Gillian’s wedding gown was lovely, chosen by Laire, a confection of sea-green satin lined with cream silk. She’d wear it with white roses in her hair.

Gillian couldn’t bring herself to put it on.

“You have to get dressed, Gilly,” Laire insisted. Gillian was sitting by the window, still hopeful that Sir Douglas would arrive. Or John . . . “Come now—it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding,” Laire coaxed. “After today, you’ll have your whole life together.”

“Just a few more minutes,” Gillian pleaded, looking out at the empty square below.

“Won’t you tell me what this is about?” Laire asked, taking Gillian’s cold hand in hers.

“I don’t wish to marry Sir Douglas.”

Laire tilted her head and smiled fondly. “Och, is this about the wedding night? Are you nervous? Of course you are. You’re so timid.”

Gillian’s face filled with hot blood. “No, I—”

But the clock on the mantel chimed, and Laire gave a little gasp of surprise at the lateness of the hour. She tugged Gillian to her feet. “Don’t worry—many brides feel anxious. Come and dress. I’ll ring for some tea to soothe you.”

“Were you anxious?” Gillian asked.

Laire smiled. “Nay. I mean I was anxious, but I was anxious to marry Iain. I was wildly in love with him.” She sighed. “I still am, of course. But you don’t know Sir Douglas well. He seems a kind gentleman, and I’m sure you’ll be happy.”

Laire hugged her, and Gillian felt tears in her eyes.

“There’s someone el—” she began. But Morag entered with two maids, and the room erupted in chatter and giggling as the women descended on Gillian and began the process of dressing her, willing or not.

The housekeeper grinned as she relieved Gillian of her dressing gown, leaving her wearing nothing but her silken shift. “Ye’ll make a beautiful bride.”

“I don’t—” Gillian tried, but the first petticoat was dropped over her head, and she was drowned in a froth of rustling lace and silk.

Stays followed, wrapped tight around her and laced behind, cutting off her breath.

“I don’t want—” she started again, but a second petticoat followed the first. Then the maids whisked the sea-green gown off the bed and held it for her to step into. When she did, they pulled it up and began the process of lacing it up the back.

Laire grinned as they stepped back at last, done.

“Och, the lass is as red as a plum,” Morag gushed. “Nae doubt she’s thinking of the wedding night, hoping—” She held her hands out before her, her palms a foot apart. The other lasses giggled wickedly, and Laire bit her lip.

“You know it isn’t . . . well, it isn’t like that,” she whispered. “Not usually. Sir Douglas will know what to do, and . . .”

Gillian lowered her eyes, thought of John, of the soft fir bed, of his hands on her skin, his mouth, his body moving over hers. She knew the pleasures the maids referred to. She’d experienced them. Would they be shocked to know that? She didn’t care. She didn’t want any man but John. She blushed again, with longing and frustration, but not maidenly anxiety.

The maids propelled her to a chair before the dressing table and set to work on her hair. They coiled it high on her head and wove flowers into it. She looked—beautiful.

Would John think she was beautiful? She pictured him meeting her at the door of the church, taking her arm and leading her up the aisle to Sir Douglas, his face impassive, his emotions masked as he gave her away.

She also pictured him grasping her hand and running from the kirk, lifting her onto his horse and galloping away with her.

She sighed. She had no idea which it would be—she only knew she would not, could not, marry Sir Douglas MacKinnon.

There was a knock at the door. “Laird Iain is waiting downstairs,” another maid said. “He’s wanting to know how much longer it will take and says if ye don’t leave in the next ten minutes, the bride will be late.”

“Tell my husband we’re on our way down,” Laire said. She picked up the MacLeod plaid and draped it over Gillian’s shoulder, and fastened it at her waist with a pearl and emerald brooch.

She stepped back to admire her sister, her smile soft. “You look beautiful, Gilly. He’ll treasure you, today and always.”

No, he wouldn’t. “Laire—”

But Laire wasn’t listening. She was already halfway out the door, and there was no more time left to try and explain.

* * *

John paced the porch of the church while Callum MacLeod stood with him, awaiting Gillian’s arrival. “Ye’ll wear out the floor, Sassenach. Ye’d think ye were the bridegroom.”

He most certainly was not. John thought of the gentleman he’d seen leaving Lindsay House, a man of wealth, influence, and position. Exactly what Donal Macleod wanted for his daughter, and just what Gillian needed.

She thought she wanted him, but it was infatuation, bridal nerves, the shock of the events of the journey. Once she saw her handsome Scot waiting for her, she’d feel differently.

It was for the best, this wedding—the start of the fine life that Gillian deserved. He clenched his fists, wished he had something to offer her, something that would make dragging her away from all this, all she loved, all she deserved, even remotely right.

He’d give her away, give her up, and smile and congratulate the lucky bastard of a groom even if it killed him. He loved her. Of course he loved her—but he loved her enough to let her go, and to be the one who gave her away.

