine torch that hung on the wall. She sent a pleading glance to Meggie, and Meggie took Callum’s arm, drew him back a few steps. She winked at John.

  “You came,” Gillian whispered. He drew her fingers between the bars, kissed them. Desire flared in her eyes, and she bit her bottom lip, and the familiar gesture drove him wild.

  “There’s going to be a contest,” Gillian said.

  “I know.” The scent of her surrounded him, even here in the damp dungeon with bars between them.

  “Papa has insisted on setting the challenges himself,” Gillian said. “He’ll choose the ones the Scots can win.”

  “We could—assist—you,” Meggie said. “Find a way to—“

  Callum made a low sound of disapproval in his throat, and Meggie glared at him. “Not you. As Gillian’s sisters—we are willing—nay, determined—to see that Gillian gets her heart’s desire D’you understand, John?”

  John let go of Gillian and frowned. “Aye, I do—you expect me to cheat.”

  “John would never cheat,” Gillian said quickly. “He’s a man of honor.” He looked at her and she smiled. “I told you that I know you, John Erly.”

  He met the love in her eyes, the utter certainty that he’d win. It made him feel like he could move mountains, wrestle bears, or swim across the sea and back, if that was the challenge set for him.

  “But these are Highland contests, not English ones,” Meggie insisted. “Papa will ask the impossible. You want to win, don’t you? No one would know . . .”

  John felt anger flare. “I’d know, Meggie.”

  Callum gave a grunt of approval.

  “What if the MacKenzie wins, or Robertson?” Meggie asked. “You’re honor bound to wed the winner, Gilly.”

  “Aye,” Gillian said softly. “So John must win.” He read determination in her green eyes. “You will, won’t you?”

  “What’s the first challenge?” John asked, touching her cheek. Her skin was so soft . . .

  “We don’t know yet. The laird will announce it tomorrow,” Callum said.

  “Papa’s thinking,” Meggie said, pacing the floor outside the cell anxiously. “As much as we want you to win, he’s determined to see you lose.”

  Callum laughed. “If Donal MacLeod, or any man alive, can outplot ye and your sisters, I’d be very surprised. Still, a Sassenach against Scots . . .” He sighed and shook his head.

  Gillian looked at Callum and her sister. “I’d like a few minutes alone with John,” she said firmly.

  Callum’s smile faded and he bristled. “Alone?”

  “There are solid iron bars between us.”

  Meggie grabbed his arm. “Have a heart, Callum. We’ll stroll along this gloomy corridor to the end and talk about the weather.”

  Callum let Meggie drag him away, but he frowned at John over his shoulder as he went. “We’ll be within earshot,” he warned.

  Gillian leaned up on her toes and kissed him between the iron bars. He wrapped his arms around her, held her as close as he was able with the metal between them, and breathed her in.

  “You came,” she said, kissing him over and over. “You came.”

  “Aye,” he said, and sighed. “I was a fool to wait so long.”

  “Your past doesn’t matter to me, John. And the future is ours.”

  He felt a surge of love fill him. If he belonged nowhere else, he belonged with her. “I love you.” He kissed her and silently damned the bars that separated them. “Gillian—is there a possibility that you might be . . . that I . . . we—” He dropped his eyes to her belly.

  She blushed like a June rose. “Oh, that. No. No. I’m—not . . .”

  He shut his eyes, half relieved, half disappointed. He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead.

  “Is that why you came, why you faced my father?” she asked.

  “No. I came for you. But the possibility made me realize how much I love you, how much I want to marry you, live with you, have children with you—now or someday. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

  She put her hand against her flat belly. “I almost wish—” She met his eyes. “But there will be time for that. For—” He saw fear cross her face, though she hid it quickly. “When you win. When we win.”

  He squeezed her hands. “Meggie said the contest was your idea, love. You did it for us, to give us a chance, to show your father who I am.”

  “Aye.”

  “I will win, Gilly,” he promised.

  “I know.” She shut her eyes. He shook her slightly until she looked at him again. “Don’t give up on me, Gillian.”

  “Never,” she said.
“You are my choice—and I am yours.”

  But there was no time to say more. Callum and Meggie were coming back, Meggie was chattering loudly, and Callum’s crisp footfalls were an unspoken rebuke.

  John felt his heart climb into his throat. If he didn’t win—he pushed the thought away. He’d almost given her away once. He wouldn’t do it again.

  This time, he knew.

  She was his.

  “Callum, you’d best take Gillian back before her father sees she’s missing and fears the worst.”

  Callum came forward and took Gillian’s arm. He met John’s eyes. “Good luck, Englishman.”

  Meggie smiled at him. “Just win,” she whispered.

  But Gillian said nothing at all. She just looked at him, confident, knowing he would, trusting him completely.

  John watched them climb the stairs, heard the door at the top close, and there was only silence.

  * * *

  Donal was still pacing the floor as the sky began to lighten.

  He’d have to announce the contest today, before the lairds began to fear he intended to show the Sassenach’s suit preference over their own. Surely they noticed Gillian’s smile, her happiness at the Englishman’s arrival. He rolled up his sleeves. And they’d seen his own disapproval of the man.

  The contest was a fine idea, but what should the first challenge be? Something manly and difficult, something no Englishman could ever hope to succeed at. Something Scottish . . .

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

  Donal looked up as Meggie entered. She smiled and kissed his cheek.

  “You’re up early,” he said, glancing out the window at the morning star, shining bright in the dawn sky.

  “I just wanted to bid you good morning, Papa,” she said sweetly, her smile as wide as the glen.

  He gave her a stern glare. “I assume ye lost the draw, then.”

  She batted her lashes. “What draw is that, Papa?”

  “The one where ye and your sisters drew bits of straw to see which of ye would come and convince me to let the Englishman win.”

  Her eyes slid sideways. “We’d never do such a thing, Papa. We trust your judgment.”