Enchanted by the Highlander

by Cornwall, Lecia

  “Ah.” Of course. It wasn’t a mystery. Everyone in the room knew. They were all drinking the sweet white wine.

  She caught the edge of her lower lip in small white teeth. “It’s a warm night. Cold water is what’s needed.”

  Aye, and plenty of that, John thought—a mile-long swim across a freezing Scottish loch, perhaps.

  Naked. With her.

  He winced at the unbidden image and shook his head to clear it. “There’s a well in the garden. The water is always cold.”

  “Will you—direct me to it?” she asked.

  He scanned the mask, the sparkle of her eyes, the lush, plump softness of her lips. Walk away, his mind warned him, even as he offered her his arm. “I’ll show you.”

  She laid her left hand on the rough sleeve of his shirt, and he stared at her long fingers for a moment. No wedding ring.

  He led her out the door and through the bailey, his heart pounding as if he’d been running. He could hear the sea, and he skirted the keep toward the rose garden. He could smell the heady scent of the flowers before they reached them, knew that there were bowers there, dark and deep and secret. And the well, of course—first he’d slake her thirst . . .

  She didn’t hesitate—she came with him, her hand on his arm, her pace matching his, her slippers soundless, even on the gravel path. He could hear only his own booted footsteps, loud and eager.

  “There,” he said, pointing to the well. The pale stone structure shone in the moonlight. He stepped forward to crank the winch and lower the bucket.

  She bit her lip again, a habit perhaps—or uncertainty—and it glistened in the faint light. It made him want to kiss her all the more, to soothe her, excite her. He heard the bucket splash in the depths of the well, gurgle as it filled, and began to wind it back up.

  * * *

  Gillian watched John Erly draw water for her, his muscles working under his linen shirt, his knuckles white on the handle. His eyes never left hers. The summer night was soft and warm, even with the wind coming off the sea. The salt air mixed with the scent of the roses and the damp gravel under her feet, a perfume particular to this place, this night. The half moon cast long shadows, made the dark paint on his face mysterious. His grin was all the whiter for that, and the horns on his forehead were devilish indeed.

  Good sense told her to flee before it was too late, to run back inside to the safety of her father’s side, but the stars twinkled, reflected in John’s eyes, and she didn’t want to be sensible.

  She wanted a kiss. His kiss. Her mouth watered for it.

  This was an adventure . . .

  She waited as he brought the bucket up full, lifted it to rest on the lip of the well, dripping. The water glittered, and she stared at it. He filled the dipper and held it for her to drink. She leaned over and sipped. It was cold and sweet. It dripped down her chin, splashed onto her bosom. He drank as well, then put the dipper back into the bucket and stood watching the progress of the droplets as they crept over the slope of her breast, forging tiny, icy paths across her skin. She saw his throat bob, his lips tighten, and felt an answering shiver rush through her that had more to do with him, and heat, than with the cold water.

  “I want very much to kiss you. Should I?” he said.

  “Do you always ask permission?”

  He grinned at that, a quick flash of white teeth in the dark. “Oh, lass—I’ve learned to, just in case. Do you have a husband, or a burly protective brother perhaps?”

  “Neither,” she said. She stepped toward him, coming close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, smell the scent of his skin and his soap. “You may kiss me,” she said. It sounded silly, standing inches apart, staring at each other, their hands at their sides, both of them waiting, but she had no idea how it was done, this business of stealing kisses from—or giving them away to—a handsome stranger in the moonlight.

  “Take off your mask,” he said. His voice was low and it vibrated over her nerves, creating a soft hum in her veins. Her chest tightened. Would he be disappointed when he saw her, knew her for who she was, the MacLeod’s shy, dull, bookish daughter?

  What would Meggie say to such a request, or Fia or Aileen? Now was the time for flirtation . . .

  She tilted her head and forced a smile. “Isn’t that against the rules? Aren’t we supposed to wait until midnight?”

  He put his hand to her cheek, ran one finger under the edge of her mask. “We can make our own rules.”

  He reached for the ribbon ties that held the mask in place, and she felt panic swell.

  She stood on her toes and slammed her mouth against his.

