He’d ridden across the width of Scotland, thinking about exactly what he’d say when he saw Gillian. And now that he was here, in her father’s hall, with the Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair glaring at him, his eyes bulging and his face turning a dangerous shade of plum. Every Scot in the room looked like he’d happily gut John where he stood.

He felt no fear. He looked at Gillian—brave, sweet, beautiful Gillian. She was wearing a gown of emerald green, her braided hair looped atop her head, her face flushed pink, her lips parted in surprise. Her eyes were so full of love that he felt his breath catch.

“Laird MacLeod, I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” John said. A cry went up in the hall, horror, dismay, anger, but he didn’t care.

“Oh, Papa—” Gillian began, squeezing her father’s hand.

But Donal MacLeod threw off his daughter’s restraining hand with a roar. A dozen men drew their weapons. John recognized MacLeods, Grants, MacKenzies, and Robertsons.

“Bring me my claymore!” Donal MacLeod bellowed, and a clansman scrambled to lift the huge sword down from where it hung on the wall.

Gillian rushed around the table, running toward him, and he opened his arms to catch her.

“Stop!” Donal MacLeod growled. A clansman caught her before she could reach him. Two more men grabbed John, pinned his arms, and held him fast. Donal MacLeod had his sword in his hand now—four feet of bloodstained steel—and he was coming toward John.

Would he kill him here, in front of Gillian? John held the laird’s angry gaze and waited, showing no fear. Donal MacLeod had a reputation as a fair man, and an honorable one. John hoped that was true.

Other men were rising from their own seats. He recognized Davy MacKenzie and Padraig Grant. He saw Callum MacLeod, too—he was the one holding Gillian, and he was frowning at John, more worried than angry.

Then the MacLeod was upon him. The fearsome Highlander came nose to nose with John, pinning him with a terrifying, hateful glare. John regarded him calmly, silently. For Gillian, he’d dare anything, brave anything.

The MacLeod looked away first. “Throw the Sassenach in the dungeon,” Donal commanded. He turned to Callum. “Lock Gillian in her chamber.”

Meggie shook her father’s arm, ignoring the deadly blade. “Do you trust Gilly, Papa?”

Donal MacLeod cast a thunderous look at Gillian now. “Nay. Nay, I do not.”

Gillian blushed scarlet.

“Laird MacLeod—” John began, but Donal waved his hand to silence him.

“Never before have I suffered an Englishman on my land. If ye speak one more word, Sassenach, I’ll kill ye where ye stand.”

“I was told you were a fair man,” John dared, resisting the clansmen who held him.

“What idiot told ye that?” Donal growled.

“Gillian did. I love her.”

Donal MacLeod glared at him for an instant before he pointed around the hall, stabbing the air with the claymore. “I don’t care. Three good men—Scots lairds with fortunes and brave deeds to their credit—have already offered for her. You’re too late. I’d never allow—”

Gillian broke free of Callum’s grip, put herself between John and her father, ignoring the claymore. “You always said we’d have our choice of husband if it was true love, Papa.” Her voice was loud and sure, not shy, and she faced her father fiercely, her chin high, her eyes bright.

“No wonder the outlaws were afraid,” someone murmured.

Donal glared at her. “And so you will—as long as it’s one of the three lairds. Or anyone else—even the lowest MacLeod cowherd or ghillie—but not a Sassenach.”

Callum stepped forward. “Laird, I think it’s my duty to speak for him. The Sass—John Erly—was part of Gilly’s escort from Carraig Brigh. He was the one who got her safely away from the attack. They overwhelmed us, and if not for him . . .” He swallowed and glanced at Gillian.

Donal’s scowl deepened. “Are ye saying I owe this man a debt?” he asked Callum. He cast hard glances at the other men who’d been part of Gillian’s escort.

“’Tis true, Laird,” Ewan murmured.

“Why did ye not tell me this before now?” Donal demanded.

Tam shrugged. “He’s a Sassenach. We knew ye wouldn’t like it. We had no idea that Gilly—and he . . .”

“Fools! I ye sent to keep her safe.”

“They all fought bravely, including John.” Gillian said. “He’s Dair’s captain. Fia might have picked Angus Mor, or Niall, but she chose John to escort me to Edinburgh because she knew he’d keep me safe.”

“Safe? Safe?” Donal demanded, regarding his daughter. “Ye weren’t safe though, were ye? Saving your life is a matter of honor, his duty. I’d expect no less, even from a Sassenach. But he’s bewitched ye, charmed ye with sweet, worthless words, tricked ye into throwing over an honorable man like Douglas MacKinnon. It’s not true love. It can’t be. He’s after your tocher, your dowry, and I’ll not have it.”

“A Sassenach is nothing compared to a MacKenzie,” Davy MacKenzie said. “He’s not fit to touch the hem of her gown.”

“I wish to renew my proposal for the lass’s hand,” Cormag Robertson called out.

“And I,” Padraig Grant said.

Their clansmen rose to stand behind their lairds, a show of strength, of power. No one stood with John.

Then Meggie hurried to stand beside him. “She’s been waiting for you,” she whispered.

Other lasses—no doubt more of Gillian’s sisters, joined Meggie, casting appraising looks at him.

With a frown, Callum joined the MacLeod lasses, and so did Tam, and Lachlan, Ewan, and Keir, though they looked like they feared it would be their last act on earth.

Donal surveyed them with sour disapproval. “It’s still no.”

He took Gillian’s arm and firmly propelled her out of the room. No one in the hall spoke. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed.

The men holding John looked at the lasses and the clansmen who stood with him. “Ye ken we can’t disobey the laird’s command,” one said to Callum.

“Aye.” Callum looked at John. “There’s no help for it. Ye’ve got to go. I’ll do what I can.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Meggie said.

“Just keep Gillian safe,” he said to Callum, and let his captors lead him away.