She caught her breath and let go of Dair. “Thank you. I’m well.”
Her brother-in-law smiled. “Then let’s go up, get ye settled. I’m sure Fia has a nice, quiet room already picked out for ye.”
CHAPTER TWO
“He’s Dair’s captain, John Erly,” Fia said when Gillian quietly asked the stranger’s name as they rode up to the castle.
Gillian recalled Meggie mentioning him, calling him English John. What was it she’d said about him? That he was a Sassenach, but a handsome one. Meggie had doubted he had the cloven hooves or devil’s horns that most Scots thought Englishmen possessed. In her sister’s opinion, English John was well-mannered, chivalrous, and brave.
And Gillian’s opinion—which she kept to herself—was that John Erly was the handsomest man she’d ever seen. When she saw him later that evening in the hall at supper, he seemed a cocksure, charming rogue, and he filled the room just by walking into it and stole all the air. She was not introduced to him. She was seated between her father and her sister, and she watched him from a distance. Men greeted him, and the women cast long looks of such smoldering, wicked suggestion in his direction, they made Gillian blush. He grinned at them and winked, and Gillian’s heart did a slow roll in her breast, even though those looks weren’t directed at her.
He did not so much as glance in her direction. Gillian had never felt quite this invisible. It was as if her chair stood empty, or she herself was of utterly no interest to him, even as a visitor and Fia’s sister.
There was a place set for him at the table next to Dair, but he ate with the clansmen instead. Papa sat glaring at the Englishman as if he expected John Erly to leap to his feet and kill everyone in the room. The tension was so thick the weight of it was almost crushing—at least to Gillian. Fia scarcely seemed to notice. Her sister chattered happily about how good it was to be home, and the latest gossip she’d heard about local folk that Gillian didn’t know. Gillian stopped listening and watched John Erly from under her lashes. She learned about people by watching and listening, since few folk made the effort to draw her into conversation. She noted that John had a ready grin and a quick wit when the men seated around him laughed often. The light gleamed on the gold of his hair as if he was burnished. He’d shaved for the meal and changed his clothes. He dressed as the clansmen did, in a linen shirt and a leather vest, but he wore boots and breeches instead of a kilt, which marked him as different. Did he have cloven hooves and a tail?
“Are you listening, Gilly?” Fia said, shaking her from her reverie. Caught staring, Gillian felt hot blood fill her cheeks. She smiled at her sister and took a sip of her wine. It was cold, clear, and sweet.
“I was telling you about one of the parties we attended in London—one of many, of course—but this was a masked ball.” Fia cast a sideways look at their father, but he was busy scowling at English John. “Such parties are considered slightly wicked, even in England. All the lords and ladies in attendance were in disguise, wearing masks and costumes, and there was no way to know who you might be speaking to, or who was watching you.” Fia grinned like a pirate. “It was great fun indeed. I thought we might have one at Carraig Brigh while you and Papa are here, to celebrate our new status. I intend to invite everyone we know—the captains of Dair’s fleet, his city friends, all the lairds and chiefs of our allies.”
Gillian scanned her sister’s face. Was this another ploy to try to find her a husband? And yet, how could anyone choose a husband from a roomful of masked men?
“Do you think Papa would approve?” Fia asked.
“Approve of what?” Donal MacLeod asked.
“A masked ball, Papa,” Fia said. “Everyone comes in disguise, unknown to their fellow guests until the unmasking at midnight.”
Donal MacLeod frowned. “How will ye know who you’re speaking to if everyone is wearing a disguise?”
Fia grinned. “That’s the point. Folk say things when they’re masked they wouldn’t otherwise and show sides of themselves they usually keep hidden.”
Gillian wondered just what kind of things people might be willing to reveal to strangers if they felt themselves anonymous. She glanced at English John again. To her surprise, he was staring at her.
Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes locked. He wasn’t smiling now. His face was in shadow, and she wondered what he was thinking.