  He grunted in surprise, but he let go of the ribbons, caught her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her back. “Slow, sweetheart,” he breathed against her mouth. “We have all night, if we want it. Open for me. I want to make this count if it’s just a kiss . . . Is it?”

  She put her hands against his chest, felt the hard muscles under the plain linen shirt, the heat of his body, the throb of his heartbeat under her palms. How did one answer that? She had never been asked, never been given more than a furtive peck on the cheek, or a sloppy, glancing kiss on the lips. He was waiting for a reply, staring at her. “I-I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I want to . . . make this count as well.”

  So she kissed him again, softly this time, slower, thrilled by her own boldness, and by the sweetness of his mouth against hers. His lips were soft but firm, and they moved over her mouth with a skill far beyond her own, creating the most incredible sensations. She shivered and burned and pressed closer, wanting more. When he licked the seam of her lips, she opened her mouth, trusting him to know why it was important. He groaned and slid his tongue inside, past her teeth, to touch her own tongue.

  Oh my . . . He tasted of sweet water and whisky. She sighed and tilted her head to a better angle, wanting more.

  His hands slid over her back, drawing her closer, and she felt the heat of his touch through the silk gown. She felt his arousal against her hip, knew that for what it was, and felt a thrill of power. He wanted her. He spanned her waist with his big hands, slid them upwards, and cupped her breasts. Her body tingled, burned. She sighed, wrapped her hands around his neck, tangled them in his hair, pressed her tongue into his mouth, and heard him groan again.

  He broke the kiss, nipped the lobe of her ear. “I have a cott of my own, sweeting. It isn’t far,” he murmured, his voice husky. “Come with me, stay . . .”

  Suddenly there were voices in the garden, and the sound of footsteps on the path.

  Gillian gasped and pushed away from him. John muttered a curse and stepped back, and she pressed herself into the shadows, suddenly cold without him as fear replaced desire. He stood in front of her, shielded her from view as the voices came closer, and footsteps crunched along the path in the dark. But then she saw the gleam of lanterns through the leaves, harsh and yellow compared to the softness of the moonlight.

  Caught. What if it was her father, or Fia, looking for her? She’d been warned to stay away from John Erly, forbidden to speak to him. Her father would never forgive her, and John . . . She felt panic close her throat at the thought of what her father would do to him.

  They couldn’t catch her here. Gillian retreated into the shadows, her eyes on John’s back as he watched the intruders come, the beams of light stretching, reaching. It flared on the side of the well, then on the gravel next to it, coming closer . . .

  She didn’t wait. She turned and fled down the path.

  Her mask, already loose, slipped free and fell to the path, but she didn’t stop for it.

  She ran all the way back to the castle, slipped through a side door, and raced up the kitchen stairs. She didn’t stop until she reached her chamber. She tore open the door with shaking fingers, burst through it, and slammed it behind her. She leaned on it, listening for the sound of pursuit, her father’s bellow of rage, but there was nothing other than her own harsh breaths.

  She put her
fingertips to her lips and felt the wanting still humming in her veins.

  She’d kissed him.

  She crossed to the mirror and looked at her face. Her cheeks were as pink as the silk of her gown, her eyes wide and shining. And her mouth—her lips were soft and red, well kissed. She licked them, could still taste him. “Oh my,” she whispered, wanting more, even now.

  Had he seen her? It seemed impossible that he had not, that he hadn’t known who she was, or guessed.

  She jumped in surprise when the delicate ormolu clock on the mantel began to chime, the soft sound loud in the silence of the room. She stared at it, counted the bells. What had she done?

  It was midnight, and she was unmasked.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Lass?” John whispered as the revelers passed by, barely nodding to him. “Lass?” But there was no reply. He searched the bushes, but there was no gleam of pink silk, no rustle.

  She’d gone, vanished. He ran his hand through his hair and sat on the edge of the well, trying to catch his breath. Why the devil hadn’t he asked her name? Because he’d been lost in kissing her, oblivious to all else, that’s why. He couldn’t remember a simple kiss setting him afire the way that one had. She tasted of . . . what was it? Of flowers—sweet, heady, and utterly divine. The scent of roses hung in the air around him.

