On the night before they were due to reach Edinburgh, they were the honored guests of yet another laird. Florrie lay asleep and snoring, but Gillian paced her grand chamber in the dark. Her dazzled hosts had given her an elegant room that overlooked a rose garden, the lady of the keep’s pride and joy. Gillian opened the window and let the moonlight and the scent of roses fill the room. It roused a longing so strong she thought she could hear John’s flute in the dark. But it wasn’t her imagination. She scanned the dark garden, but he was somewhere beyond it, by the loch beyond the garden wall, perhaps.

She pulled on her boots and wrapped herself in her plaid. She sheathed her dirk in her sleeve and opened the door.

Six warriors—four Grants and two MacKenzies—snapped to attention. “Can we fetch ye something, mistress?” one asked politely.

Gillian shook her head and retreated back inside her room. Of course there were guards on her door—och, there were probably men lining the hallway and sleeping on the stairs, ready to die for her should a marauder be daft enough to try and sneak past them. Men even guarded her garron in the stable. No woman had ever been as safe as she was.

But right now she wanted freedom.

She peered out the window. The rough stones of the low tower offered plenty of hand and footholds. She borrowed Florrie’s MacKenzie plaid and left her own, then slipped her leg over the windowsill and climbed down. At the bottom, she stood for a moment with her back against the wall, listening for shouts of alarm, but there was only the chirp of crickets in the dark and the soft notes of John’s flute.

She clung to the shadows that edged the garden, slipped through a gate—and found herself in a courtyard filled with men.

She held her breath, but none of them did more than glance at her as she hurried past, bundled to the eyes in Florrie’s plaid.

Gillian checked the dirk in her sleeve and wondered if she’d have the courage to use it on someone who tried to stop her.

She had two days, and she had to speak with John. What if he hadn’t lied, but truly felt nothing for her? She had to know.

She slipped along the dark path, hurried through the trees that hemmed the shore of the loch, following the sound of his flute. The tune had changed to something she didn’t recognize. She wasn’t concerned it wasn’t John. She knew the way he played, as if he were caressing a lover with his fingers, making her sing with pleasure. It made Gillian shiver.

She found him sitting alone on a rock by the water. She saw the golden spill of his hair in the moonlight, the silhouette of his lean and familiar body, his long legs stretched out before him.

She paused for a moment and leaned against a tree, listening. Her heart thundering against her ribs.

She gathered her courage and walked the last few steps to him, and lowered the plaid that covered her hair.

The music stopped. His face was in shadow.

“Hello,” she said when he didn’t speak.

He turned to look out over the loch, scanning the water, his expression unreadable. “Are you alone? However did you lose your entourage of admirers?”

“I climbed out the window.”

He gaped at her for a moment then laughed. “I daresay I’m likely be the only one not surprised by that.”

“You know me better than anyone else.”

“I was composing a song about you—I suppose it should be about how you vanquished a hundred knaves with only a teaspoon and a pointed quip, but there are plenty of songs about brave Gillian MacLeod now.”

“How does your tune go?” she asked.

He played her a sweet melody, as haunting as a caress, as full of passion as his kisses. It brought tears to her eyes. “I like yours best,” she said when the last note died away. “It reminds me of—”

“Don’t say it,” he said, his voice rough. “You’ve become quite famous. Will your husband appreciate that? He’s sure to hear the tales.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about Sir Douglas. I came to talk to you. I would have done so sooner, but there’s been no chance.”

“You’ve been holding court,” he said with dry amusement. “At least after wedding your husband can deal with your admirers for you. Has he strong clansmen to drive them away, or a tall tower for you to hide in?”

Douglas MacKinnon stood like a shade between them. John was looking at anything but her—the starry sky, the dark loch, the fringed branches of the fir trees. She raised her chin. “I’m not sure that’s going to happen, John.”

He turned at that, but it was too dark to read his expression. “What? The man won’t defend your honor? I’m sure your father would never have allowed you to accept him if he wasn’t a good man, strong and brave and handsome as the devil. Perhaps I should write a song about him.”

“I don’t love him.”

He stayed still, didn’t reply, and the breeze rushed across the water, raising wavelets on the surface and riffling his hair.

“I-I love you.”

He groaned softly. “No,” he said. “Oh God, no, Gilly, you don’t. You might think you do because I was the first, but it was fear that night—a kind of battle lust, perhaps, the shock of what happened—” He stopped. “It isn’t love.”

