CHAPTER NINE
Ten months later
This time, when the Sinclair ship bearing Gillian MacLeod and an escort of five of her father’s strongest clansmen arrived again at Carraig Brigh, she was not invisible at all.
In fact, she was the most important passenger on the ship, a bride, on the way to her wedding.
In seven weeks, Gillian Alanna MacLeod would be joined in holy wedlock to Sir Douglas MacKinnon. But first she would visit her sister for a few days before sailing on to Edinburgh under the escort of the Earl of Carrbry. And since Donal MacLeod could not accompany her, Dair was to give the bride away at the wedding.
Gillian stood at the rail as the ship sailed into the harbor at Carraig Brigh and felt butterflies bash against her ribs like trapped birds. She put a hand to her eyes and scanned the folk waiting on the cliff top. She looked for John’s distinctive figure, a tall golden man among the dark, robust Sinclairs. It took only seconds to realize he wasn’t there.
The butterflies dropped like stones in the pit of her belly. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t be disappointed, but she was.
She dug her nails into the wooden rail. She’d thought of nothing else but John Erly for weeks—months—after she and her father left Carraig Brigh the day after the masked ball. She didn’t see him after the kiss.
Obviously it meant nothing to him.
Or he hadn’t guessed her identity.
Or he had guessed, and had been disappointed, or angry, or amused at her folly.
Even now—again—her face burned with embarrassment.
Or disappointment.
Or foolish hope.
Whatever the reason, John Erly hadn’t come to Glen Iolair, or sent word, and Fia’s infrequent letters made no mention of him at all. Gillian had been too shy to ask, and too shocked by her own daring—and her cowardice—at the ball.
She lowered her gaze from the cliff and forced herself to let go of the rail. He wasn’t here. She vowed to forget him from this moment on. She must.
She’d soon be a married woman.
When Sir Douglas MacKinnon’s offer of marriage had come a few weeks after her return home last fall, Gillian hadn’t said yes at once. The offer had surprised her, since she hadn’t realized Sir Douglas thought of her as a potential wife. He was a kind, good man, an old friend of her father’s, and Gillian was fond of him, but she certainly didn’t love him with a grand passion, the way her sisters loved their husbands. His letter of proposal had been formal and polite, and spoke of regard, but not love. She had hesitated in her reply, waiting and hoping that word—or a particular visitor—might come from Carraig Brigh.
But he hadn’t.
She dreamed of John Erly. She never dreamed of Sir Douglas. She woke in the night, breathless with longing, remembering John’s kisses. She’d prowled the wood, hunted until she dropped from exhaustion, all the while wondering if the kiss they’d shared meant even one half as much to him as it did to her.
She’d waited until weeks turned to months, and she could not wait any longer. Sir Douglas wanted an answer.
Everyone agreed he’d be perfect for Gillian. Her sisters had coaxed her to accept, telling her she’d not likely get any another proposal so perfectly suited to her shy, bookish personality. Plus, as gentleman in his late middle years, Sir Douglas would not expect bright conversation, a witty wife, or children—he had a grown son. Sir Douglas was rarely in society and preferred his own company. He wanted a calm, quiet wife for his remaining years, a pretty adornment to his home, a helpmeet and companion who would help him transcribe two decades’ worth of notes on the tides of Eastern Scotland into a proper book.
Her father had agreed with his daughters. Sir Douglas was just the sort of man he would have chosen for her himself, he said—a kind, dignified, settled gentleman. With no other prospects likely, he’d urged Gillian to accept.
And so she had agreed to marry Sir Douglas at his home in Edinburgh in late August, just seven weeks from now.
And “now” was exactly nine months and twenty-three days since she’d kissed John Erly.
Her adventure had been short-lived indeed, she thought, as she scanned the cliff top once more—but just as Moire and Annie had both predicted, Gillian would most definitely be married within a year of that date.
She had anticipated her brief visit to Carraig Brigh, since it meant she would see her sister, who was with child once again, and her niece and nephew.
And she’d dreaded it as well. She’d see John again, know by the look in his eyes if he’d guessed, or remembered, or—Oh, why did her heart still beat fast and her brain turn to mush every time she thought about him? Really, it had been no more than a simple kiss.
Her only kiss.
She couldn’t imagine Sir Douglas kissing her that way.