  The Scots were superstitious folk. They told tales of men bewitched by fairies, held in thrall. He ran his thumb over his lip. He could almost believe it was true. He’d swear to it if asked.

  He found her mask on the path, almost tripped on the empty white shell in the dark. It smelled of her perfume, her skin. He hurried back to the hall, past other couples who were trysting in the garden now, clutching each other in the dark foliage and giggling. “Get her name,” he almost called to one lucky lad who glanced up at him, but he was in a hurry.

  Inside, he scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of a pink and gold gown, a saucy white cap, but she wasn’t there. He circled the room twice and was on his third circuit when the clock rang midnight.

  A cry went up and masks came off. He scanned the newly bared faces, the laughing mouths, the sparkling eyes. He’d know her, he was sure. He’d recognize the tilt of her chin, the shape of her jaw, the elegant lines of her body, and that mouth . . .

  But the clock sounded the final chime, and he knew she wasn’t here.

  He wondered again if he’d imagined her, or if he was mad. Or perhaps it was his own past catching up with him and punishing him once more for his sins.

  He stuffed the mask into his shirt and went home to bed. Alone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ten months later

  This time, when the Sinclair ship bearing Gillian MacLeod and an escort of five of her father’s strongest clansmen arrived again at Carraig Brigh, she was not invisible at all.

  In fact, she was the most important passenger on the ship, a bride, on the way to her wedding.

  In seven weeks, Gillian Alanna MacLeod would be joined in holy wedlock to Sir Douglas MacKinnon. But first she would visit her sister for a few days before sailing on to Edinburgh under the escort of the Earl of Carrbry. And since Donal MacLeod could not accompany her, Dair was to give the bride away at the wedding.

  Gillian stood at the rail as the ship sailed into the harbor at Carraig Brigh and felt butterflies bash against her ribs like trapped birds. She put a hand to her eyes and scanned the folk waiting on the cliff top. She looked for John’s distinctive figure, a tall golden man among the dark, robust Sinclairs. It took only seconds to realize he wasn’t there.

  The butterflies dropped like stones in the pit of her belly. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t be disappointed, but she was.

  She dug her nails into the wooden rail. She’d thought of nothing else but John Erly for weeks—months—after she and her father left Carraig Brigh the day after the masked ball. She didn’t see him after the kiss.

  Obviously it meant nothing to him.

  Or he hadn’t guessed her identity.

  Or he had guessed, and had been disappointed, or angry, or amused at her folly.

  Even now—again—her face burned with embarrassment.

  Or disappointment.

  Or foolish hope.

  Whatever the reason, John Erly hadn’t come to Glen Iolair, or sent word, and Fia’s infrequent letters made no mention of him at all. Gillian had been too shy to ask, and too shocked by her own daring—and her cowardice—at the ball.

  She lowered her gaze from the cliff and forced herself to let go of the rail. He wasn’t here. She vowed to forget him from this moment on. She must.

  She’d soon be a married woman.

  When Sir Douglas MacKinnon’s offer of marriage had come a few weeks after her return home last fall, Gillian hadn’t said yes at once. The offer had surprised her, since she hadn’t realized Sir Douglas thought of her as a potential wife. He was a kind, good man, an old friend of her father’s, and Gillian was fond of him, but she certainly didn’t love him with a grand passion, the way her sisters loved their husbands. His letter of proposal had been formal and polite, and spoke of regard, but not love. She had hesitated in her reply, waiting and hoping that word—or a particular visitor—might come from Carraig Brigh.

  But he hadn’t.

  She dreamed of John Erly. She never dreamed of Sir Douglas. She woke in the night, breathless with longing, remembering John’s kisses. She’d prowled the wood, hunted until she dropped from exhaustion, all the while wondering if the kiss they’d shared meant even one half as much to him as it did to her.

  She’d waited until weeks turned to months, and she could not wait any longer. Sir Douglas wanted an answer.

