Niall nodded. “Aye, it’s her—Gillian MacLeod, Fia’s wee sister, and none other.”
“But she’s—” John felt his mouth working to come up with the right word. Magnificent, lovely, impossible, all came to mind.Delicious. “Shy,” he managed.
Lightning shot through him, stole his breath. Gillian MacLeod was the woman in the pink gown, though she wore plain blue now.
He’d kissed the Fearsome MacLeod’s daughter, the one woman he’d been ordered to stay away from, the one he had no doubt had been warned to stay away from him as well.
He kept his eyes on her. She was close enough now that he could see the blush that crept up over her face.The minx . . . she’d known exactly who he was.But then, he’d hardly made a secret of it.
“Are ye well, English John? Ye look a wee bit green,” Niall said.
But John couldn’t speak, couldn’t form a coherent reply. He scanned her from hem to hairline, noted all the details he’d wondered about, obsessed over, until he was half-mad with frustrated desire. Her hair was copper-red, like fall leaves, like ripe, sweet fruit.Forbidden fruit. He hadn’t known what color it was when he’d kissed her. Her eyes—she was still to far away, but he couldn’t wait to see those, to know what color they were, and to read an explanation there.
He stared at her as she came closer. She was beautiful, very beautiful, better even than his imagination, or his memory. Her gaze locked with his, her expression pensive, her lush lower lip caught between her teeth. Now that was a gesture he remembered well. It drove him wild that night. Still did, apparently. His heart was pounding.
It was surprise, or anger, or a bit of both, perhaps. Not lust, not now, not for Fia’s sister, another man’s bride-to-be.
Then one of the Sinclair warriors rode between them and broke their stare.
And when the man passed and John looked again, her eyes were downcast as she rode beneath him, under the gate and into the bailey.
* * *
He knew . . .
Gillian hoped Angus Mor would put her sudden breathlessness down to nerves. Her heart had climbed into her throat when she saw John Erly standing on the wall staring down at her. He looked . . .surprised.
She’d watched the color drain from his face, even as hot blood flooded her own cheeks. He shook his head slightly as if to clear it, to make sense of what he was seeing, to understand. In that instant she realized he hadn’t known, hadn’t even suspected the identity of the woman he’d kissed.
Now he knew. Was he disappointed?
He didn’t move as she rode nearer, stood as straight as a pike, unyielding, stunned. Oh, what had she done? She bit her lower lip, and her hands tensed on the reins, making the garron’s ears twitch. She forced herself to relax her grip.
Then she was riding through the gate, under the wall, underhim, and into the bailey.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as he descended the steps with the familiar male grace she’d so admired last summer, his legs long, his shoulders broad, his hair gleaming. He still took her breath away, made her heart pound.
And when he reached the ground and came toward her, his face was carefully blank, his lips drawn into a thin line. Not the firm, mobile mouth that had pleasured hers now. She waited for him to reach her, but Angus Mor had dismounted and was waiting to lift her down from the garron. She looked at him instead, his smiling face a welcome break from the tension John Erly evoked, the tightly drawn nerves that threatened to buckle her knees.A rogue, a rascal, Fia called him. And what would a rogue do now, what would he say? She could not bear it if he mocked her before her own kin and the Sinclairs, spoke of the kiss they’d shared as if it was nothing, or grinned at her knowingly like a strumpet he had fond memories of.
She looked around her for Callum, for Tam, for the rest of the MacLeods, and wondered what they’d do if he insulted her. John’s face gave nothing away as he strode toward her, and all she could do was wait.
* * *
By the time John reached the bottom step, Angus was lifting Gillian off her garron. He watched the Highlander’s huge hands span her slender waist, saw her long white fingers on Angus’s dark sleeves. He set her on her feet, and John assessed her again.Nay, not tall enough . . . or too tall, perhaps.The lass in the garden had come up to his chin. He imagined holding Gillian MacLeod in his arms, lowering his mouth as she raised hers. Aye, she’d be the right height. He imagined his own hands around her waist, knew they’d fit perfectly. If he stepped closer, he’d smell wildflowers. The wind shifted, carried the fragrance of Fia’s rose garden to him again like a cheeky jest.
He waited for her to look at him, for confirmation to show in her eyes, but she stared at her hands demurely, looked at anything but him.
Perhaps he was wrong. If a woman kissed a man the way the lass at the ball had kissed him, wouldn’t she be looking at him now?
“Nay,” he murmured again and shook his head. “It wasn’t her.” But he knew it was. Her fiery blush gave her away, and the pulse point that hammered at the apex of her neck and her shoulder. He’d kissed her there . . .
He turned away, gulping for air like a drowning man, and left her to Angus. John concentrated on directing the baggage carts streaming through the gate.Vain, he thought.So many trunks.And all of them filled with her wedding clothes.
“I’m going to take Mistress Gillian up to see Fia,” Angus called, and John glanced at her once more. She was looking at him now, waiting, her expression unreadable. He stepped closer, because it was expected, and bowed, a courtly gesture that was not typical in the Highlands. He realized too late that it would mark him as English, an outsider, but she dipped a proper curtsy in return. She was close enough to touch, mere inches from him. Ah yes, there it was . . . the scent of wildflowers he remembered. He refrained from kissing her hand.
“I don’t believe we metformallywhen you were last at Carraig Brigh, Mistress MacLeod. I’m John Erly,” he said crisply. The blush that rose over her cheeks was fiery, the look in her eyes panicked. Green. Her eyes were as green as forest pools in sunshine. He hadn’t known that either.Did she fear he meant to reveal her secret? Nay, not here, but he promised her with a forthright look that theywouldspeak. Her lashes swept down and she turned to take Angus’s arm. As she walked away, she cast a single glance over her shoulder. He stayed where he was and let her go, watched as Angus opened the door and let her precede him through it, and watched it close again behind them.
The whole encounter had taken less than ten minutes, added now to the scant half hour they spent in each other’s arms in the garden nearly a year ago . . . Less than an hour, all told. Yet his heart pounded and it felt as if the sun had come with her arrival and gone again when she walked inside.
* * *
It had been an awkward meeting. She had said nothing at all. Couldn’t. Her tongue had knotted itself around her tonsils, and she could scarcely breathe. He’d kept his face carefully blank, gave away nothing to indicate a prior connection or improper kisses. There had only been that very slight emphasis on the wordformally.“I don’t believe we metformallywhen you were last at Carraig Brigh, mistress.”He had introduced himself the way a stranger would, and bowed. She’d automatically dipped a quick curtsy in return, as if it was indeed the first time they’d met . . . and so it was, though she knew the taste of him, the feel of his aroused body pressed against hers, the brush of his hand over her breast. Her nipples tingled even now, and she swallowed. She watched the wind blow a golden lock of hair over his forehead and remembered how soft it was. She met his eyes—gray as a winter sky—and read the cool speculation in them. Nay, he wouldn’t tell, wouldn’t mock her. But it was obvious that he remembered every detail of their kiss as clearly as she did.
She’d been grateful when Angus Mor offered to take her to Fia, wanted to be out of John Erly’s disturbing company.
Her adventure, the only man she’d ever kissed. . .
When she looked back, he was still watching her, his gaze hungry, his brow furrowed, and she stumbled slightly. Angus cupped her elbow to steady her. He let go at once, and she wondered if he could feel the terrible heat of her body, the heavy beat of her pulse, see the hot blood in her face. She was still trembling as she fell into her sister’s welcoming embrace.
He knew.
