CHAPTER FIVE
Donal MacLeod listened as Fia read out the names on the guest list for her masked ball. Most of them meant little to him, since they weren’t folk he knew. Gillian sat quietly by the window with a book—she always had a book. A man could walk into a perfectly silent room and be in it for an hour or more before he discovered Gillian, quiet as a statue, reading a book.
He smiled at the fetching picture she made, demure, pretty, and sweet. How many men would give their sword arm for a silent woman to grace their home? She’d make a perfect wife for any man weary of chatter and fuss.
He looked at her slender figure, her long, delicate neck, the way the sun spilled through the window and turned her complexion to fragile porcelain. Whoever wed Gillian would have to be a strong man, powerful enough to protect such a meek lass. He’d also need to be clever, if not exactly to do the thinking for her, then smart enough to understandwhatshe was thinking and to put it into words on her behalf. And in return, the lucky man could expect a gentle, loyal, sweet companion.
Donal frowned. By that description, Gillian sounded more like a faithful lap dog than a wife. He sighed and wondered if she’d ever find a husband. No one had asked for her hand while they stayed in Edinburgh. She was no trouble to have at home, of course, but when he looked at Fia, he saw how happy she was in her marriage, how she’d blossomed with the right man. By comparison Gillian was a rosebud, still in need of romantic inducement to bloom. He wanted with all his heart for Gilly to be happy.
“Who did you say was on that list of yours?” he asked Fia.
She showed it to him, and Donal scanned it. There were at least half a dozen eligible men of fortune on the list, men he’d consider a fine match for any of his lasses, even Gillian. Especially Gillian.
“I invited a number of these gentlemen with Gillian in mind, Papa,” Fia whispered to him.
He smiled at her. His lasses were a close-knit group. Of course Fia would want what he wanted for Gilly. “I have the perfect costume for her, Papa. All the most demure ladies in London disguise themselves as shepherdesses when they go to a masked ball.”
“A shepherdess?” Donal said, picturing Gillian herding a flock of balky ewes through the party.
“Aye—something sweet and pastoral. Innocent as a lamb.”
Donal rubbed his chin. Gillian was certainly that, he supposed.
“Don’t worry, Papa—Gilly’s costume will be made of silk and lace instead of cambric. She’ll have a bonnet trimmed with satin ribbons instead of weeds and wildflowers, and she’ll wear velvet dancing slippers instead of going barefoot.”
Donal tried to picture any herd lass in such a thing as that, but Fia patted his hand. “Just leave it to me, Papa. Gilly will look so pretty.”
Donal imagined that the thorny problem of finding his shy daughter a suitable husband would soon be behind him. He looked at the guest list once again and made note of a few men he could nudge in Gillian’s direction at the party.
A shepherdess, sweet and innocent, a wee bonny lamb. It suited her well. Aye. Fia was right. The party and the disguise would give Gillian just what was needed to see her wed.
He sighed happily, and smiled when Gillian looked up from her book. She blushed demurely and looked away.
Aye, he’d surely be dancing at Gillian’s wedding before the year was out.