  Everyone agreed he’d be perfect for Gillian. Her sisters had coaxed her to accept, telling her she’d not likely get any another proposal so perfectly suited to her shy, bookish personality. Plus, as gentleman in his late middle years, Sir Douglas would not expect bright conversation, a witty wife, or children—he had a grown son. Sir Douglas was rarely in society and preferred his own company. He wanted a calm, quiet wife for his remaining years, a pretty adornment to his home, a helpmeet and companion who would help him transcribe two decades’ worth of notes on the tides of Eastern Scotland into a proper book.

  Her father had agreed with his daughters. Sir Douglas was just the sort of man he would have chosen for her himself, he said—a kind, dignified, settled gentleman. With no other prospects likely, he’d urged Gillian to accept.

  And so she had agreed to marry Sir Douglas at his home in Edinburgh in late August, just seven weeks from now.

  And “now” was exactly nine months and twenty-three days since she’d kissed John Erly.

  Her adventure had been short-lived indeed, she thought, as she scanned the cliff top once more—but just as Moire and Annie had both predicted, Gillian would most definitely be married within a year of that date.

  She had anticipated her brief visit to Carraig Brigh, since it meant she would see her sister, who was with child once again, and her niece and nephew.

  And she’d dreaded it as well. She’d see John again, know by the look in his eyes if he’d guessed, or remembered, or—Oh, why did her heart still beat fast and her brain turn to mush every time she thought about him? Really, it had been no more than a simple kiss.

  Her only kiss.

  She couldn’t imagine Sir Douglas kissing her that way.

  When she reached the top of the cliff path, Angus Mor Sinclair was waiting for her. He grinned a welcome and led her to the garron he’d brought for her. His son held the reins, and Will Fraser was there as well, part of her escort. The lad had grown and filled out, and Gillian had no doubt John had much to do with that. Will scanned the five MacLeod warriors that followed Gillian up from the beach like a hardened fighter, with one hand on his sword—made of steel now, Gillian noted. And Will was just one of an escort of a dozen Sinclairs who’d come to lead her to Carraig Brigh, as if she’d need such protection here, on her brothe
r-in-law’s lands, in the shadow of his great keep. The ride to the castle would take less than ten minutes.

  Ten minutes to compose herself, to make ready to see him again . . . nine months, twenty-three days, and ten minutes.

  No more wondering or dreaming. She braced herself, squared her shoulders, and prepared herself to see him again, not knowing what to expect. Would it be scorn from a rogue who’d stolen a kiss from a foolish girl? Perhaps he wouldn’t remember her at all. She kept her chin high, her expression passive and proud, but she felt the heat of the telltale blush that filled her cheeks. She stared at her hands on the reins and tried to listen as Angus Mor filled her in on Sinclair news.

  “Your sister would have come to meet ye herself, but she’s been ill with the bairn she’s carrying. Moire has insisted she must rest as much as possible,” Angus said. He frowned. “And Alasdair Og was due home a week ago from his latest voyage. He’s not often late. Fia says she’s not worried, o’ course, but I know she is.” He grinned at her. “Your company will make her very happy, lass. My Annie is with child again as well—our third bairn, but she’s as fit and fine as a westering wind.”

  * * *

  John stood on the wall of the keep, waiting for their esteemed guest to arrive. He supposed that this time he would be properly introduced at least, and meet her for the first time.

  He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or irritated by Gillian MacLeod’s visit. It was a happy distraction for Fia, but it was also a reminder that Dair was late in returning home from his voyage. Dair was meant to escort Gillian to Edinburgh and give her away at her wedding. Fia was worried about her husband, though she did her best not to show it for the sake of the clan, and the families of Dair’s crew.

  But John knew what she feared.

  He’d met Dair in England, when they were both prisoners at Coldburn Keep. Dair’s ship had been taken by the English, his crew murdered, his young cousin tortured while Dair was beaten and forced to watch her torment. Dair had almost died there and would bear the scars, visible and invisible, for the rest of his days. John had also been a prisoner. He’d convinced the guards to let Dair go, and he’d brought him home to Carraig Brigh, and stayed. That had been before the Union of England and Scotland, when the English still saw Dair as an enemy and a pirate. They were friends now, but the Sinclairs—and Fia—hadn’t forgotten.