“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.