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 brother-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.

The wind blew across the stretch of grass that lay between the edge of the cliff and the castle, bringing the scent of the sea, but the breeze was fickle, and it changed direction, whistling around the ancient tower and carrying the fragrance of roses to John instead, a reminder of the woman in pink.

For almost a year he’d thought of her. Daily. Hourly. Whenever he’d kissed another woman, he thought of the lass in the rose garden and found all other kisses, all other women, lacking.

He still had the mask she’d dropped when she fled. At night, when a half moon shone in the sky, he’d turn it in his hands and wonder if there was something he’d overlooked, a clue, a hint, as to who she was, how he might find her again.

He’d watched the guests as they’d departed the morning after Fia’s masquerade. There’d been no sign of a woman who was tall, but not overly tall, slender, but sweetly feminine. He could describe how she felt in his arms, how she tasted, the sound of her sighs as he kissed her, but since he’d known nothing else about her, not even the color of her eyes or her hair, he could hardly ask about a mysterious lass in a pink dress without looking like a lovesick fool.

Perhaps she had a reason to keep her identity secret. Perhaps it was safer that way. He’d likely never see her again, so why couldn’t he forget that stolen kiss in the moonlight?

He’d had work to do, men to train, arms to see repaired and kept ready. Autumn and winter and spring had come and gone, and now summer was half gone as well. Dair had left in the spring on a trading voyage and charged John to help Fia run things in his absence. John frowned now and wished Dair would hurry up and return. Fia’s pregnancy was taking a toll on her. She was preoccupied and fretful, perpetually tired.

Old Moire predicted that the babe was a girl, that she was drawing on her mother’s strength and beauty, and was sure to be a bonny creature, healthy and fat. Rest was what Fia needed, only that and quiet, the midwife said. But it was Dair she needed, Dair she pined for. He was expected to arrive any day, on the next tide, and when he did, it would be a glorious, happy homecoming. They’d be hard-pressed to stop Fia from racing down the cliff and swimming out to meet the ship.

It had almost been a disappointment when the Maid sailed safely into the harbor, carrying Gillian MacLeod, bride-to-be, instead of the Virgin, bringing Dair.

Angus Mor had insisted on sending a huge entourage of Sinclairs to escort Fia’s sister up to the castle, and the bride had come with five MacLeods as well. John stood on the wall and stared down at the army of warriors moving toward the castle. A dozen baggage carts followed behind. Was she visiting or invading?

“We must make it a grand welcome for her, since neither Dair nor Fia will be there,” Angus had said to John when her arrival was planned. He’d chosen the strongest Sinclair warriors, but since John had not been formally introduced to Gillian MacLeod, he’d chosen to stay behind.

He remembered Fia’s sister as the pretty lass he’d seen only from a distance. He recalled her pale face, her copper curls, and her father’s overbearing protection of her. He’d found her mysterious, beautiful, and untouchable. He’d been curious about her, but probably because he’d been warned to stay away from her. Was she so fragile? It made him all the more curious now. He knew she hadn’t attended the masked ball—Fia had been disappointed that Gillian hadn’t had the courage to appear, even in disguise. Likely she’d been cowering in her chamber, muttering prayers for the sinners dancing and laughing and kissing strangers below.

“Is she bringing her father with her this time?” John had asked Angus Mor.

“Nay. Donal’s going to a meeting of the clans. He’ll be sending her to us with a tail of men and all her goods and gear.” He’d fixed John with a sharp look. “Fia wanted me to remind ye that the lass is shy. We’re not to make a big fuss over her arrival. No crowds, no cheering—just a proper escort of Sinclairs to rival her escort of MacLeods. We can’t be outdone.”

“Cheering?” John asked.

“Aye. No one expected Gillian to find herself a husband. She’s that quiet. She keeps herself to herself, with only a book for company and says naught. She’s biddable, does as she’s told, and hates a fuss.” He’d nudged John hard in the ribs. “A quiet, biddable lass. It seems to me that her groom is a canny fellow, choosing a wife who’ll do as he says and won’t talk his ear off.”

John didn’t have to reply, since Angus was content to spend the next hour talking his ear off.

