Donella MacKenzie, Davy’s widowed mother, and still the lady of Kinfell until her son married, knew precisely what outlaws like Rabbie Bain and his cousin Duncan were capable of. When five MacLeod warriors had arrived at the door in the night, wounded and bloody and looking for the lass they’d been escorting, she’d feared the worst.

And when the battered MacLeods heard the tales of the thieves and murderers who’d been declared outlaws by both the Bains and the MacKenzies, Donella had been hard-pressed to keep the injured men from leaving again to search for their mistress. Davy had agreed to ride out with the one MacLeod still standing to search for any sign of the lass.

Now, with her eyes shaded against the morning sun, Donella stood on the wall of the keep and watched for the return of the search party. She expected the worst—dead and wounded men, beaten prisoners, and a raped and broken lass—if she was still alive at all.

It was a surprise to see that very lass—for it must be she—riding with her kinsman. She was wrapped in a MacLeod plaid with her copper hair flying behind her like a red flag on the morning breeze. She wore a remarkable gown that glowed pink and gold in the sun. Donella noted a blond stranger who wore no plaid at all riding behind the lass as she scanned the men, counted them. She gave thanks that her son and his MacKenzies were all accounted for and unhurt.

She turned to the maidservant who stood beside her. “The lass will need some privacy. Get a chamber ready, Florrie. Prepare a bath, get the hartshorn, and warm up some whisky.”

“No doubt she’ll have a terrible tale to tell,” Florrie said, staring down at the new arrivals for an instant more before turning to do her lady’s bidding.

Donella watched as Davy jostled with the other men to help the MacLeod lass off the back of the garron once they were safe inside the gates. She was a pretty thing, and her gown was a wonder Donella hadn’t seen the like of before. It made her look like a magical creature instead of a woman who’d faced robbers and possibly worse. She could see the marks on her face now, and she wondered if there were injuries the men couldn’t see. Donella hurried down to take charge, in no doubt at all that the lass would need a woman’s care, perhaps healing, and most certainly an understanding shoulder to cry on.

* * *

“Poor wee lamb,” Florrie crooned as she washed Gillian’s back. “It’s fortunate that ye weren’t hurt, or, or—” the middle-aged servant burst into tears that shook her girth.

The girl smiled at Donella. “Thank you for tending to my kinsmen’s injuries.”

“Ye—and they—are most welcome.” Gillian MacLeod was well mannered and as fair as a summer day, but then she’d expect nothing less from the daughter of a great man like Donal MacLeod. “I won’t be easy about the lad with the broken rib for a few days more,” she said. “And the man with the broken arm will need some weeks to heal. I wouldn’t suggest any of them ride now. Will ye be staying here with them?”

“Och, nay—her lads said she’s to be married in Edinburgh in scarcely a week. That’s where she was going when the Bains delayed her,” Florrie said. Florrie had a sharp nose for gossip and tittle-tattle.

“Oh.” Donella felt a rush of irritated disappointment. Gillian MacLeod might have made a perfect bride for Davy.

Florrie beamed. “How ye must love your betrothed if ye were willin’ to vanquish seven wicked men who’d have kept ye from him.”

“Seven?” Donella said. “My . . .” She watched the lass blush, color suffusing over her neck and her face like a sunrise. She began to speak, but Florrie interrupted again.

“Aye, mistress—and that was just the ones they found alive . . .” Florrie said, her eyes wide. “I heard that there were four men dead already when our lads got to the outlaw’s terrible lair. The surviving Bains were blubbering in terror, saying a fearsome lass had killed half their number, and they’d let her go for fear of their own lives.”

Gillian MacLeod was staring at the maidservant in stunned horror, Donella held up her hand. “I’m sure Mistress MacLeod would rather not talk about it, Florrie. Brave or not, it must have been a harrowing experience.” She gathered the linen drying sheet that was warming by the fire and brought it to the girl. “Once you’re dry and warm, ye can sleep for as long as ye like.”

“Och, that Callum MacLeod insists that she can bide here for only a single night before she travels on, or she’ll be late for her wedding,” Florrie said. She pointed to the door, which was shut and latched. “He’s on guard now, right outside,” she whispered, as if Callum might hear her through five inches of solid oak.

