Angus sighed. “I know. We all know. She’s putting a brave face on it for the clan’s sake, and we’re putting a brave face on it for hers.” He took a sip of wine. “I’ve never met a man who knows the sea as well as Dair Sinclair. He’ll be back. No doubt there’s a storm somewhere that’s keeping him in port a wee bit longer than he planned.”
“I’ll wait with Fia until he comes,” Gillian said.
Angus winked at her and chuckled. “But if it’s more than a fortnight, ye’ll risk being late for your wedding, and none of us wants that. I’m sure ye have a good number of things to see to in Edinburgh before the ceremony. I could take ye myself, but my Annie is also with child, and due within the month.”
She glanced at John. “Will you be coming on the voyage?”
“Who? English John?” Angus scoffed before John could reply. “Nay, he won’t sail. He hates the sea.”
“In truth, I have duties here, Mistress MacLeod. A shame to miss your wedding, but you’ll have a full compliment of Sinclairs and MacLeods. The kirk will be quite crowded with so many Highlanders present. The townsfolk will fear it’s an invasion or a reiving,” John quipped.
Angus frowned at the jest. “She’s one of our own, kin by marriage, and we’ll give her a proper escort. If anyone thinks badly of it,thenwe’ll sack the place.”
Gillian smiled at Angus’s joke, and it was like seeing the sun after days—months—of rain and cold. John tried to concentrate on his meal, but she buzzed in his veins like warm whisky.
A few days, a week, and then she’d be gone again. He knew nothing about the man she was going to marry, but he could imagine what he was like—a braw Scot, handsome and rich, hand-picked by her father. The next time John saw Gillian—if he ever saw her again—she’d be married, giving her kisses to another man, big with his children, in love. That man would be the one with the right to touch her, to kiss her in dark gardens, to lay her down and love her . . .
Not that it had ever been his right. He tried not to resent the man, but he did. Once, John had been Gillian’s social equal—higher in rank than her father, actually—a suitable match for Gillian MacLeod—a fine match, as the English said. Not now. He had accepted his lot, the loss of his family and his position, but now he felt the old familiar bitterness fill him once again, and he rose.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve things to see to,” he said, needing to get away from her, away from the ridiculous desire to grab her hand as he’d done at the ball, and pull her outside, or upstairs, or anywhere private.
“What things?” Angus asked, his guileless eyes wide.
“Things,” John said through gritted teeth.
Angus Mor grinned and winked. “Och, aye.Things. Elspeth or Rhona?” he asked.
He watched as Gillian’s jaw tensed. She thought he was going to another woman.
He grabbed her hand after all. He brought it to his lips, kissed it, breathed her in. Her fingers curled against his palm, and it almost undid him. He let her go. “I wish you good night, mistress, and if you should sail before I see you again, I hope your journey to your beloved is swift and uneventful.”
He didn’t offer his congratulations on her nuptials. He walked away, took Angus’s suggestion, and went to the rose garden. He stood staring out at the sea as the sun sank into the blackness of the deep water.
If he expected—hoped—that she’d follow him there, he was disappointed. Not that he really thought she would.
He’d stood here and relived their brief encounter over and over in the past months. He thought if he only knew who she was, it would make it easier to forget her.
But if he’d invented the perfect woman, the face he’d have wanted to find if he’d had the opportunity to unmask her, he’d want all the things that made up Gillian MacLeod. He plucked a rose and stared into the pink heart of it. It was as soft as her skin, as warm and sweet.
He dropped the flower and strode away.
One week. All he had to do was avoid her for one short week.
It would be better once she was gone.
