“Why?” she gasped. “Why?”
His jaw tightened. “That was how he grieved my brother, by striking out at an innocent man, a maid.” His face was a mask of outrage even now, for Dair, and Jeannie. She’d heard the rest of that tale, of course, from Fia. They’d killed Jeannie Sinclair, hanged her after long days of rape and torture, and made Dair watch. John had somehow talked the guards into letting him go, allowing him to take Dair with him.
“How did you bribe them?” she asked. “What did you give them to let you go?”
He picked up the medicine bag from among the branches of their bed. He weighed it in his palm a moment before he opened it. He poured the contents out on a fold of her skirt. She saw the bloody arrowhead, a letter, also stained, a bead, a feather, a pebble, and a signet ring. He picked up the ring and showed it to her. The stone had been pried loose, and only a gaping hole remained to mark its place. “It once held a diamond. That was how I bought Dair’s freedom.”
She ran her fingers over the items gently, picked them up one by one and put them back into the pouch. Then she pulled one of the pink silk bows off the bodice of her gown, the one closest to her heart, and added that to the pouch. He watched her without comment.
She tied the broken thong, slipped it over John’s head, and pressed the bag against his heart. “You’re a good man, John Erly, brave and kind, and fine.”
He put his hand over hers, held it there. “I still have nothing to offer you, cannot honorably—” He shook his head.
. “Do you not see? Fate brought us together, against all the odds, all the miles, all the waiting . . .”
“For a moment.”
She didn’t reply. She reached to lower the unlaced bodice of her gown again, let the silk fall off her shoulders in unspoken invitation, wanting him again. If she asked with words, he’d say no . . . His eyes fell to her breasts.
“I dreamed of this,” he said. “Sliding this gown off your body an inch at a time, making love to you.” He shifted, and the fir boughs creaked. “Only we were in a bed—a soft, thick, feather bed, not a prickly, miserable pine couch.”
She pushed back the linen of his shirt, opened it, kissed his exposed chest, ran her lips across the hard muscle and soft skin over his heart. “This is a palace. Our palace, and our bed.” She lay back and held out her hand.
* * *
John looked down at Gillian’s face, flushed pink in the rosy dawn. She looked—magical. She always looked magical to him—in moonlight and in sun, in candlelight and rain. When he kissed her at the masquerade, he hadn’t known her name, or the color of her eyes or hair, hadn’t known how brave she was, how clever. He’d kissed her in the dark then, and he’d made love to her in total blackness, by feel, by every sense but sight. He could see her now, and his throat closed with desire.
He took the time to undo the remains of her tangled braid, worked his fingers through the soft waves of her russet hair, kissed the silken curls as they slid over his hands. There was no doubt in her eyes, no fear. She wanted this—he wanted it. Did it matter what the rest of the world thought?
He cupped her breasts, rose tipped and perfect, kissed them reverently, memorized them. He regretted that they could not be fully naked, wished he could hold her body against his, flesh to flesh, with no barriers between them, but even soft fir was sharp.
She reached for his half-buttoned breeches and tugged, knowing this time how to proceed, what pleased him, and herself. He lifted her skirts and slid into her, saw the ecstasy on her face. She made soft sounds of pleasure as he moved, and he waited for her, urged her, moved slowly and let the sensations build. She bit her lip, her eyes heavy lidded, dug her nails into his shoulders.
“John,” she said as she came close to her release. He reached down between their bodies, touched her, made the pleasure all the keener for her, hotter, sweeter. He forced his own body to wait, to savor the moment, to burn every detail into his memory. She was beautiful, perfect, his.
He watched her face as her release claimed her, felt her body shimmer around his, draw his response. He let go, poured himself into her.
Mine, he thought over and over again as he held her in his arms, their hearts beating together. Mine. He lay with his head on her breast, and she stroked his hair.
But the first rays of the sun were filling their shelter, and they couldn’t stay. He kissed her once, twice, and again, slow, lingering, tender kisses, and withdrew from her reluctantly.
“The garron will need water again,” he said.
“The burn isn’t far,” she replied. She fumbled with her gown as she sat up, covered herself.
