With Dair away, and Fia upstairs resting, John sat in the chief’s chair at supper that night, and Gillian, as an honored guest, sat beside him.

John saw her hesitate as she descended the staircase to the hall and saw the place set for her next to his. A blush rose up from under the demure neck of her green linen gown and rushed to her hairline. The dress was simply cut, but it emphasized her slender curves. She moved like a stalk of grass in the wind as she crossed the hall toward him.

He could smell flowers when she sat beside him, a soft and subtle perfume, something wild and light that reminded him of sunlight on a summer meadow—and moonlight on roses—and he breathed her in, felt his body stir with awareness.

“Good evening, Mistress MacLeod,” he said, as she picked up her cup and sipped the sweet wine it held. He watched her swallow, noted the hectic pulse at the base of her throat.

“Good evening,” she replied, and he remembered her voice, soft and low pitched. Their eyes met for a moment, held, and then she looked away. He scanned the room, saw her MacLeod clansmen seated among the Sinclairs, laughing with them, sharing food and stories.

“Are all those big clansmen here to keep me away from you?” he asked, making his tone playful, casual.

She gulped a breath of air. “Of course not. My father simply wished me to be properly escorted and safe.”

He couldn’t resist making her blush. He raised one eyebrow suggestively and gave her a half smile. She gasped again and looked away.

“I recall that your sisters carry dirks in their sleeves and know how to use them,” he said. He looked at the wide sleeve next to his arm and wondered if it hid a blade.

“I am in my sister’s house, and unarmed,” she said. “But I do have a dirk, and I’m every bit as skilled with it as my sisters are.” She bit her lip, and he suppressed a groan at the tantalizing wee gesture. “Do I need to wear it?”

He sent her a look of utter innocence. “Not against me. Unless you plan to kiss me again.”

Her eyes widened. “I did not—” She shut her mouth with a snap, and her lips rippled. Oh, but you did . . . he didn’t need to say it aloud. He simply sent her a lazy, knowing grin. “I thought—I understood—that it was a mutual decision, made in the heat of the—” She stopped again. She lifted her chin and stared into the air. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

That made him laugh. “Do you not?” Her hand lay next to his on the table, and he reached out his little finger, ran it lightly along the side of her palm. New blood filled her cheeks, and her lashes swept down, though she left her hand there. “I have your mask,” he murmured. “I found it on the path after you fled. Tell me, is it easier to kiss a man when you believe you are unknown, when he has no idea who you might be, that you are the one woman he’d been warned away from?” Did he sound bitter? He hadn’t meant to. He’d spent ten months wishing for just this moment—well, a moment like this, but with the two of them alone, naked, and not talking at all.

“Do you keep souvenirs from all your conquests?”

She was as quick-witted and sharp-tongued as she was shy. He hid a smile and shrugged. “Not much of a conquest,” he said. “As I said, you kissed me first.”

“You asked for permission to kiss me,” she shot back. He risked running his fingertip across her knuckles. This time she withdrew her hand, hid it in her lap.

“You were just quicker. I’m not complaining, mind you. It was a rather stirring kiss.” He grinned again when she scanned his face, seeking assurance that he meant it. “I see you do remember,” he drawled. She looked away again.

“You are a rogue,” she whispered.

“Isn’t that precisely why you kissed me? The lure of the forbidden, the knowledge that your sister disapproved, and your father most certainly would have cut me in two with his great claymore if he’d known.” He let his eyes drop to her mouth. She licked her lower lip nervously, and his mouth watered. He’d risk kissing her here, now, in her sister’s hall, just to taste the sweet wine on her lips, to have her tongue in his mouth.

“Of course not,” she lied. She blushed when she lied, he noted. Shy as she was, she had the untamable pride of all the Fearsome MacLeods.

“Then why? Why me?” he asked. He saw the panic in her eyes, knew she wouldn’t tell him, though there was a reason—he was certain of that. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re killing me . . .”

“Good evening, Gillian,” Angus Mor said, arriving to sit on her other side. “What a fine summer evening it is. Fia’s garden is in full bloom if ye wish to take a turn after supper. I always find the roses smell sweetest at twilight, still warm from the day, and there’s a lovely view of the sun setting over the sea from the garden.”

Gillian’s teeth found her lower lip again, and John took a gulp of wine, cool, sweet, and heady. “I shall see if Fia is well enough to join me,” she said to Angus.

“You’ve no need of a chaperone at Carraig Brigh. There’s nothing—no one—to fear here, mistress,” John said, drawing her attention back.