And now John watched as Fia’s sister approached the castle. She rode next to Angus Mor. She wore her MacLeod plaid over her shoulders, pinned with a brooch that glinted in the sun. Her eyes were downcast, her face in shadow, and she appeared to be making a study of her hands, or the garron’s neck. She was terrified no doubt, afraid of the wind, or the sun, or the protective wall of men around her. He wondered where she’d find the courage to face her wedding.

Then she looked up and saw him standing on the wall. She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and fixed her gaze on him. .

There was something about the way she moved, the lines of her body, the tilt of her head. “Nay . . .” He gripped the rough stone of the parapet hard and stared at her, tried to imagine her in pink, in the dark. “No,” he said again.

“What’s the matter?” Niall Sinclair asked, hurrying forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Is something amiss?” He scanned the cliff top around the approaching party for signs of trouble.

“It’s her,” John murmured, sure now.

Niall nodded. “Aye, it’s her—Gillian MacLeod, Fia’s wee sister, and none other.”

“But she’s—” John felt his mouth working to come up with the right word. Magnificent, lovely, impossible, all came to mind. Delicious. “Shy,” he managed.

Lightning shot through him, stole his breath. Gillian MacLeod was the woman in the pink gown, though she wore plain blue now.

He’d kissed the Fearsome MacLeod’s daughter, the one woman he’d been ordered to stay away from, the one he had no doubt had been warned to stay away from him as well.

He kept his eyes on her. She was close enough now that he could see the blush that crept up over her face. The minx . . . she’d known exactly who he was. But then, he’d hardly made a secret of it.

“Are ye well, English John? Ye look a wee bit green,” Niall said.

But John couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a coherent reply. He scanned her from hem to hairline, noted all the details he’d wondered about, obsessed over, until he was half-mad with frustrated desire. Her hair was copper-red, like fall leaves, like ripe, sweet fruit. Forbidden fruit. He hadn’t known what color it was when he’d kissed her. Her eyes—she was still to far away, but he couldn’t wait to see those, to know what color they were, and to read an explanation there.

He stared at her as she came closer. She was beautiful, very beautiful, better even than his imagination, or his memory. Her gaze locked with his, her expression pensive, her lush lower lip caught between her teeth. Now that was a gesture he remembered well. It drove him wild that night. Still did, apparently. His heart was pounding.

It was surprise, or anger, or a bit of both, perhaps. Not lust, not now, not for Fia’s sister, another man’s bride-to-be.

Then one of the Sinclair warriors rode between them and broke their stare.

And when the man passed and John looked again, her eyes were downcast as she rode beneath him, under the gate and into the bailey.

* * *

He knew . . .

Gillian hoped Angus Mor would put her sudden breathlessness down to nerves. Her heart had climbed into her throat when she saw John Erly standing on the wall staring down at her. He looked . . . surprised.

She’d watched the color drain from his face, even as hot blood flooded her own cheeks. He shook his head slightly as if to clear it, to make sense of what he was seeing, to understand. In that instant she realized he hadn’t known, hadn’t even suspected the identity of the woman he’d kissed.

Now he knew. Was he disappointed?

He didn’t move as she rode nearer, stood as straight as a pike, unyielding, stunned. Oh, what had she done? She bit her lower lip, and her hands tensed on the reins, making the garron’s ears twitch. She forced herself to relax her grip.

Then she was riding through the gate, under the wall, under him, and into the bailey.

She watched out of the corner of her eye as he descended the steps with the familiar male grace she’d so admired last summer, his legs long, his shoulders broad, his hair gleaming. He still took her breath away, made her heart pound.

And when he reached the ground and came toward her, his face was carefully blank, his lips drawn into a thin line. Not the firm, mobile mouth that had pleasured hers now. She waited for him to reach her, but Angus Mor had dismounted and was waiting to lift her down from the garron. She looked at him instead, his smiling face a welcome break from the tension John Erly evoked, the tightly drawn nerves that threatened to buckle her knees. A rogue, a rascal, Fia called him. And what would a rogue do now, what would he say? She could not bear it if he mocked her before her own kin and the Sinclairs, spoke of the kiss they’d shared as if it was nothing, or grinned at her knowingly like a strumpet he had fond memories of.

