John Erly was obviously daft. For once in her life, Gillian knew what she wanted, and it was decidedly not Sir Douglas MacKinnon.

Had she not made herself clear?

Her heart pounded as she watched him walk away. Her body ached for him, and so did her heart. One kiss—now two—weren’t enough. He wasn’t what they said he was, or what he pretended to be. He was kind and chivalrous. He listened when she spoke, trusted her opinion.

Except when it came to her own heart, and him. She put her hand against her heart. In eight days, they’d reach Edinburgh. In ten, she’d be a bride.

But a great deal could happen in eight days

* * *

John woke at dawn in a foul mood. He was cramped and cold from sleeping on the ground beside the barn, away from the snoring, and away from Gillian—at least physically. He’d thought of nothing else since he’d left her. He imagined hauling her over his saddle and riding into the hills with her. He’d find someone to agree to witness a handfasting, keep her with him for a year and a day according to Highland custom.

After a year and two days, Fia would find him and cut his heart with a dull knife. And when she was done, the Fearsome MacLeod would take up his infamous claymore and geld him. Slowly.

And what of Gillian’s betrothed? No doubt he, too, was a great, strapping Highlander, a wealthy, powerful man like her father, the kind that carried deadly weapons hidden in the folds of his plaid, and more still in his socks and sleeves. His fists alone were probably the size of hams.

Not that he was afraid of any of that. He’d fight for her, die for her if he had to.

But she deserved better than an outcast, a man disowned by his own kin, with nothing to offer a woman beyond a pleasant tumble and a witty quip as he left her wanting more. This time he’d be the one left wanting. He doubted he could ever have his fill of Gillian, or tire of her company.

She’d been one surprise after another from the moment he met her. And now . . . And now it was pointless to consider anything further. He flexed his bruised and bloody knuckles, glad the pain gave him something else to think about.

He heard the snort and stomp of the garrons, the lowing of cows waiting to be milked, and the MacLeods stirring. He got to his feet and stretched his stiff muscles. He went to the well and drew more water, stripped off his shirt, washed his body and his face, and rinsed the blood from his hand.

Callum joined him, saw John’s hand and whistled. “What the devil happened to you?” he asked, wincing.

“Fell in the dark,” John said shortly.

That was certainly true enough. He was falling in love with a woman he couldn’t have.

And when she appeared, coming out of the house with Annag MacCulloch, her smile put the glory of the Highland dawn to shame.

John picked up the bucket and dumped the icy water over his head.

* * *

Gillian nearly tripped over her own feet at the sight of John bared to the waist, his muscular chest slick with water. Even Annag gasped.

“Ach, there’s no horns that I can see,” Annag whispered. “I wouldn’t mind finding out whether or not he’s got a tail.”

Gillian felt herself blushing but knew exactly what Annag meant. John was well-built and beautiful. He didn’t wear a kilt like the Scots around him. He wore breeches tucked into tall deerskin boots, and surely a man would find it impossible to hide a tail in such a well-fitted garment. Her eyes fell to the small pouch he wore around his neck, a charm perhaps, or a talisman like the kind a wisewoman might make against spells or the evil eye. Was John superstitious? She longed to ask, to know his secrets. But Fia had said his past was a mystery he didn’t talk about. She stared at the planes of his naked torso, noted a silver scar that ran along his ribs, and wondered about that, too.

Then Keir noticed that she and Annag were present and nudged John and Callum. John turned and saw his audience. He picked up his shirt, pulled it over his head, and stalked away.

Annag sighed, and Gillian realized she’d been holding her breath. She slowly let it out, feeling her heart beating like a trapped bird against her ribs.

She watched John check the packs on the horses and give Jock his thanks. The Scot regarded the Englishman with a guarded expression, as if John wasn’t what he’d expected but was still a curiosity to be marveled at. A Sassenach here, in the Highlands of all places.

Callum came to lift Gillian onto her garron, and Jock MacCulloch removed his bonnet and stood before her. “We wish ye all the best for your wedding, mistress.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Gillian murmured, and she sent Annag a shy smile, but the Highland housewife was still watching John, her eyes bright.

John kept his eyes on the road and didn’t look at anyone at all.