He turned away, fastened his breeches. He was half hard again just listening to the rustle of the silk and the soft sound of her breathing as she dressed. They bumped together in the small space, and every touch felt like lightning crackling through his body.
“I need—” she said, and he turned, half hopeful. She was holding the bodice of her gown to her breasts, her expression wistful. The laces.
Of course.
She turned and he looked at the white skin of her back. He ran a finger along the bumps of her spine and felt her body soften. His hand closed on her shoulder, tempted to push the silk away instead and love her again.
But there were people waiting for them, wondering if she was safe. He repaired the torn laces as best he could, drew them tight, covered her. Still, the scent of her hair, sweet from their fir bed mixed with the fragrance of sex, filled the small shelter and made him want to beg her to stay for a while longer—a week, a month, forever. He gritted his teeth and let her go.
Their moment was over.
* * *
John and Gillian crawled out of the wee shelter and into the cool mist of the Highland morning. The birds called out like gossips, and the garron stared at him like a suspicious maiden aunt.
He untied the beast, took Gillian’s hand, and they walked the short distance to the burn. He let the horse drink. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he said and turned away.
He listened to the sound of her movements, knew she walked a little way away from him, shy again. Did she regret it now? He frowned.
“I’m ready,” she said, and he turned. Her hair was still loose over her shoulders, and she reached for it, began braiding it, putting herself to rights. He wanted to tell her to leave it down, that he liked it best that way, but he stayed silent. There wasn’t a hint of shyness or regret in her eyes. Something else shimmered there, something that took his breath away. He stood mesmerized by the beauty in the pink and gold silk, standing by an icy Highland stream in the early morning sun, her face and eyes aglow. She came to him, put her hands on his chest, and kissed him gently, a lover’s kiss, a knowing kiss, and God help him, he couldn’t do anything else but kiss her back.
At last she pulled back, scanned his face. “I—” She swallowed. He could read what she wanted to say in her eyes, but she didn’t mean it, couldn’t. He was her first, her only. It wasn’t love . . .
Warning bells went off in his head. She was the one woman—the only woman—who’d ever come close to his heart, and he knew he could break hers, had to. He couldn’t keep her. The night was over, and she was promised to another man.
For both their sakes, he reverted to playing the rogue, the carefree philanderer. He had to put the wall back in place between them, the laird’s daughter and the disgraced wastrel, the sword for hire. “Thank you Mistress MacLeod, for a rather pleasant evening,” he drawled, giving her a wicked wink and a lusty grin before turning away. She caught his arm.
“Liar. It was more than that.”
He gritted his teeth, “Was it? Glad to be of service.” He gave her a lazy shrug to hurt her, drive her away. He checked the garron’s coat without really seeing the beast.
When he looked again, her eyes had narrowed. What did she see in him now? He hardened his gaze, but she shook her head. “Liar,” she said again.
Before he could reply, he heard the thunder of ho
ofbeats between the trees, the crunch of leaves and twigs.
Gillian reached for her dirk, but he took it from her, pushed her behind him, and waited.
Seven men rode up, six strangers and Callum MacLeod. Gillian cried out and rushed to her kinsman. She put her foot on Callum’s boot and climbed up onto the garron to hug him like a long-lost brother. John felt his relief at seeing the Scot war with jealousy.
He saw Callum note the bruise on Gillian’s cheek and her rumpled ball gown. “Dhia, ye look like ye’ve been through a war, Gilly.”
The other men dismounted. Six tall Highlanders, all armed to the teeth with swords, bows, and dirks. Still more weapons hung from the saddles of their garrons.
John found two swords pointed at his heart.
“Is he one of the outlaws?” someone asked Callum, or possibly Gillian.
But Callum grinned. He set Gillian down, dismounted, and crossed to slap John hard on the shoulder. “Nay, this is English John. He got Gillian away from the fighting. He’s a good man.”
“English John?” one of the strangers repeated and looked at the others with a frown.
“Callum, what of the others?” Gillian asked, tugging his sleeve. John hated the way she clung to her kinsman, the way Callum held her around her waist, the protective gesture easy and familiar.
