The trip back to Carraig Brigh took longer than the trip south. John had turned his horse toward Glen Iolair a dozen times, thinking he’d go in person and tell her exactly why he wouldn’t be coming. And when he realized just how daft an idea that was, he turned back toward Carraig Brigh, crisscrossing the Highlands. He had no reason to go to Glen Iolair—other than a love that devoured him. Riding alone made him realize how much he missed her company, her smile, her strength, her bold determination—and kissing her, loving her. He’d given her a pine lean-to—she deserved far better, a bower fit for a princess. He made excuses, nursed his doubts, fed them, until he was convinced that turning away from Glen Iolair, from her, was the right thing to do.

At last he stood outside the gates of Carraig Brigh. He stared up at the castle’s bony tower for an hour, fighting the urge to turn west yet again toward Glen Iolair.

He forced himself to go inside. He unsaddled the garron, rubbed the horse down and fed her, knowing the decision had been made, and he’d never see her again—Gillian, not the garron. Not without a damned good reason—like suddenly finding himself with a fortune and a title, a home to offer her, the hope of a life like the one she was used to.

“You’re back.” John turned to find Alasdair Og Sinclair standing in the doorway of the stable.

John crossed to clap his friend on the shoulder. “And so are you. Rough voyage?”

“An unexpected stop,” Dair said.

“And Fia?”

Dair smiled. “I have a daughter, born two days ago. Unlike her father, she arrived early, but she’s healthy, and Fia’s well.” Happiness radiated from his friend, and John grinned.

“Her name is Eilidh. Come and meet her. And Fia will want to see ye.” He paused. “When ye’ve done your obligatory cooing and cuddling, we need to talk.”

“Talk?” John said, hanging the bridle on a hook and picking up his gear. “Have you heard already about the wedding then?”

Dair frowned. “Was there a problem?”

John sighed. “It’s a long story.”

Fia was in the library with the child in her arms. She looked beautiful, and her cheeks were once again rosy and her eyes bright with joy. She handed the baby to Dair, and John bent to buss her cheek. He looked at the babe. Wee Eilidh had a frill of red curls around her face, and green eyes, and she looked as sweet and placid as—

John gaped at the child as a thought struck him with all the force of a hard punch to the gut.

“John?” Fia’s smile faded.

John didn’t answer, couldn’t. Why hadn’t he thought of it before, considered the possibility? He’d always been careful—but he hadn’t . . . they hadn’t . . .

“John?” Now both Dair and Fia were staring at him, concerned. He heard words like tired, hungry, long ride, from a distance. He felt Dair’s hand on his shoulder. “Ye’d better sit down.” He blinked at him, stared at the concern on his friend’s face. He didn’t want to sit down. He counted the days, the weeks.

Would she know by now, if—?

John tried to speak, but it came out as an inarticulate grunt. He turned on his heel and walked out of the hall and went back to the stable.

Dair followed him. “Are ye going somewhere? Ye just got here.”

John reached for the saddle he’d just put away.

“I’m going to Glen Iolair.”

Dair gaped at him. “You’re going where?”

“Glen Iolair,” he said again, and felt the certainty of it growing in his mind. He wouldn’t turn back this time.

“Are ye daft? Donal MacLeod hates Sassenachs. He’ll kill ye.”

“Probably, but I have to see Gillian . . .”

Dair frowned. “Gillian? What for? Isn’t she with Sir Douglas MacKinnon on her wedding trip? His estate is near Aberdeen, and that’s nowhere near Glen Iolair.”

“She’s not married. The wedding didn’t happen,” John said, tightening the girth around the horse’s belly.

“Didn’t—? Why?” Dair asked.

“Long story,” John said again.

The chief of the Sinclairs folded his arms over his chest and squinted suspiciously. “And how does it end?”

John grinned at him. “I’ll let you know. It isn’t over yet.”

“Ach, lad—as I said, Donal MacLeod hates Sassenachs. He’ll kill ye.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Dair’s scowl deepened. “Ye’re not making any sense. Why are ye going to Iolair to see Gillian MacLeod? Tell me that much of the tale.”

John wondered if his friend would stop him, or even hit him. “She loves me. And I—”

But Dair interrupted. “Gillian? Shy little Gillian? I’ve never heard her say two words together. How did—? Och, come back inside. Have something to eat, sleep on it.”

Forget her, he meant. He couldn’t do that. He’d tried. John slipped a bridle over the head of a fresh garron.

“Donal MacLeod’s not known as Fearsome for naught—especially where his daughters are concerned. I know that from experience, lad. Ye’d best talk to Fia about this.”

John strapped his gear behind the saddle. “You mean I should let her talk me out of going.”

Dair didn’t deny it. “Why not marry Elspeth if ye want to settle down? She’s a good woman, and no one’s going to gut ye for daring to ask for her hand.”

