Jock looked at the men. “Our two oldest lads are out with the cows tonight, so there’s space by the hearth for one of ye if ye still wish it. The rest of ye can bed in the barn.”
Callum nodded. “Ewan, ye’ll bide here in case Gilly needs anything in the night. Thank ye, MacCulloch—the barn will suit the rest of us.”
John followed the MacLeods across the yard to the barn. The hay smelled sweet as they bedded down, but soon the MacLeods were snoring like a herd of noisy cattle.
John gave up trying to sleep and went out to the yard. The moon had risen, and the stars were coming out, one by one. The air was soft and cool, and he crossed to the well and filled the bucket. He stared at the moon’s reflection in the water and remembered—
“May I have some?”
John spun and found Gillian standing behind him, wrapped in her plaid against the chill.
“Are you real, or am I dreaming?”
“I’m real.”
“Are you going hunting?”
“Not tonight,” she said. “I’m just . . . restless.”
He understood what she meant, felt it, too. Her braid hung over her shoulder, and the copper strands glowed in the moonlight. Escaped tendrils fell over her brow, and he longed to brush them back, to banish the shadows they cast over her eyes so he could read what she was thinking in the green depths. Instead, he filled the dipper and held it out to her, the way he had at the masquerade. Her fingers brushed his as she took it, sending shivers through him.
“Do you wish to walk?” he asked her.Perhaps there was a pool made of starlight or a bed of heather . . .
“I’d best not. If Ewan wakes and I’m not there, he’ll shout the whole house awake. Won’t the lads in the barn wonder where you’ve gone?”
“They snore. They’ll probably assume I went to find some peace and quiet.”
She looked around the quiet farmyard. “’Tis quiet here, and a beautiful night.”
He couldn’t resist. “The kind where a shepherd might find a fairy lass?”
She smiled. “And a soft bed of heather.”
A hard jolt of desire crashed through him. What was it about Gillian MacLeod and moonlight? She was silent for a moment, watching him, clutching her plaid at her throat with long white fingers. She crossed the space that separated them, came close enough that he could smell her skin and the soft scent of the fresh hay and sweet herbs that stuffed the mattress she’d lain upon in the loft of the house.
“Will you . . . will you kiss me again?” she asked.
He groaned. It was the worst idea he’d ever heard, but he looked down at her face, upturned and silver in the moonlight, her lips slightly parted, soft and lush, her eyes pools of starlight. His mouth watered.
“It’s not a masquerade this time.”
“No masks,” she agreed.
“What about your betrothed?” he asked. “What’s his name? He’s the one you should be ki—”
She stood on her toes and put her lips against his, stopping his words. Surprise rocked him, but he didn’t push her away. She put her hands up to cup his jaw, ran her thumbs over the stubble on his cheek as she laid butterfly kisses on his mouth until he tilted his head and kissed her back. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She tasted like honey, as sweet as he remembered.
He broke the kiss while he could still think. She made a soft sound of objection that nearly undid him. “Gillian,” he murmured.
“Don’t stop.”
“We must. This is wrong, unfair . . .”
“Why? If we want this, can we not have it? I want—just once—what my sisters have, what other women whisper about.”
He stepped away, gritted his teeth, and willed his arousal to subside, for the almost unstoppable desire to reach for her to disappear. But she was standing before him bathed in moonlight, the woman he’d dreamed of for months.Nay, longer than that. Forever.
He could have her, claim her here and now, if he gave up the last shreds of his honor. But honor was all he had left of who he once was, who he’d been born to be. And if he gave that up, he’d be nothing at all.