Donella watched as Gillian rose and wrapped herself in the sheet. “I was hoping to see my kinsmen. And my—” She blushed again.

“If ye wish. I daresay they’ll be very glad to see for themselves that you’re unharmed. It was hard to keep them abed when they heard ye’d arrived.” She watched as Florrie helped the lass dress in one of Donella’s own gowns. Though it was only fine wool, and not silk, it suited her slender figure well, and Donella sighed again.

She would have been a perfect wife for Davy.

* * *

The borrowed gown was the color of ripe wheat, with a green underskirt and a wide embroidered hem.

Her first thoughts as she dressed were for John, not her wounded kinsmen.

She’d washed the scent of John’s body from hers, reveled in the slight soreness she felt and the reason for it. Her cheeks burned when she remembered his kisses, his body on hers, the way his touch had set her on fire.

“Glad to be of service,” he’d said, his tone as light and sharp as a rapier, trying to push her away, to hide behind his rogue’s mask again. For an instant she’d wondered which was the real John, but she knew. She knew. She put a hand over her heart. She’d learned long ago how to read the truth in a person’s eyes, to see if advice was kindly meant or spoken out of frustration or disdain. John couldn’t hide his feelings from her, though he’d tried, was good at it. Almost too good . . . but he’d watched the men around her, and even if he stood apart, he’d been possessive, protective, gave orders the others obeyed. Then he’d stepped back, let Callum take her, while John became the outsider, the Sassenach, once again. When they reached Kinfell, she’d wanted him by her side, but the Mackenzies had crowded around her, borne her away . . .

She glanced at Donella and Florrie, and wondered if they could tell that she—and he—Nay. They were simply kind and solicitous. Lady Donella had asked a number of delicate questions about what might have happened to her among the outlaws and hardly seemed to believe Gillian had come to no harm save for a bruised cheek and a few scratches.

Callum grinned at her as Florrie opened the door. So did the three MacKenzie clansmen on guard duty beside him, all of them regarding her with undisguised admiration. Gillian glanced at Callum. “The MacKenzie insisted—these lads are to be your tail while you’re here.” He winked at her. “If he hadn’t assigned them, I think they’d have volunteered.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, blushing under their enthusiastic smiles. Donella led her to the sick room, and the men marched in step behind her.

Gillian felt tears in her eyes as she met the brave smiles of her injured clansmen, all of them bandaged and stitched and bruised, and just as tearfully relieved to see her alive and well.

From there, Donella led her to Kinfell’s great hall. Conversation stopped when she entered the room, and eyes turned to look at her. Gillian felt herself grow red. Then one after another, folk rose from their seats. The men reverently removed their bonnets and regarded her with such admiration, she wished she could disappear into the flagstone floor. She wasn’t invisible now.

“Heroic,” she heard as she passed. “Warrior maid, brave lass.”

But she wasn’t. She was only Gillian—shy and quiet, private. She felt panic rise in her breast at the attention, and she looked around the hall, seeking John.

She found him at the very end of one of the long trestle tables. He regarded her quietly, his expression closed, just the way he’d done the first night she’d been at Carraig Brigh, when Fia warned her away from him. And what would her sister say now? Gillian didn’t care. She loved John Erly. She’d tell him when they were alone again. For now, his steady gaze gave her the confidence to walk through the adoring crowd. Davy MacKenzie came for her, striding across his hall. He kissed her hand with a resounding smack and led her to a seat at the high table between himself and his mother.

A toast was raised to Gillian. Then another. People were whispering, grinning, and pointing at her.

She could barely see John from where she was sitting. The men were looking at the Sassenach among them with suspicion or curiosity. The MacKenzie lasses cast sidelong looks at the handsome stranger and giggled. No, he didn’t have a tail under those tight breeches. She could assure them of that. A flush of heat and desire suffused her body. She gripped her cup tightly.

“You’re recovered, Mistress MacLeod?” Davy MacKenzie asked her.

“Yes. I thank you for your hospitality for myself and my clansmen,” she said, and he grinned, letting his eyes roam over her.