He’d decided all this during the night. He’d considered slipping away without a word, but he knew how shy she was, how nervous she’d be . . . He stayed. He could give her courage, draw courage from her, put a firm end to their affaire de coeur so they could both go on with their lives.

A coach pulled up at the church steps. “Here she is at last,” Callum said. He strode down to open the door of the vehicle and John waited on the porch, holding his breath.

A Highlander descended first—Laird Iain Lindsay, no doubt, Laire’s husband—and he turned to hand a dark-haired woman out. Then John saw the toe of a satin slipper and the hem of a skirt—soft green, not pink, thank God. Then her hand was in Callum’s and she was stepping down. He felt the shock of how beautiful she was like a body blow that drove his heart against his ribs, stole his breath. He told himself the sudden urge to throw up was from lack of sleep and not his own regrets.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and green and luminous, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, couldn’t.

Callum bussed her cheek and grinned at her. “As bonny a bride as I’ve ever seen,” he said, and the spell was broken. John turned away, looked at the ceiling of the porch, the steps, the street beyond, anything but Gillian. His heart was hammering, and a bead of sweat trickled down his spine.

“Is Sir Douglas inside?” she asked, her voice breathless, husky.

She’s eager now, John thought. He forced himself to step forward. “Shall we go in? The guests are all inside, and your intended is waiting.” He tried for a light tone, something jaunty, but it came out flat. He held out his arm.

He could smell roses, and Gillian’s own wildflower scent as she set her palm on his sleeve. He felt a shiver rush through him at even that slight contact. For a moment her grip tightened, but he kept his eyes on her fingers, long and white and delicate against the pewter blue velvet of the elegant coat he wore. But even the coat wasn’t his. He’d borrowed one, since he hadn’t any fine clothes of his own. Ah, but he’d once been a dandy to rival any man.

He didn’t tell her she looked beautiful or wish her happy. He concentrated on taking the first step, leading her toward a future he had no part in.

The doors swung open before them. At the opposite end of the aisle, John saw the tall man he’d seen yesterday. He stood with an older man, and a sober, dough-faced parson.

He heard the rustle of Gillian’s petticoats as she walked beside him. She squeezed his arm. “John . . .” she whispered, but he kept moving. He looked at the groom’s eager blue eyes, at the fine wig he wore, his elegant coat—russet velvet today—and his brocade waistcoat. He looked at Gillian with lusty appreciation clear in his eyes.

Bastard. John felt his fist clench. He hesitated a step, and she shook his arm slightly. He took a breath and walked on.

She wasn’t his.

But she had been. In a moonlit garden, and in the soft light of dawn, on a bed of fir. He heard her take in a nervous little breath now, felt her trembling. Her steps were uneven. She was nervous, but he had no comfort to give her after all, not here, not now.

She wasn’t his, and it wasn’t his place or his privilege.

He stopped a few feet from the altar, met the sharp eyes of the groom, and somehow managed to keep his own expression flat and cool, and was rewarded by the same from Gillian’s husband-to-be. Then the man’s attention went back to Gillian, and his eyes traveled over her slowly. John watched his mouth tighten, knew he was anticipating the wedding night, every night with her in his bed.

John hesitated—but the minister stepped forward.

“Do you give this woman in matrimony?” he asked, his voice hollow and bland, as if they were trading hides or a cargo of wool.

Gillian’s hand tensed on his arm as John opened his mouth to speak.

“Wait,” she said. “Please wait.”

The minister turned expressionless eyes to her. The groom frowned, and the older man next to him blinked. John turned to look at Gillian. She was blushing, her face as pink as a rose, a blush that continued over her throat and the slopes of her breasts to disappear under her gown. He was willing to bet she was pink all the way to her toes.

The groom looked impatient, while the older man was indulgent. “Can this wait, my dear?” he asked.

Gillian glanced up at John and bit her lip. She let go of his arm and clasped her hands together. “No, it can’t. You see, I can’t marry you, Sir Douglas.”

John looked at her in surprise, felt shock course through him when he realized that Gillian was looking at the older man, not the younger. John gaped at him. He was old enough to be her father. The younger man rolled his eyes impatiently.

“Now what’s this about, my dear?” the aged groom asked in a soothing tone. He looked at Gillian’s sister. “Have you smelling salts, Lady Lindsay? Your sister is obviously overwrought . . .”

Gillian raised her chin. “Nay, I’m not overwrought. It wouldn’t be fair to marry you. I . . . I love someone else, another man.” She wasn’t whispering shyly. She spoke up, was sure. John could see that in her eyes, though she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were on her groom.

John felt as if lightning had struck him. A shocked murmur rose among the wedding guests.

The younger man flushed with angry color, but the older man looked more bemused than crushed. He tilted his head like a fond uncle, as if he were looking at a child with a ridiculous fancy, the kind of thing a pat on the head and a sweet might fix. He didn’t see Gillian as a woman, brave, courageous, and passionate. “I see. And does this man love you?”

John held his breath and waited. Still, she didn’t look at him. “I believe so,” she said softly.