“Sounds dangerous to me. Ye might think ye’re talking to a friend when it’s your worst enemy listening to all your secrets,” her father said.
“But they won’t know you, either, Papa,” Fia said.
“Then why would we talk at all if we’re strangers?”
“But when you unmask, you might find you’re friends,” Fia tried.
“Or not,” Donal grumbled.
Gillian was barely listening. She couldn’t look away from John. She felt heat filling her face, and every nerve grew taut as the Englishman held her gaze. Usually, when someone met her eyes, Gillian looked away, but this time, she couldn’t. She wished she were close enough to know what color the eyes were that stared into hers. It was impossible to tell across the hall by candlelight.
Her father and Fia were leaning across her, and Fia was still trying to explain the point of a masked ball to their father.
“Sometimes it’s not about talking. Sometimes it’s a look or a touch, and not knowing who might be behind the mask,” Fia said.
Gillian watched John Erly raise his cup to his lips and drink, his eyes still holding hers, and she swallowed with him, her mouth watering.
“D’ye mean to tell me ye wouldn’t know Dair no matter how canny the disguise he wore, or he wouldn’t know ye?” her father asked Fia.
“Well, of course I would, but—”
“Then if ye know the ones ye know, and have no care about the ones ye don’t, it makes no sense to go about in disguise,” Donal said stubbornly.
“Oh, Papa,” Fia said. “We shall have to find very clever costumes to fool you.”
The sound of their voices drifted away, and Gillian was only aware of the sound of her own breath, the beating of her heart—and John Erly.
Then Fia nudged her and broke the spell. “You were a thousand miles away again—I’ve asked you twice what costume you might wear to my masked ball. What on earth are you thinking about?” She followed the direction of Gillian’s gaze to John Erly and gave a little gasp of surprise. “Were you staring at English John?” she whispered, casting a quick glance at their father, but he’d turned to converse with Dair. Fia squeezed Gillian’s arm. “Oh no, sweeting—John’s not for you. He’s a rogue of the worst sort.”
“Is he unkind to women?” Gillian asked, surprised.
Fia’s lips tightened. “No, worse—he’s charming. There’s not a lass at Carraig who hasn’t had her head turned by English John. Flattery gets him everything, and he knows just what to say to win a lass’s heart and her—Well, he isn’t for novices, Gilly, and he certainly isn’t for you. Stay away from him while you’re here.”
“But how did an Englishman come to be at Carraig Brigh, serving as captain of the guard?” Gillian asked, curious.
Fia sipped her wine. “He’s the son of an English earl, but his father disowned him.”
“Why?” Gillian asked.
Fia’s eyes slid away. “Something about a lady, or a series of ladies, that’s all I know. John was in gaol in England when the English captured Dair’s ship, tortured Dair half to death, and murdered his cousin. If English John hadn’t convinced the guards to let them both go, Dair would be dead.” Fia regarded the Englishman with gratitude. “John brought him home, Gillian. He’s as brave as a lion and a very fine swordsman.” She blinked back a tear, then straightened her spine and gave Gillian a sharp look. “Don’t mistake me. In many ways John is a wonderful man, just not in love. He’d make a dreadful husband, even if a lass could catch him. Many have tried. I’ve tried myself to find him a bride, but he’ll have none of it. He likes widows, women with experience, the
kind who want nothing more than—” Fia blushed. “Well, they don’t want a husband.”
“I see,” Gillian said.
Fia frowned. “Do you? Then you’ll take my advice and stay away from him.” She patted Gillian’s hand. “Don’t worry—I’ll invite lots of fine, eligible gentlemen to the ball, and you’ll have a chance to meet them all. You will take advantage of the opportunity, won’t you, Gilly? There’ll be no need to feel shy if no one knows you.”
Mortification made Gillian blush from her toes to her hairline. She was quiet because the world talked around her, ran her over with their words, didn’t bother to listen. It had always been that way, with eleven sisters to compete with. Someone always said what she wished to say before her, so there was no need to speak at all. She was not witless or without opinions and ideas. It was simply easier to keep them to herself.
