Until now.
She had thought she’d give the gown to Meggie, who was the kind of bold, outspoken, flirtatious lass wholikedbeing the center of attention.
But tonight, Gillian wanted to be the flirtatious one. And with her hair covered, and the pretty silk mask, no one would recognize shy, mousy Gillian.
She’d be anonymous, free, adventurous.
She braided her hair and tucked it under a velvet cap set with pearls. Then she donned the white velvet mask that covered her face from her forehead to the tip of her nose.
When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized the elegant beauty looking back at her. And if she didn’t recognize Gillian MacLeod in the shimmering gown, surely no one else would.
Not even her sister, or her father.
Gillian smiled, a quirk of her rouged lips below the mask, and felt a thrill of anticipation rush along her spine. If she happened to attract the attention of one particular man, not a gentleman or a wealthy Highland laird, but an English rogue, well, then—the adventure would be all the better for it.
Gillian’s courage nearly abandoned her when she reached the top of the steps and looked down into the hall. The room was teeming with people, and Gillian stopped, gripped the polished wooden railing, and wondered if she dared to go forward, to be among strangers—and masked strangers at that. Her eyes darted over the glittering costumes, the black dominoes, the mysterious masks, sinister in the flicker of candlelight. She tried to identify people she knew, but she recognized no one.
She’d seen the guest list—the pirates and princes and Greek goddesses were only people—ship’s captains, Scotland’s greatest lords and ladies, the lairds and chiefs of several allied clans. Some were too proud to be anonymous. Masked they might be, but they wore their plaids or a brooch identifying their clan.
She saw her father waiting at the bottom of the steps, dressed as a French lord, with the great MacLeod ruby gleaming on his shoulder like a splash of blood. And Fia stood beside him, costumed as a sea goddess with shells and pearls in her hair, and a mermaid’s tail embroidered on her frothy skirts. She looked beautiful and exotic.
Gillian bit her lip. She should go and stand with them, be dutiful and polite. But they barely glanced at her as she approached, too busy scanning the crowds, looking for someone. Gillian walked right up to them, but they looked through her. “Where can she be?” Fia asked.
“There are six shepherdesses here—nay, seven . . . and none of them are Gillian,” her father said.
“Her gown is blue,” Fia said. She glanced at Gillian and offered her a polite smile and nod, but there was no recognition in her sister’s eyes.
Gillian raised her hand, about to touch her sister’s sleeve, but then she realized that she was truly anonymous, unknown, and as close to invisible as one could be.
The possibilities of that were endless and delightful.
Tonight, she wasn’t Gillian MacLeod. She was the lady in pink, and she was free to say and do as she pleased, if only she dared. She smiled as she reached for a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant. She sipped. It was golden, sweet, and cool. It flowed down her throat and curled seductively in her belly, warming her, brightening the room.
She took a breath and swept past her father and her sister, crossed the room, and smiled at those who smiled at her from behind their masks. She floated through the hall as light as a feather, giddy and free.
She stopped when she caught sight of John Erly. She knew him by his height and his blond hair. He stood in a circle of people, dressed as a satyr and playing a flute. He wasn’t masked, but he’d painted his face with exotic black lines. He wore horns on his forehead.
“There’s not a lass at Carraig who hasn’t had her head turned by English John. Flattery gets him everything, and he knows just what to say to win a lass’s heart and her—Well, he isn’t for novices, Gilly, and he isn’t for you. Stay away from him while you’re here.” Fia’s words echoed in her head. But what would it feel like to be charmed and flirted with by such a man?
Gillian took another glass of the seductive white wine and walked toward John Erly.
* * *
John hated masked balls. A tryst with an unknown lady was all the more delicious, made men careless and bold, and when things went too far . . . well, it was easy to blame a man for something he didn’t do, liberties he would never have taken if he’d known.Ah, but she’d known him from the start.She’d had no honor to protect, but he’d done so anyway, and it had cost him everything.
He’d sworn he’d never attend another masked ball, and yet here he was, dressed in a ridiculous costume because it made Fia happy and Dair had insisted.
He intended to stay well away from masked ladies tonight and to remain in the light where he could be seen. He’d retire early and alone.
As the satyr, he played a merry tune on his flute for the assembled company. He winked at the ladies and the lasses, made them giggle and simper, but not enough to cause the men escorting them to fear his intentions were anything more than high spirits.
He caught sight of a lady on the edge of the circle of folk tapping their toes to his tune. An earl’s wife, or a chief’s daughter, no doubt, since she was elegantly and expensively dressed, her gown costly, her jewels real. He scanned her from head to toe, from the saucy velvet cap that covered her hair, over her mask and the plump sweetness of her mouth, to the long white column of her neck. He admired the creamy expanse of the slopes of her breasts, temptingly displayed above a froth of French lace. She was slender, but not without pleasing curves, and tall for a woman. Even though she was masked, he could tell by the elegant lines of her body and that lush mouth that she was beautiful.
She stood a little apart from the crowd, seemed to hover a few inches above the stone floor, shimmering and magical in her pink and gold silk. He looked into the slits of her mask and felt his heart leap. The beauty was staring at him. Her lips curved to a half smile that would have made him groan if he hadn’t been playing his flute.
He winked at her the way he’d winked at the rest, a teasing salute, but she didn’t giggle or simper. She tilted her head as if she were deciding something . . . then she smiled again, a slow, sweet, upward slant of her lips that made his mouth water.
John felt curiosity rise beyond mere interest, become a desire to know more about her—a name, a clan, a title, spoken in a whisper before a kiss.
