Then Fia nudged her and broke the spell. “You were a thousand miles away again—I’ve asked you twice what costume you might wear to my masked ball. What on earth are you thinking about?” She followed the direction of Gillian’s gaze to John Erly and gave a little gasp of surprise. “Were you staring at English John?” she whispered, casting a quick glance at their father, but he’d turned to converse with Dair. Fia squeezed Gillian’s arm. “Oh no, sweeting—John’s not for you. He’s a rogue of the worst sort.”
“Is he unkind to women?” Gillian asked, surprised.
Fia’s lips tightened. “No, worse—he’s charming. There’s not a lass at Carraig who hasn’t had her head turned by English John. Flattery gets him everything, and he knows just what to say to win a lass’s heart and her—Well, he isn’t for novices, Gilly, and he certainly isn’t for you. Stay away from him while you’re here.”
“But how did an Englishman come to be at Carraig Brigh, serving as captain of the guard?” Gillian asked, curious.
Fia sipped her wine. “He’s the son of an English earl, but his father disowned him.”
“Why?” Gillian asked.
Fia’s eyes slid away. “Something about a lady, or a series of ladies, that’s all I know. John was in gaol in England when the English captured Dair’s ship, tortured Dair half to death, and murdered his cousin. If English John hadn’t convinced the guards to let them both go, Dair would be dead.” Fia regarded the Englishman with gratitude. “John brought him home, Gillian. He’s as brave as a lion and a very fine swordsman.” She blinked back a tear, then straightened her spine and gave Gillian a sharp look. “Don’t mistake me. In many ways John is a wonderful man, just not in love. He’d make a dreadful husband, even if a lass could catch him. Many have tried. I’ve tried myself to find him a bride, but he’ll have none of it. He likes widows, women with experience, the kind who want nothing more than—” Fia blushed. “Well, they don’t want a husband.”
“I see,” Gillian said.
Fia frowned. “Do you? Then you’ll take my advice and stay away from him.” She patted Gillian’s hand. “Don’t worry—I’ll invite lots of fine, eligible gentlemen to the ball, and you’ll have a chance to meet them all. Youwilltake advantage of the opportunity, won’t you, Gilly? There’ll be no need to feel shy if no one knows you.”
Mortification made Gillian blush from her toes to her hairline. She was quiet because the world talked around her, ran her over with their words, didn’t bother to listen. It had always been that way, with eleven sisters to compete with. Someone always said what she wished to say before her, so there was no need to speak at all. She was not witless or without opinions and ideas. It was simply easier to keep them to herself.
Gillian toyed with her food. She looked at John Erly from under her lashes. A man like that would never flirt with a mouse like her, not if he liked bold women, women who spoke up, knew what they wanted. She watched as he rose from his seat and moved toward the door.
As he left, he cast a backward glance over his shoulder.
At her.
And then he was gone.
* * *
Were all of the Fearsome MacLeod’s daughters beauties? John left the hall and walked along the cliff path in the dark. The man had twelve daughters, and he’d met three of them—well two, since no one had actually introduced him to Fia’s visiting sister. He knew Fia well, with her gentle grace, her fierce loyalty, and her talent for healing. And he’d met Meggie-the-Flirt, blond, saucy, witty, and clever. But this lass—Gillian—was ethereal, watchful, soft, the kind of lass whose company would be soothing and gentle.
At dinner, from her seat between her sister and her father, she’d looked around Dair’s hall, had taken in the details, but he noted that she spoke little. She did her best to blend into the background, it seemed to him. As if a woman who looked like Gillian MacLeod could ever be invisible. She wore a simple gown in a dull color, without jewels or adornments, her russet hair now tamed into a simple braid. John liked redheads—perhaps that was why he’d been aware of no one else. Of course, half the Sinclair lasses had red hair, and he didn’t notice them.
When she’d looked up, caught his stare and held it, he couldn’t look away, could hardly breathe.
Until Fia noticed.
John could see that she was telling her sister all about him. And Donal MacLeod was watching him, too, narrow-eyed and tight lipped, with his ham-sized fist resting on the table in an unspoken but very clear warning. Gillian MacLeod wasn’t for him. Not even to speak to.
John took the path through the village and stopped briefly in front of Elspeth’s cott, knew she was waiting for him, and the welcome would be warm. But all he could think about was Gillian MacLeod, and how he, an earl’s son born, bred, and disowned, wasn’t good enough for her.
He turned away from Elspeth’s door and went to the armory to borrow a bow, then walked into the wood instead.