“’Tis my pleasure. The Sassenach says ye must leave tomorrow, if you’re to be in Edinburgh in time for your wedding. Seems soon, given the shock ye’ve had. If ye’d rather bide with us here at Kinfell awhile—”

Gillian cast a glance at John, saw him watching her over the rim of his cup. She held his gaze. “Thank you,” she said again. “But we really must go.”

Davy set his cup down with a thump. “Well then, since your tail will be laid up here and unable to travel, I’ll escort ye myself—with a suitable number of my own men, of course.”

Gillian looked at him in surprise. “Oh, but I have Callum and John—”

“Who?” Donella asked.

“The Sassenach,” Davy said to his mother, his lips twisting. “He says he’s Alasdair Og Sinclair’s captain of the guard. Callum MacLeod says the lasses love him.” He swept a stern glance over the women in his hall and frowned a warning at John.

“A Sassenach among Scots,” Donella murmured, as if it were a marvel—or a curse.

“He saved my life,” Gillian said. And stole my heart. Nay, not stolen—she’d given it willingly. The organ in question thumped against her ribs. Davy frowned, and Donella looked at Gillian as if she was making up tales. “John’s to—” Gillian’s breath hitched. “He’s to give me away at my wedding.” Would he still? She wanted to get up and cross the room, throw herself into his arms, give herself to him.

“Ye’ll take Florrie with ye as well,” Donella said, as if John posed some dreadful danger. “Ye should have a woman by your side.”

“I’ve always been safe among my kinsmen,” she said. “Callum is like a brother to me.”

“But he’s not,” Donella said and pointed at John. There were two lasses giggling with him now. He was flirting, making them blush and simper—until their menfolk came and dragged their women away. John showed no regret at their going. What was he thinking? His expression told her nothing. The mask was back in place.

As soon as the meal ended, she was crowded by admiring MacKenzies, all wanting to kiss her hand, bid her welcome, and thank her for ending Rabbie Bain’s reign of terror. Because of her, they could sleep soundly, feel safe again. Then the MacKenzie’s seanchaidh picked up his harp and began to sing. It was the tale of a lass who’d fought a dozen outlaws and vanquished them all. It wasn’t until her name came up in the chorus that Gillian realized he was singing about her.

“Nay,” she denied, glancing at Donella.

“I didn’t,” she said to Davy. But they weren’t listening. She looked at John, and he grinned at her, raised his cup, and saluted her. He was enjoying her fame, undeserved and unwelcome as it was. She felt a blush bloom, half shyness, half frustration. What was she to do? Of course, the ridiculous story would die away when she left Kinfell.

But at the moment, everyone in the hall clapped their hands and joined in the chorus as they raised their cups to her.

“I—I’m very tired,” she whispered to Donella, overwhelmed. “Will anyone notice if I slipped away?”

Donella smiled. “You’re as modest as ye are brave, aren’t ye? But even lasses who vanquish outlaws need sleep.” She waved her hand, and the music stopped.

“Mistress Gillian is for her bed. She’s tired,” she called, rising.

She looked across the room at John, but he shook his head almost imperceptibly. She felt breathless with disappointment.

As she left the room, she replied to a hundred wishes for a pleasant night’s sleep, and as many gushing expressions of heartfelt thanks before she escaped to the silence of her room. She lay in the quiet darkness in a thick feather bed, covered with plaids and eiderdowns, and knew there were four strong men guarding her door.

She wished she were back in the wee shelter in the wood, on a prickly bed of fir branches with John.

* * *

The next morning Gillian rode out of Kinfell with the Laird Mackenzie, a tail of ten warriors, one maidservant, an English swordsman, and Callum. Her wounded kinsmen waved a tearful goodbye, and Donella promised to send them home to Glen Iolair when they were healthy enough to travel.

They passed through Grant territory two days later, and the tale of Gillian’s adventure had arrived before her. Folk turned out by the score to see the fearless MacLeod lass who singlehandedly killed eight lawless brigands on the way to her wedding. Gillian and her tail were feted and feasted in Laird Padraig Grant’s hall at Gilmossie Castle, and six strong Grant warriors joined her escort.

And the MacPhersons had heard that it was twelve bandits that the Fearsome MacLeod’s daughter had dispatched, armed with nothing more than a simple eating knife and the sharp pin of her brooch. Nine MacPhersons rode out with Gillian.