Gillian toyed with her food. She looked at John Erly from under her lashes. A man like that would never flirt with a mouse like her, not if he liked bold women, women who spoke up, knew what they wanted. She watched as he rose from his seat and moved toward the door.
As he left, he cast a backward glance over his shoulder.
At her.
And then he was gone.
* * *
Were all of the Fearsome MacLeod’s daughters beauties? John left the hall and walked along the cliff path in the dark. The man had twelve daughters, and he’d met three of them—well two, since no one had actually introduced him to Fia’s visiting sister. He knew Fia well, with her gentle grace, her fierce loyalty, and her talent for healing. And he’d met Meggie-the-Flirt, blond, saucy, witty, and clever. But this lass—Gillian—was ethereal, watchful, soft, the kind of lass whose company would be soothing and gentle.
At dinner, from her seat between her sister and her father, she’d looked around Dair’s hall, had taken in the details, but he noted that she spoke little. She did her best to blend into the background, it seemed to him. As if a woman who looked like Gillian MacLeod could ever be invisible. She wore a simple gown in a dull color, without jewels or adornments, her russet hair now tamed into a simple braid. John liked redheads—perhaps that was why he’d been aware of no one else. Of course, half the Sinclair lasses had red hair, and he didn’t notice them.
When she’d looked up, caught his stare and held it, he couldn’t look away, could hardly breathe.
Until Fia noticed.
John could see that she was telling her sister all about him. And Donal MacLeod was watching him, too, narrow-eyed and tight lipped, with his ham-sized fist resting on the table in an unspoken but very clear warning. Gillian MacLeod wasn’t for him. Not even to speak to.
John took the path through the village and stopped briefly in front of Elspeth’s cott, knew she was waiting for him, and the welcome would be warm. But all he could think about was Gillian MacLeod, and how he, an earl’s son born, bred, and disowned, wasn’t good enough for her.
He turned away from Elspeth’s door and went to the armory to borrow a bow, then walked into the wood instead.
CHAPTER THREE
Whenever Gillian was frustrated or restless, she went out at night to hunt, alone. Few people knew she did so, save for one or two of her clansmen—Callum MacLeod and his brother Tam had found her in the wood one night with a brace of pheasants over her shoulder and a smudge of blood on her cheek. They hadn’t asked any questions. They’d simply accompanied her and made sure she was safe. They saw at whose doorstep she left her kill. Then they followed her home, silently, without questioning why or how she knew that particular household needed food and was too proud to ask the Fearsome MacLeod for help.
She was always back in her bed before anyone knew she’d been gone.
Callum didn’t tell her father. On occasion she found him waiting for her, and he’d silently go along with her—or he’d simply let her pass when he sensed she needed her solitude.
She loved the wood at night, was truly invisible in the darkness, yet more alive than she was by day, at home, embroidering or reading or listening to her sisters’ endless advice.
And now she needed a chance to run through the dark with her bow in her hand, her dirk hidden away in her sleeve, to have time to think, to be out under the moon and stars with the night wind cooling her face. She had no fear of being caught or harmed on Sinclair land. She was quiet as a mouse.
All she could think of was John Erly, how he’d looked at her as if he really saw her, not her expensive clothes, or the fact she was Donal MacLeod’s daughter or Fia’s sister. He’d looked at her the way a man looks at a woman. There was none of the careful deference the MacLeod men showed her. And there was none of the slight dismay she’d read in the eyes of Edinburgh strangers when they’d seen how carefully her father and sisters protected her, stayed by her side, and answered questions for her, as if she was slow-witted or so shy she might break in half if she had to speak aloud on her own.
Even when she was asked how she liked her tea, the nearest person would reply without consulting her. When she was with her father, she drank it plain and strong, because that was how he liked his own. When her sister Laire was nearby, Gillian was served tea with milk, but no sugar. Gillian wondered if they’d think her rude if she contradicted them, asked for her tea the way she liked it—with sugar and no milk, and not so terribly strong it could melt the silver off the teaspoon.
