CHAPTER ONE
He was late. John Erly spurred his horse harder, leaned low over the creature’s neck and raced across the cliff top. TheVirginwas already at anchor in the harbor below, and everyone was gathered to welcome the newly minted earl and his lovely countess.
There wasn’t a Sinclair who’d admit it meant a thing, of course, but John knew they were proud their chief had been so honored—thatthey’dbeen so honored—by Queen Anne, a Stuart, and therefore a Scot and one of their own.
John wondered if Dair had seen the Earl of Clive in London, John’s own father, the man who’d disowned his son without a farthing for his terrible sins. But that had been four years ago, and he had a different life now, here in Scotland. It wasn’t the life he was born to, but it was his. He lived by his own rules, his own code of honor, free, and single. Not that there weren’t women in his life, but he preferred the company of experienced women like Rhona Sinclair, a lusty widow with a taste for fun, or Effie Lyle, who was warm and welcoming, and did not expect marriage from him.
But it had been Elspeth Sinclair who’d made him late this morning, who wouldn’t take no for an answer when he’d told her he had to leave her bed to meet Dair’s ship. Once more had turned into twice before he’d left her well pleasured and exhausted with a promise that he’d be back. Eventually. He’d left his bow there, and he’d need to retrieve it at some point.
John galloped along the cliff path against the wind. In the bay below,Virgin’s launches were already rowing ashore. He swore softly and wished he had time to go back to his own cottage and change his clothes. He looked like he’d slept in these. He grinned and kicked the horse again, coaxing more speed out of the beast.
When he reached top of the path that led to the beach, Fia was already there. She watched as John reined in and dismounted. He caught her hand and swept a low, elegant bow. “May I say how lovely you look, Countess Carrbry?”
She plucked her fingers out of his grip and stuck her nose in the air. “Your breeches are buttoned wrong, English John, and your shirt isn’t laced. When was the last time you combed your hair?”
He did what he always did. He gave her his most charming grin—Countess or peasant lass, it never failed to melt the coldest female heart. Fia’s sharp glare softened, and a dimple appeared in her cheek. “Slaightear,” she murmured fondly. “Blaigeard—rogue, rascal.”
He took her hand again and kissed the tips of her fingers with a laugh, denying none of it, and this time she gave his hand an affectionate squeeze.
“Who’s this?” a gruff male voice asked.
John turned to see an older man standing behind Fia, wearing a MacLeod plaid. He looked John over with a deep scowl.
“Papa, this is John Erly,” Fia said. “John, this is my father, Donal MacLeod, the Laird of Glen Iolair.”
“TheSassenach,” the Fearsome MacLeod grumbled. His eyes narrowed, and his hand went to the hilt of his dirk. The man certainly lived up to his fearsome nickname. He was tall, broad, and muscular despite the streaks of silver in his dark hair. John imagined facing him in battle—Donal MacLeod’s enemies probably died of fright without his even having to draw his claymore, which was as famous as the man who wielded it.
Yet wee Fia took her father’s arm and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, and John watched the laird’s iron glare melt like warm butter. “Now, Papa, John is Dair’s very good friend, and the captain of our guards,” she said. “He’s the best swordsman I’ve ever seen.”
Donal MacLeod looked at John again, but it was clear that his opinion hadn’t budged.
“I had the honor of meeting one of your other daughters, Laird MacLeod,” John said smoothly. “May I enquire after Mistress Meggie’s health?”
The Highlander reddened and scowled. “My daughter is none of your—”
“Papa!” Fia said, shaking Donal’s arm gently. “Meggie is well, John—or she was last time I heard from her. Papa brought me letters from all my sisters when we met in Edinburgh.”
John tried a different smile, a polite one this time, with all the highborn, aristocratic charm of his youth behind it, but still the Fearsome MacLeod wasn’t impressed.
Fia blushed and looked down at the people on the beach below. “Now where is Dair?”
John spotted Alasdair Og at once, by his height and his plaid. He was helping someone out of the launch, a slender woman. He grasped her waist and swung her out of the boat and onto the pebbled shore. The lass’s skirts caught the wind, revealing shapely ankles, and her plaid blew back from her head. The breeze snatched the ribbon that bound her hair, and it flew out to sea and set free a cloud of glorious russet curls, nearly scarlet against the gray of the rocks and the sea.
John was too far away to see her face. But her body had a graceful delicacy of shape and height. Dair let her go once she had her balance back again.
“Who is the woman with—” John began, but both Fia and Donal rounded on him.
“That’s my daughter,” and “She’s my sister,” came out at the same moment, both voices sharp with identical warning:Stay away.
It felt as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. John had been at Carraig Brigh for almost four years. Folk were polite, sometimes almost friendly, but they never let him forget he was an outsider here. It didn’t matter that he was Dair’s friend and trusted captain, he was an Englishman, a Sassenach, a man cast out by his own kin for sins he didn’t speak of. Despite his skills with a sword, or any kindness he might do, any noble deed, he’d never be good enough for men like Donal MacLeod.
John bowed again, crisply. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve duties to see to.”
But he made the mistake of looking down over the cliff again. The lass was staring up at him now, her eyes wide, her face a pale oval against the swirling glory of her hair. He knew without even being close enough to see her features that she was beautiful. His chest tightened, and his mouth dried. He felt as if lightning had struck him, but the sky was clear. It was standing too close to the cliff top, he told himself. He hated the sea, hated ships, and even looking at the waves was enough to remind him of the last time he’d sailed, make him feel sick and regretful. He pushed the memory away. It was the sea, and only the sea, not the MacLeod’s daughter, Fia’s sister, the lass forbidden to the likes of him.
He turned and led the garron away. He caught up with some of the sailors, men he was acquainted with, and joked with them as if the snub didn’t matter.
* * *
Gillian stood on the pebbled beach, still feeling the roll of the ship under the thin soles of her shoes. She shaded her eyes and looked up the steep path to where her father and sister waited and took note of the man standing next to Fia. The wind blew his fair hair, and the sun sparked on the stubble of his unshaven face, giving him a golden glow. He was tall, as tall as her father, but lean instead of broad, his legs long, clad in breeches and tall boots, not a kilt. She could tell—feel—that he was staring ather. The earth tilted in the oddest way.
She felt something stir in her breast, and her heart thumped. Then the ribbon in her hair broke free, and she lost sight of him in the wind-tossed cloud of her hair.
“Are ye steady, lass?” Alasdair Og asked kindly, his hand under her elbow. “It takes a few minutes to get your bearings on land after being in a ship.”
The world righted itself again, and she felt the pebbles under her feet. She smelled the damp-earth-salt-scent of the cliff face. For a moment the stranger on the cliff stared down at her, his face in shadow now, his hair still sunlit. She leaned on Dair’s arm and stared silently back at him, too shy to ask Dair the name of the man with her sister, yet unable to tear her gaze away. Then he turned and disappeared from view.
She caught her breath and let go of Dair. “Thank you. I’m well.”
Her brother-in-law smiled. “Then let’s go up, get ye settled. I’m sure Fia has a nice, quiet room already picked out for ye.”