She looked around her for Callum, for Tam, for the rest of the MacLeods, and wondered what they’d do if he insulted her. John’s face gave nothing away as he strode toward her, and all she could do was wait.

* * *

By the time John reached the bottom step, Angus was lifting Gillian off her garron. He watched the Highlander’s huge hands span her slender waist, saw her long white fingers on Angus’s dark sleeves. He set her on her feet, and John assessed her again. Nay, not tall enough . . . or too tall, perhaps. The lass in the garden had come up to his chin. He imagined holding Gillian MacLeod in his arms, lowering his mouth as she raised hers. Aye, she’d be the right height. He imagined his own hands around her waist, knew they’d fit perfectly. If he stepped closer, he’d smell wildflowers. The wind shifted, carried the fragrance of Fia’s rose garden to him again like a cheeky jest.

He waited for her to look at him, for confirmation to show in her eyes, but she stared at her hands demurely, looked at anything but him.

Perhaps he was wrong. If a woman kissed a man the way the lass at the ball had kissed him, wouldn’t she be looking at him now?

“Nay,” he murmured again and shook his head. “It wasn’t her.” But he knew it was. Her fiery blush gave her away, and the pulse point that hammered at the apex of her neck and her shoulder. He’d kissed her there . . .

He turned away, gulping for air like a drowning man, and left her to Angus. John concentrated on directing the baggage carts streaming through the gate. Vain, he thought. So many trunks. And all of them filled with her wedding clothes.

“I’m going to take Mistress Gillian up to see Fia,” Angus called, and John glanced at her once more. She was looking at him now, waiting, her expression unreadable. He stepped closer, because it was expected, and bowed, a courtly gesture that was not typical in the Highlands. He realized too late that it would mark him as English, an outsider, but she dipped a proper curtsy in return. She was close enough to touch, mere inches from him. Ah yes, there it was . . . the scent of wildflowers he remembered. He refrained from kissing her hand.

“I don’t believe we met formally when you were last at Carraig Brigh, Mistress MacLeod. I’m John Erly,” he said crisply. The blush that rose over her cheeks was fiery, the look in her eyes panicked. Green. Her eyes were as green as forest pools in sunshine. He hadn’t known that either. Did she fear he meant to reveal her secret? Nay, not here, but he promised her with a forthright look that they would speak. Her lashes swept down and she turned to take Angus’s arm. As she walked away, she cast a single glance over her shoulder. He stayed where he was and let her go, watched as Angus opened the door and let her precede him through it, and watched it close again behind them.

The whole encounter had taken less than ten minutes, added now to the scant half hour they spent in each other’s arms in the garden nearly a year ago . . . Less than an hour, all told. Yet his heart pounded and it felt as if the sun had come with her arrival and gone again when she walked inside.

* * *

It had been an awkward meeting. She had said nothing at all. Couldn’t. Her tongue had knotted itself around her tonsils, and she could scarcely breathe. He’d kept his face carefully blank, gave away nothing to indicate a prior connection or improper kisses. There had only been that very slight emphasis on the word formally. “I don’t believe we met formally when you were last at Carraig Brigh, mistress.” He had introduced himself the way a stranger would, and bowed. She’d automatically dipped a quick curtsy in return, as if it was indeed the first time they’d met . . . and so it was, though she knew the taste of him, the feel of his aroused body pressed against hers, the brush of his hand over her breast. Her nipples tingled even now, and she swallowed. She watched the wind blow a golden lock of hair over his forehead and remembered how soft it was. She met his eyes—gray as a winter sky—and read the cool speculation in them. Nay, he wouldn’t tell, wouldn’t mock her. But it was obvious that he remembered every detail of their kiss as clearly as she did.

She’d been grateful when Angus Mor offered to take her to Fia, wanted to be out of John Erly’s disturbing company.

Her adventure, the only man she’d ever kissed . . .

When she looked back, he was still watching her, his gaze hungry, his brow furrowed, and she stumbled slightly. Angus cupped her elbow to steady her. He let go at once, and she wondered if he could feel the terrible heat of her body, the heavy beat of her pulse, see the hot blood in her face. She was still trembling as she fell into her sister’s welcoming embrace.

He knew.