“No one’s dead, Gilly. Lachlan has bad slash on his arm. Tam’s shoulder was knocked out of joint when he fell off his horse. Keir took a dirk to the thigh. Ewan is the worst off—he took a sword blow to the chest, but it hit a rib, fortunately for him. He’ll be fine. They’re at Kinfell Castle with the MacKenzies, in good hands. They all wanted to ride out with me, come to find ye. We were worried about ye—afraid that . . .” He frowned. “Are ye hurt bad?”
She shook her head and blushed, which made the bruise on her cheek look blacker still. John looked around. The other men were staring at Gillian now—MacKenzies, no doubt—besotted. Her gown was indeed low cut in the bright light of morning. Had he laced it properly? John swore silently and shoved the dirk into his belt. “Callum, it’s cold. Give her your plaid,” he said sharply.
Instantly, seven men were holding out plaids to her. Gillian’s blush deepened as she let Callum drop his MacLeod plaid over her shoulders as she gave the others a shy smile.
“I’m Davy MacKenzie, Mistress MacLeod, laird of the MacKenzies of Kinfell. Your men arrived at my keep last eve,” one of the strangers said, stepping so close to Gillian that she had to look up to meet his eyes. To John’s surprise, the big Highlander dropped to one knee before her and tugged his bonnet off his head. “We owe ye a great debt.”
She stared at the man, baffled, silent, and shy once again.
“We found the outlaw’s camp,” Callum told her. “We were a mite concerned when we found the gown you’d been wearing trampled on the ground, and your—your other garments scattered about. They swore they didn’t harm ye, that ye got away.” He scanned her face, took her elbow as if she might swoon. “Is it true?”
Gillian stiffened her spine. She was as red as a rose now. “I’m unhurt. Are the outlaws—?”
“Dead,” Davy MacKenzie interrupted. “We came upon them an hour before dawn. We questioned them about ye, but they only said ye were the fiercest lass they’d ever met, and ye’d escaped.” He grinned happily. “We hanged the lot of them.”
Gillian looked sad at that. “They were poor men—most of them. One was just a lad.”
Davy MacKenzie shrugged. “They’re Bains. Rabbie Bain and his men have plagued my lands for a long while. They’ve murdered, raped, and pillaged. They are—were—dangerous men. We made sure they won’t be troubling my folk or anyone else again, save for the devil himself in hell.” He looked at Gillian with a tender smile. “I have ye to thank for that, mistress. You’ll forgive the delay in comin’ to fetch ye, I hope. I left my men to see to the hanging and came after ye as soon as it was light enough to track ye.” His eyes roamed over Gillian. “We expected to find ye in far worse condition, if ye were still alive at all.”
“I was safe with John,” Gillian said softly, and the MacKenzie looked at John as if he’d forgotten he was even there and wondered why he still was. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, but John held his gaze.
“Mistress MacLeod needs food and rest,” he said sharply, and MacKenzie frowned.
“Aye, I ken. It’s why we’ve come—to rescue her,” he said, scowling at John.
“I don’t need to be rescued,” Gillian said, but only John heard her.
“She’ll ride with me,” Davy MacKenzie said, still glaring at John.
“She’ll ride with her kinsman,” John replied.
He met Gillian’s eyes, saw the soft, confused light in them, the exhaustion. “Come, Gillian, I’ll help you mount up behind Callum.”
“You’ll come?” she whispered as he lifted her and set her on the garron’s rump gently, knowing she must be sore. She dug her fingers into his shoulders briefly, and he met her eyes, saw the plea there. He stepped back before anyone else noticed.
“Of course. I’m part of your tail. I’m supposed to give you away at your wedding, remember?” She drew a sharp breath.
“John—” He looked at the lovely gown, the gown he’d never forget.
“Why did you bring this gown?” he asked softly.
She looked at him, her eyes wide, luminous. “It was to be my wedding gown,” she said. “Meggie chose it, insisted . . .”
John stepped back as if stung. She hadn’t brought it for him or out of fond memory of their moonlight kiss.
He looked at the green stains on the skirt, the mud on the hem, the bloodstains he hadn’t noticed in the dark. “It’s ruined now,” he murmured.