Her eyes flashed. “I’m not afraid.”

Angus chuckled. “No doubt ye’ve got a sharp dirk, just like your sisters.” He leaned across her and grinned at John. “The Fearsome MacLeod has trained his lasses how to defend themselves, English John. This lass will not fall prey to your charms.” He winked at Gillian. “But best be on your guard, mistress. John has bewitched half the Sinclair lasses, and the other half are waitin’ for their turn. They swoon just watching him at work with sword and ax.”

John remembered the day Gillian and Fia had stopped to watch him on the training fields. The lass’s cheeks were the color of ripe summer plums now. She kept her eyes lowered, and Angus’s smile faded.

“Och, I’m sorry, lass. Such bold talk.” He changed the subject. “I understand ye’ll only be here a few days, and then ye’re off to your grand wedding just as soon as Dair arrives home to take ye.”

John saw concern in Gillian’s green eyes. “Is he very late, Angus? I can tell Fia’s more worried than she’s letting on.”

Angus sighed. “I know. We all know. She’s putting a brave face on it for the clan’s sake, and we’re putting a brave face on it for hers.” He took a sip of wine. “I’ve never met a man who knows the sea as well as Dair Sinclair. He’ll be back. No doubt there’s a storm somewhere that’s keeping him in port a wee bit longer than he planned.”

“I’ll wait with Fia until he comes,” Gillian said.

Angus winked at her and chuckled. “But if it’s more than a fortnight, ye’ll risk being late for your wedding, and none of us wants that. I’m sure ye have a good number of things to see to in Edinburgh before the ceremony. I could take ye myself, but my Annie is also with child, and due within the month.”

She glanced at John. “Will you be coming on the voyage?”

“Who? English John?” Angus scoffed before John could reply. “Nay, he won’t sail. He hates the sea.”

“In truth, I have duties here, Mistress MacLeod. A shame to miss your wedding, but you’ll have a full compliment of Sinclairs and MacLeods. The kirk will be quite crowded with so many Highlanders present. The townsfolk will fear it’s an invasion or a reiving,” John quipped.

Angus frowned at the jest. “She’s one of our own, kin by marriage, and we’ll give her a proper escort. If anyone thinks badly of it, then we’ll sack the place.”

Gillian smiled at Angus’s joke, and it was like seeing the sun after days—months—of rain and cold. John tried to concentrate on his meal, but she buzzed in his veins like warm whisky.

A few days, a week, and then she’d be gone again. He knew nothing about the man she was going to marry, but he could imagine what he was like—a braw Scot, handsome and rich, hand-picked by her father. The next time John saw Gillian—if he ever saw her again—she’d be married, giving her kisses to another man, big with his children, in love. That man would be the one with the right to touch her, to kiss her in dark gardens, to lay her down and love her . . .

Not that it had ever been his right. He tried not to resent the man, but he did. Once, John had been Gillian’s social equal—higher in rank than her father, actually—a suitable match for Gillian MacLeod—a fine match, as the English said. Not now. He had accepted his lot, the loss of his family and his position, but now he felt the old familiar bitterness fill him once again, and he rose.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve things to see to,” he said, needing to get away from her, away from the ridiculous desire to grab her hand as he’d done at the ball, and pull her outside, or upstairs, or anywhere private.

“What things?” Angus asked, his guileless eyes wide.

“Things,” John said through gritted teeth.

Angus Mor grinned and winked. “Och, aye. Things. Elspeth or Rhona?” he asked.

He watched as Gillian’s jaw tensed. She thought he was going to another woman.

He grabbed her hand after all. He brought it to his lips, kissed it, breathed her in. Her fingers curled against his palm, and it almost undid him. He let her go. “I wish you good night, mistress, and if you should sail before I see you again, I hope your journey to your beloved is swift and uneventful.”

He didn’t offer his congratulations on her nuptials. He walked away, took Angus’s suggestion, and went to the rose garden. He stood staring out at the sea as the sun sank into the blackness of the deep water.

If he expected—hoped—that she’d follow him there, he was disappointed. Not that he really thought she would.

He’d stood here and relived their brief encounter over and over in the past months. He thought if he only knew who she was, it would make it easier to forget her.

But if he’d invented the perfect woman, the face he’d have wanted to find if he’d had the opportunity to unmask her, he’d want all the things that made up Gillian MacLeod. He plucked a rose and stared into the pink heart of it. It was as soft as her skin, as warm and sweet.

He dropped the flower and strode away.

One week. All he had to do was avoid her for one short week.

It would be better once she was gone.