“What did she say?” he heard Davy MacKenzie ask from somewhere near the back of the church.

“She said she loves someone else,” the reply came, nearly drowned in a cacophony of shushing.

“Is this man present?” Sir Douglas asked.

“I—I’d rather not say,” Gillian said.

“Gilly, what are you doing?” Laire said, but Gillian ignored her.

The younger man stepped forward, the one John had thought was the groom. “What foolishness is this?” he demanded angrily. “We have a contract, an agreement with your father—”

But the older man put his hand on his sleeve. “Perhaps Gillian and I should have a word in private, Kyle.”

“Nay,” Gillian said quickly. “I’ve said what I meant to. I wish you well, Sir Douglas, and I thank you for the honor of your proposal, but I am certain that the man I love loves me.”

There was no pain in Sir Douglas’s eyes at the loss of his bride. There was nothing but kind dignity. He took Gillian’s hand and leaned forward to kiss her forehead gently. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, my dear, but I do understand. I’ve been in love myself a time or two. I hoped for a charming young companion for my declining years, but I can see I haven’t been fair to you. I hope you win your heart’s desire.” He stepped back and turned to the crowd. “It appears there won’t be a wedding today after all. I believe the civilized thing to do under the circumstances is to invite you all to my home to raise a toast to Mistress MacLeod’s future happiness and to enjoy the excellent meal my cook has prepared.”

He bowed crisply to Gillian and strode out the side door without looking back. The younger man scowled at Gillian, all disappointed arrogance now. John felt his fist tighten, imagined planting it in the middle of the bastard’s face. John shifted his stance, just slightly, but enough to make Kyle MacKinnon look at him. He sent him a silent warning. If he dared to come near Gillian, he’d kill him. The fop blanched, and scampered to follow his father.

Then Laire and Callum and the whole damned crowd surged forward, rushing between John and Gillian, pushing them apart. Everyone was talking at once, admonishing and scolding, pressing in on her. Gillian stood with her head high, her face scarlet. No one looked at John, no one imagined a lass like Gillian MacLeod would be so foolish as to love a penniless, kinless Sassenach, an outsider, a rogue.

But over the crowd, she met his eyes, and he read love, and hope. Now she looked like a bride, like a woman in love. His heart skipped in his chest. He raised his hand, and hesitated.

She’d lose everything if he reached for her now, all the people she loved, their regard. He stayed where he was. Once she’d had a chance to think, to consider what he truly was, she’d see it, too.

He lowered his hand to his side, clenched it into a fist, his eyes still on hers. He shook his head slightly, told her no, but she simply gazed at him, a flush suffusing her cheeks. He’d seen that look before, that fearsome pride, that determination, when she was besting the thieves who would have killed them both, and it had been there again when she’d looked at him on the shore of the loch two nights earlier and told him she loved him. He felt admiration in his breast, and so much love, it was hard to breathe.

All around him, there was a great deal of speculation about who Gillian’s love might be, what kind of man she’d throw over a rich prize like Sir Douglas MacKinnon for.

His name didn’t come up.

Honor made one demand of him.

John turned and walked away, his boot heels ringing on the stone floor all the way down the aisle.

* * *

Gillian paced the floor of her bedchamber at Lindsay House. The sea-green gown now hung on the door of the wardrobe, looking forlorn. It was very late now, and John had not come to her.

Laire had thought it best that Gillian leave Edinburgh at once, before the scandal broke. They wished to protect her tender feelings, shield her from gossip and speculation, Gillian supposed, since the travel arrangements had been made without even consulting her. Her sister had asked the name of the man she loved, but Gillian would not give it, not until she was sure. And she wasn’t now.

He’d walked away, left the church, but not before she’d seen the indecision in his eyes, then love, and finally, regret. Still, he left her, and took with him his damned honor, his certainty that he wasn’t good enough, that she’d have less, be less, if he married her. He probably thought he was being kind and noble.

He was being an idiot.

Didn’t he know she’d have all she ever dreamed of with him, even in a cott, or a pine shelter?

She looked at the clock again. It was almost midnight. At dawn, Callum would escort her to the ship, and she would sail for home.

She felt another flare of annoyance. She’d jilted a respectable man, embarrassed Sir Douglas and bared her own soul for the first time. She’d angered her sister, and even if he didn’t know it yet, she’d betrayed her father.

She stared at the dark square outside the window.

She had a few things to say to John Erly before they parted for good. “Liar,” she whispered to the air. “Coward.” She clenched her fists, wished he was here so she could shake some sense into him.

He was staying at the same inn as Callum. Tomorrow he’d leave for Carraig Brigh, resume his life as captain of the guard, Dair’s friend, the charmer of women the secret hero to those who needed kindness most. It would be as if they’d never met, kissed, touched, fallen in love. Anger flared.

She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a dark cloak. She took her dirk from the drawer by the bed and slid it into her sleeve. Then she slipped quietly down the stairs and out the front door.