She scanned his face. “Is it?”
Before he could reply, Callum kneed the garron forward, and Gillian held John’s gaze until he lost sight of her among the trees.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Donella MacKenzie, Davy’s widowed mother, and still the lady of Kinfell until her son married, knew precisely what outlaws like Rabbie Bain and his cousin Duncan were capable of. When five MacLeod warriors had arrived at the door in the night, wounded and bloody and looking for the lass they’d been escorting, she’d feared the worst.
And when the battered MacLeods heard the tales of the thieves and murderers who’d been declared outlaws by both the Bains and the MacKenzies, Donella had been hard-pressed to keep the injured men from leaving again to search for their mistress. Davy had agreed to ride out with the one MacLeod still standing to search for any sign of the lass.
Now, with her eyes shaded against the morning sun, Donella stood on the wall of the keep and watched for the return of the search party. She expected the worst—dead and wounded men, beaten prisoners, and a raped and broken lass—if she was still alive at all.
It was a surprise to see that very lass—for it must be she—riding with her kinsman. She was wrapped in a MacLeod plaid with her copper hair flying behind her like a red flag on the morning breeze. She wore a remarkable gown that glowed pink and gold in the sun. Donella noted a blond stranger who wore no plaid at all riding behind the lass as she scanned the men, counted them. She gave thanks that her son and his MacKenzies were all accounted for and unhurt.
She turned to the maidservant who stood beside her. “The lass will need some privacy. Get a chamber ready, Florrie. Prepare a bath, get the hartshorn, and warm up some whisky.”
“No doubt she’ll have a terrible tale to tell,” Florrie said, staring down at the new arrivals for an instant more before turning to do her lady’s bidding.
Donella watched as Davy jostled with the other men to help the MacLeod lass off the back of the garron once they were safe inside the gates. She was a pretty thing, and her gown was a wonder Donella hadn’t seen the like of before. It made her look like a magical creature instead of a woman who’d faced robbers and possibly worse. She could see the marks on her face now, and she wondered if there were injuries the men couldn’t see. Do
nella hurried down to take charge, in no doubt at all that the lass would need a woman’s care, perhaps healing, and most certainly an understanding shoulder to cry on.
* * *
“Poor wee lamb,” Florrie crooned as she washed Gillian’s back. “It’s fortunate that ye weren’t hurt, or, or—” the middle-aged servant burst into tears that shook her girth.
The girl smiled at Donella. “Thank you for tending to my kinsmen’s injuries.”
“Ye—and they—are most welcome.” Gillian MacLeod was well mannered and as fair as a summer day, but then she’d expect nothing less from the daughter of a great man like Donal MacLeod. “I won’t be easy about the lad with the broken rib for a few days more,” she said. “And the man with the broken arm will need some weeks to heal. I wouldn’t suggest any of them ride now. Will ye be staying here with them?”
“Och, nay—her lads said she’s to be married in Edinburgh in scarcely a week. That’s where she was going when the Bains delayed her,” Florrie said. Florrie had a sharp nose for gossip and tittle-tattle.
“Oh.” Donella felt a rush of irritated disappointment. Gillian MacLeod might have made a perfect bride for Davy.
Florrie beamed. “How ye must love your betrothed if ye were willin’ to vanquish seven wicked men who’d have kept ye from him.”
“Seven?” Donella said. “My . . .” She watched the lass blush, color suffusing over her neck and her face like a sunrise. She began to speak, but Florrie interrupted again.
“Aye, mistress—and that was just the ones they found alive . . .” Florrie said, her eyes wide. “I heard that there were four men dead already when our lads got to the outlaw’s terrible lair. The surviving Bains were blubbering in terror, saying a fearsome lass had killed half their number, and they’d let her go for fear of their own lives.”
Gillian MacLeod was staring at the maidservant in stunned horror, Donella held up her hand. “I’m sure Mistress MacLeod would rather not talk about it, Florrie. Brave or not, it must have been a harrowing experience.” She gathered the linen drying sheet that was warming by the fire and brought it to the girl. “Once you’re dry and warm, ye can sleep for as long as ye like.”
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