Gillian felt a hot wave of annoyance fill her breast. She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Do you think you would have been the first if I didn’t have feelings for you? You’re a daft man, John Erly.”

“Then why me, Gillian? Is it because I was forbidden, because you were warned to stay away from me? Did you think you could have an adventure before you were married, an affair with a rogue who had no heart to break?”

Surprise coursed through her. “I broke your heart?”

He hesitated a second too long. “Nay, of course not. It was only an example.”

She paused. “All my life people have told me what to do. Because I’m quiet and shy, they imagine I’m dull and stupid and I cannot think for myself. Well, I can. I am perfectly capable of knowing what I want and choosing my own destiny, my own—”

“Your own way to go to the devil?” he asked. He spread his arms. “Look at me, Gillian. This is all I am, all I have—a sword and a flute and the clothes on my back. I am an outsider, a rogue. What would your father say, or your sisters? God, If I’d known it was you behind that mask, I would have steered clear, saved us both the heartache. I wish I had. I have rules about that. I know better.”

She took a step toward him. “Rules. I am sick of living by other people’s rules. I knew who you were when I kissed you, what people said about you. I also know it isn’t true, John. I knew then. I saw . . . Even if you hadn’t told me about your past, I saw for myself that your are a good man, an honest one, kind and true. Did you tell me about your past to drive me away? It didn’t work. I love you because of the things you’ve endured, because you are more than you let people see. You are everything to me.”

He swore, stepped closer. “Am I? I like women. I like the kind who don’t care, who want the pleasure of a brief hour or two in my bed, who don’t want to know what I think, or how I feel. It’s neat and tidy and easy. There are no complications. That’s who I am, Gillian, not some fairy-tale prince you’ve made up for yourself.” He gripped her arms. “Do you understand?”

She pressed her hand to his heart. “Liar.” She said it again. “I know you love me. No man touches a woman like that, to her very soul, if he does not love her.”

“How do you know? With all your years of experience? You know only what I taught you. I know how to kiss a woman, how to pleasure her so she believes—”

She stood on her toes, put her mouth against his. For a moment he resisted, then his arms slid around her, pulled her close, and he kissed her with desperation and passion. She felt his arousal and her own, her body restless with desire, the points of her breasts and the place between her legs aching for him.

But he pushed her away, bent forward with his hands on his knees, panting. “Not here, not now, Gilly. Not with a hundred clansmen so close. Not ever again.”

“No, you’d never risk harming me. You’d never hurt anyone.”

He straightened and glared at her. “You’re a child, Gillian. You aren’t a brave heroine—you’re a coward. You stole a kiss I would never have given freely while you hid behind a mask.”

“My mask is gone.” She kissed him again, a simple brush of her lips against his, and stepped back. “I hope before it’s too late, you’ll unmask as well, though I know who you are, what you are. That man, the naked, imperfect, arrogant, honorable, gentle one, is the man I want, the man I love.”

She turned to walk away, her heart jagged in her breast.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he called after her.

“It means I love you, John Erly.”

* * *

The woman was daft, John decided, crazy, without a shred of sense. She’d left him standing beside the loch, in the dark, alone.

Did she expect him to go after her? Perhaps she thought he’d take her away, elope, or carry her to the nearest patch of heather and make love to her again.

It was impossible—all of it—love, seduction, and everything else. He ran his hand through his hair and paced. He’d have her army of Highlanders to deal with if he so much as touched her hand. They’d hang, draw, and quarter him—and then they’d kick what was left of his carcass back over the English border. Or the Fearsome MacLeod would hunt him down, castrate him, and wear his balls as a sporran. And there was Gillian’s betrothed—no doubt a man who’d not take kindly to any man poaching his bonny wife-to-be. He wouldn’t, if it were him.

She was indeed daft—mad as a hare, crazy.

And she loved him.

He was the luckiest bastard on earth—or the most unfortunate.

He leaned back against the trunk of a tree and considered that. He wasn’t afraid of anyone’s disapproval—just his own. If he’d been halfway worthy of her, and he knew which window she’d climbed out of, he’d climb in after her. But he hadn’t a clue, and it was better that way.

She’d forget him in time, when she was in her husband’s arms. Oh, how he hated that idea.

He stood on the shore of the loch and watched the moonlight glitter on the surface. Wedding jitters, he decided. She was shy, perhaps anxious about all those people watching her wed or about her wedding night.

But she hadn’t been shy with him. He frowned.

She loved him.

And she was right—he loved her.

He ran his hand through his hair. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

Not honorably.