“Connor Sinclair might,” John said, shrugging. “He’s the one who wants to wed Elspeth.”

“Do ye love her?” Dair asked

“Elspeth? No. That was over nearly a year ago.”

Dair rolled his eyes. “I meant Gillian.”

Surely Gillian should be the first to know. He tightened his lips and said nothing.

Dair groaned. “Ye love her that much, do ye?”

A lump formed in John’s throat. “Aye.”

Dair put his hand on the garron’s bridle, stopping John. “It’s over a hundred miles across land. That’s at least five or six days of hard riding—if ye travel fast. Ye could go by ship. The Virgin could have ye at Glen Iolair in two days, and ye’ll need someone to watch your back when Donal hears.”

John considered, but shook his head. “No. I think I’d best do this alone. A longer journey will give me time to think of what I’m going to say when I get there.” He led the garron out of the stable, and Dair followed.

“There’s something ye should know before ye leave. It’s important,” Dair said as he mounted, but John grinned. Now he’d decided, nothing would stop him.

“Tell me later,” he said and kicked the garron to a gallop.

“I love her,” he told the horse as they flew along the cliff top before turning west. “I love her!” He shouted it again, to the sea, hoped that if Daniel’s spirit was still out there, beneath the waves, he’d hear and approve.

The fact that Gillian might be carrying his child wasn’t the reason he was going. It was just the excuse. He’d made his choice at last, and love trumped all else. He wanted her, and children, and every joy life would give them, and he’d face any peril for her, take any risk.

Even asking the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair for her hand.

* * *

Gillian looked around her father’s hall. The huge room hummed with conversation and laughter, and every table was full. Each laird assumed she’d choose him, and they all sat smug and smiling among their equally smug clansmen, puffed with pride.

She clasped her hands together so tight the bones ached. Her suitors were becoming impatient.

It had been four weeks and two days since she’d left Edinburgh, and John hadn’t come.

Gillian had been given a place at the head table beside her father, so she could survey the strong, doughty Highlanders who wished to marry her, and they could survey her. She could barely eat with so many people watching her.

“Davy MacKenzie seems like a pleasant fellow,” her father said as she crumbled a piece of bread in nervous fingers.

She glanced at Davy and blushed when he grinned at her and winked. “Laird MacKenzie was very kind to me, and to all the injured men in my tail at Kinfell,” she replied carefully.

“Then is he the one ye love?”

She looked at the wee pile of crumbs before her. “No, Papa.”

Her father’s gaze fell on the fine figure of Cormag Robertson, his red hair glowing in the candlelight, his blue eyes keen upon Gillian. “Then is it the Robertson?”

“He was kind enough to give a dozen men, including himself, to escort me to my wedding, but no, he isn’t the one.”

“Then what about Padraig Grant, eh? He’s handsome enough, surely, to please any lass.” The laird in question was busy flirting with Meggie. Gillian shook her head.

“Then who, lass? Ye don’t know anyone else.”

She raised her chin and looked around. Callum caught her eye and smiled a trifle sadly.

“Nay—it isn’t Callum, is it?” her father said. “How long has—”

She put her hand on his arm. “Nay, Papa. Callum is like a brother to me. I love him, but not . . .”

“Not the way a woman loves a man,” her father finished for her. “Are ye sure ye know what love is, Gilly? You’ve had a sheltered life—at least until ye left to be wed.”

She met her father’s eyes. “Aye, Papa. I know what love is, and I know what I want.”

He scanned her face. “Ye could save me a great deal of trouble if ye’d just tell me who ye do want, Gilly. Then perhaps I could help.”

Tears stung her eyes. “He hasn’t come yet, Papa.”

Donal MacLeod looked around his overflowing hall with a scowl. “How many more men are ye expecting?” he asked. “Did ye charm all of Scotland?”

She blushed and said nothing.

Her father frowned. “Did he say he would come? Who is he? I could ask him to come. Or insist.”

“It’s his choice, Papa.”

He put his hand under her chin. “Can ye whisper his name to me, lass?”

But before she could say anything more, the door opened.

John Erly walked into the room.

For a moment Gillian stared, hardly daring to believe it. “He’s here,” she whispered. She half rose from her seat, but her father clamped his hand on her wrist.

John crossed to stand before her father, but his eyes were on her.

“You’re the bloody Sassenach from Carraig Brigh,” her father said. “Did Alasdair Og Sinclair have the audacity to send ye here?”

“Dair didn’t send me,” John said.

“Then ye shouldn’t have come.” Her father reached for his dirk and started to rise from his seat.

Gillian gripped the fist that held the weapon. “Papa, no—he’s here for me!”

He turned to her. A look of pure horror dawned in his eyes.

“Nay.”

She managed a wobbly smile. “Aye, Papa. John Erly is the man I love.”