When she reached the top of the cliff path, Angus Mor Sinclair was waiting for her. He grinned a welcome and led her to the garron he’d brought for her. His son held the reins, and Will Fraser was there as well, part of her escort. The lad had grown and filled out, and Gillian had no doubt John had much to do with that. Will scanned the five MacLeod warriors that followed Gillian up from the beach like a hardened fighter, with one hand on his sword—made of steel now, Gillian noted. And Will was just one of an escort of a dozen Sinclairs who’d come to lead her to Carraig Brigh, as if she’d need such protection here, on her brother-in-law’s lands, in the shadow of his great keep. The ride to the castle would take less than ten minutes.
Ten minutes to compose herself, to make ready to see him again . . .nine months, twenty-three days, and ten minutes.
No more wondering or dreaming. She braced herself, squared her shoulders, and prepared herself to see him again, not knowing what to expect. Would it be scorn from a rogue who’d stolen a kiss from a foolish girl? Perhaps he wouldn’t remember her at all. She kept her chin high, her expression passive and proud, but she felt the heat of the telltale blush that filled her cheeks. She stared at her hands on the reins and tried to listen as Angus Mor filled her in on Sinclair news.
“Your sister would have come to meet ye herself, but she’s been ill with the bairn she’s carrying. Moire has insisted she must rest as much as possible,” Angus said. He frowned. “And Alasdair Og was due home a week ago from his latest voyage. He’s not often late. Fia says she’s not worried, o’ course, but I know she is.” He grinned at her. “Your company will make her very happy, lass. My Annie is with child again as well—our third bairn, but she’s as fit and fine as a westering wind.”
* * *
John stood on the wall of the keep, waiting for their esteemed guest to arrive. He supposed that this time he would be properly introduced at least, and meet her for the first time.
He wasn’t sure if he was pleased or irritated by Gillian MacLeod’s visit. It was a happy distraction for Fia, but it was also a reminder that Dair was late in returning home from his voyage. Dair was meant to escort Gillian to Edinburgh and give her away at her wedding. Fia was worried about her husband, though she did her best not to show it for the sake of the clan, and the families of Dair’s crew.
But John knew what she feared.
He’d met Dair in England, when they were both prisoners at Coldburn Keep. Dair’s ship had been taken by the English, his crew murdered, his young cousin tortured while Dair was beaten and forced to watch her torment. Dair had almost died there and would bear the scars, visible and invisible, for the rest of his days. John had also been a prisoner. He’d convinced the guards to let Dair go, and he’d brought him home to Carraig Brigh, and stayed. That had been before the Union of England and Scotland, when the English still saw Dair as an enemy and a pirate. They were friends now, but the Sinclairs—and Fia—hadn’t forgotten.
The wind blew across the stretch of grass that lay between the edge of the cliff and the castle, bringing the scent of the sea, but the breeze was fickle, and it changed direction, whistling around the ancient tower and carrying the fragrance of roses to John instead, a reminder of the woman in pink.
For almost a year he’d thought of her. Daily. Hourly. Whenever he’d kissed another woman, he thought of the lass in the rose garden and found all other kisses, all other women, lacking.
He still had the mask she’d dropped when she fled. At night, when a half moon shone in the sky, he’d turn it in his hands and wonder if there was something he’d overlooked, a clue, a hint, as to who she was, how he might find her again.
He’d watched the guests as they’d departed the morning after Fia’s masquerade. There’d been no sign of a woman who was tall, but not overly tall, slender, but sweetly feminine. He could describe how she felt in his arms, how she tasted, the sound of her sighs as he kissed her, but since he’d known nothing else about her, not even the color of her eyes or her hair, he could hardly ask about a mysterious lass in a pink dress without looking like a lovesick fool.
Perhaps she had a reason to keep her identity secret. Perhaps it was safer that way. He’d likely never see her again, so why couldn’t he forget that stolen kiss in the moonlight?
He’d had work to do, men to train, arms to see repaired and kept ready. Autumn and winter and spring had come and gone, and now summer was half gone as well. Dair had left in the spring on a trading voyage and charged John to help Fia run things in his absence. John frowned now and wished Dair would hurry up and return. Fia’s pregnancy was taking a toll on her. She was preoccupied and fretful, perpetually tired.
Old Moire predicted that the babe was a girl, that she was drawing on her mother’s strength and beauty, and was sure to be a bonny creature, healthy and fat. Rest was what Fia needed, only that and quiet, the midwife said. But it was Dair she needed, Dair she pined for. He was expected to arrive any day, on the next tide, and when he did, it would be a glorious, happy homecoming. They’d be hard-pressed to stop Fia from racing down the cliff and swimming out to meet the ship.
It had almost been a disappointment when theMaidsailed safely into the harbor, carrying Gillian MacLeod, bride-to-be, instead of theVirgin, bringing Dair.
Angus Mor had insisted on sending a huge entourage of Sinclairs to escort Fia’s sister up to the castle, and the bride had come with five MacLeods as well. John stood on the wall and stared down at the army of warriors moving toward the castle. A dozen baggage carts followed behind. Was she visiting or invading?
“We must make it a grand welcome for her, since neither Dair nor Fia will be there,” Angus had said to John when her arrival was planned. He’d chosen the strongest Sinclair warriors, but since John had not been formally introduced to Gillian MacLeod, he’d chosen to stay behind.
He remembered Fia’s sister as the pretty lass he’d seen only from a distance. He recalled her pale face, her copper curls, and her father’s overbearing protection of her. He’d found her mysterious, beautiful, and untouchable. He’d been curious about her, but probably because he’d been warned to stay away from her. Was she so fragile? It made him all the more curious now. He knew she hadn’t attended the masked ball—Fia had been disappointed that Gillian hadn’t had the courage to appear, even in disguise. Likely she’d been cowering in her chamber, muttering prayers for the sinners dancing and laughing and kissing strangers below.
“Is she bringing her father with her this time?” John had asked Angus Mor.
“Nay. Donal’s going to a meeting of the clans. He’ll be sending her to us with a tail of men and all her goods and gear.” He’d fixed John with a sharp look. “Fia wanted me to remind ye that the lass is shy. We’re not to make a big fuss over her arrival. No crowds, no cheering—just a proper escort of Sinclairs to rival her escort of MacLeods. We can’t be outdone.”
“Cheering?” John asked.
“Aye. No one expected Gillian to find herself a husband. She’s that quiet. She keeps herself to herself, with only a book for company and says naught. She’s biddable, does as she’s told, and hates a fuss.” He’d nudged John hard in the ribs. “A quiet, biddable lass. It seems to me that her groom is a canny fellow, choosing a wife who’ll do as he says and won’t talk his ear off.”
John didn’t have to reply, since Angus was content to spend the next hour talkinghisear off.
And now John watched as Fia’s sister approached the castle. She rode next to Angus Mor. She wore her MacLeod plaid over her shoulders, pinned with a brooch that glinted in the sun. Her eyes were downcast, her face in shadow, and she appeared to be making a study of her hands, or the garron’s neck. She was terrified no doubt, afraid of the wind, or the sun, or the protective wall of men around her. He wondered where she’d find the courage to face her wedding.
Then she looked up and saw him standing on the wall. She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and fixed her gaze onhim. .
There was something about the way she moved, the lines of her body, the tilt of her head. “Nay . . .” He gripped the rough stone of the parapet hard and stared at her, tried to imagine her in pink, in the dark. “No,” he said again.
“What’s the matter?” Niall Sinclair asked, hurrying forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Is something amiss?” He scanned the cliff top around the approaching party for signs of trouble.
“It’sher,” John murmured, sure now.