Nay, out in the dark wood alone, she was free to make her own decisions, choose her own path, and she was perfectly capable of keeping herself safe.
She wondered where John Erly was at this moment—probably with a woman, though he hadn’t left the hall with any of the lasses he’d teased with a wink and a smile. Perhaps it had been more of a signal, a secret arrangement, a promise of more, later.
Gillian shivered and drew her dark cloak around her, but she wasn’t cold. She was curious. Fia said John Erly was a rake and a rogue, a lover of women—and if he could arouse such curiosity with just a look, what would it be like to kiss a man like that, lay with him? There was a lump in her throat and she swallowed. Now she was too warm, and she loosened her cloak.
The snap of a twig made her drop to a crouch. Out of habit she stayed still and scanned the dark, looking for the source of the sound.
She saw the gleam of blond hair in the moonlight and held her breath. She knew him by his lean silhouette. He moved so carefully she might have missed him, if not for the twig. But then, he didn’t know she was here, watching. She saw him stop, check a snare, find a rabbit, and collect it. Then he walked on.
Gillian frowned. Now why would Dair’s captain of the guard be out hunting at night? Perhaps it was a reason like her own, that he was lonely and restless.
She followed him, moving soundlessly down the path after him. She kept him in sight because he knew the tracks here and she did not. She should turn, go back before she lost her way, but she was curious. Perhaps he was going to a lover after all, bearing a gift.
He moved through the dark with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going. Did he do everything that way? She stopped when he paused near a small cott in a clearing. Gillian could hear the cow lowing mournfully in the lean-to beside the house, the wail of an animal in need of milking.
Gillian watched from the shadows as John picked up a pail and a stool and milked the cow. He patted the animal’s side, covered the pail, and left it by the door to the cott, though he did not knock. He laid the coney beside the pail, and he took a loaf of bread and a pair of candles out of his pouch and left those as well.
Silently, he backed away from the cott. When he reached the shelter of the wood, he crouched in the undergrowth and let out a sharp whistle.
He stayed low as the door creaked open a fraction of an inch. To Gillian’s surprise, it wasn’t one of the lasses she’d seen him flirting with. This woman was old, white-haired, and wary as she peered out into the dark. “Who is it?” she called.
John didn’t answer. He was so quiet she wondered if
he was still there at all.
Then the old woman looked down and saw the bounty on her doorstep. She let out a cry of surprise and looked around again. “Is it the fairies?” she said. She lifted the bread and held it to her nose, sniffing the oaten loaf, holding it reverently. She picked up the rabbit as well and held it in her arms like a beloved child. Her tears sparkled in the moonlight. Gillian could hear the rattle in the woman’s lungs as she laughed for joy.
She took the food inside, her gait slow and limping, her back stooped with age and illness. The pail of milk was a problem—the old woman hadn’t the strength to lift it. She left it by the door and went back inside. She reappeared with a half-grown lad with a twisted foot, who was rubbing sleep from his eyes. Together they lifted the brimming pail and took it inside.
Still John didn’t move. A moment later, the lad was back. Awkwardly, he bent and set a crust of the bread and a small bowl of milk back on the ground as payment for the fairies.
Only when they’d gone in and all was quiet did John rise and walk away.
Gillian’s chest contracted. John wasn’t visiting a lover. He was helping a family in need, folk that were likely too proud to ask for help from their neighbors, or even from Fia, their lady. Perhaps they were outcasts, shunned for some reason, alone and hungry.
She followed the path John had taken, keeping him in sight. He walked to a lonely wee cott on the edge of the village, separate from the others. He went inside and didn’t come out again.
Gillian returned to the castle, found her way back to her room, and climbed into bed. Fia was wrong—John wasn’t a rogue at all. Of course, she didn’t know who lived in the second cott. One of the warm, willing widows Fia had mentioned, perhaps.
Enchanted by the Highlander Page 2