The Robertsons understood that the valiant lass had encountered thirty lawless men while she was walking in the wood alone, picking wildflowers for her bridal bouquet. She’d outwitted them all, bound them, drove them like cattle to the sheriff, and laughed as they hanged. Eight dazzled Robertsons joined her tail.

By the time they reached Stirling, there was a small army of adoring Highlanders following Gillian. “Are ye Jacobites?” the castellan called down from the walls suspiciously before he agreed to open his gates to her, but a merry tale always opens doors, and every man in her escort was happy to embellish the story even more for a dram and a good meal.

Gillian herself said little about anything at all, since no one wanted to listen to her version of the tale. But her silence and her blushes only served to make her a modest warrior maiden, which was all the more heroic in the eyes of her admirers.

There was no more camping at the end of the day or slipping away to hunt in the dark. Instead, Gillian and her followers were honored guests at the finest keeps and castles. She was offered the best rooms, the softest beds, and the most watchful guards. Seanchaidhs composed still more songs in her honor.

Not one of those songs mentioned John, and when Gillian shyly turned aside the praise and said she could not have managed to escape without him, everyone ignored her, or suggested reinventing John as a proper Highlander for the tale, a fine figure in kilt, bonnet, and brooch—if he had to be included at all. A Sassenach hero simply would not do.

By day, a dense forest of warriors surrounded Gillian. By night, Florrie slept beside her, guarding Gillian’s virtue and her privacy, snoring like a warrior herself while Gillian paced the floor, thinking of John. She had never been so protected in her life, not even by her own well-meaning, overbearing family.

She tried everything. On the road, she wrapped herself in her plaid and hid, , but that just made the lairds and warriors more determined to coax a smile or a word from Gillian’s sweet lips by any means possible. Her horse’s mane was adorned with ribbons and wildflowers, and they hunted birds for her supper. They wrote terrible poetry and paid her silly compliments.

If she sighed, a dozen men brought her canteens of water or whisky or even milk. Davy Mackenzie tried to buy a cow, just to have on hand in case a whim for milk came over her again. When the crofter refused to sell the beast, Padraig Grant tried to steal it.

If she dismounted, Florrie had to threaten the crowd of protectors with terrible injury if they didn’t give Gillian a few moments of privacy.

Gillian wanted to set her heels to her garron and ride off into the wood, alone, hoping that John would follow. But she knew they’d all follow her, and she couldn’t bear the thought of all that trampled forest.

She had to see John—it was most important that she speak to him before they reached Edinburgh.

But John kept his distance, or found it impossible to break through the human walls that enclosed her night and day. She knew he was close by, could see him in the tail, his blond hair shining in the sun, his leather jack plain against the sea of plaids.

But they were just two days from reaching Edinburgh, and her wedding was the day after that. She tightened anxious hands on the reins as she rode, and her garron shied at the sudden tension.

Four men raced to aid her, but John wasn’t one of them. Gillian dismissed her would-be rescuers with a shy smile and rode on.

* * *

John knew how much Gillian hated the attention. Even relegated to the back of the tail, he watched her grow pale and fatigued, overwhelmed by the accolades, the questions, and the worshipful stares. Now she was quiet, delicate, and shy.

If he’d had his way, he would have intervened, grabbed her hand or her reins and taken her away someplace private where she could shoot something, or he could kiss her, soothe her, or lay her down and make love to her all over again.

He thought of all the ways he’d tease her, please her, and make her blush if he had the chance to love her again, in a bed, with time and privacy. He relived the sounds she made, the way her skin felt against his, the taste and scent of her until he was half mad with wanting.

But it served no purpose. Her wedding was three days away, and there was no opportunity to even touch her hand now. He did not dally with other men’s wives, and it was clear that he should not have given in to temptation in the first place. It only made the thought of giving her away damned near unbearable. He was already bracing himself for the moment when he’d have to place her hand into her husband’s and step back.

It was better, he decided, if he kept his distance, gave them both space to forget, but his body reacted every time he thought of her or heard her name, or caught sight of her hair, or her hand, or saw her shy smile, until he was riding with a perpetual erection and his heart trapped in his throat, wanting her all over again.