“Nay. There was a ball planned for her birthday, you see, a masquerade. She refused to allow anyone to cancel it, even for mourning. It had been six months since Daniel’s death, and there was no body to bury, no funeral to attend. Dorothea said she’d been grieving Daniel’s departure for over a year, and that was enough. She insisted I must come, wish her happy. I’d known her all my life as well, thought of her as a sister, a dear friend. So I went to the party. I donned a mask and domino, and drank too much. I let a masked woman take my hand and lead me into the garden.”
She gasped and he looked at her sharply. “Aye, Gillian—that’s why I should have known better than to go with you.”
“Why did you?”
“I didn’t intend to. I intended to go back to my cott—alone—as soon as I could get away from Fia’s party. But you—” His eyes roamed over her face. “I can’t recall ever wanting to kiss a woman as much as I wanted to kiss you. I should have known better—”
She sat up and cupped his head, turned his face to hers. “Iwantedto kiss you, John Erly. I wanted—” She bit her lip. “I wish I’d been braver then, now I know. My sister said you weren’t for me, not for a beginner. She warned me—”
He pulled away. “You should have listened to her.” He indicated their tiny shelter with a wave of his hand. “This—has only served to prove her right.”
“I’m not such a fool as to be gulled into giving what I don’t wish to give. I wanted this. It was my choice.” She hesitated. “Was it yours?”
For a moment he scanned her face, and she held his gaze. “God forgive me, yes. I wanted you. Have I done wrong?”
“Of course not.”
“But Fia—”
“Fia isn’t here, nor is anyone else. This is between us, what we want, what we think. Tell me about the other masquerade ball,” she said.
He swallowed. “I set out to seduce the masked woman—any women would have done. I wanted to forget everything in her arms, in her body. She was willing . . .”
He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Then Dorothea’s mother arrived with three footmen, carrying torches. She knew exactly where to find us. My father was there as well, though he hadn’t been a guest at the party. My would-be lover was half undressed, and so was I, and I did my best to shield her from prying eyes and accusations.”
A flush of hot blood rose over his face, even now. “She took of her mask. It was Dorothea. “You’re too early,” she said to her mother. “He hasn’t—” He swallowed. “And I knew. I knew that my brother’s betrothed had planned a seduction to force a marriage so she could still marry my father’s heir, become countess. There was no regret in her eyes, no shame for what she’d done. My father drew his sword and insisted that I must wed Dorothea the very next morning. Perhaps I should have, for honor’s sake. But I saw the cunning in her eyes, knew she wanted only a title and a fortune, that she wasn’t the woman I thought I knew. For Daniel’s sake—and for my own—I refused to marry her. You asked about the scar on my ribs. My father stabbed me. That’s the truth of where it came from. My father tried to run me through at a masquerade ball, while my family’s dearest friends cheered him on.”
He met Gillian’s eyes. “Clive was the magistrate. He had me arrested for rape, had his men drag me to the darkest cell of Coldburn Keep, said he’d see me hang.
“I was thrown into the same cell as Dair Sinclair, a mad, tortured, beaten Scot. In the cell next to his, they held his cousin Jeannie. They’d been there for many days when I arrived. My father ordered that as well, Dair’s capture, all of it.”
“Why?” she gasped. “Why?”
His jaw tightened. “That was how he grieved my brother, by striking out at an innocent man, a maid.” His face was a mask of outrage even now, for Dair, and Jeannie. She’d heard the rest of that tale, of course, from Fia. They’d killed Jeannie Sinclair, hanged her after long days of rape and torture, and made Dair watch. John had somehow talked the guards into letting him go, allowing him to take Dair with him.
“How did you bribe them?” she asked. “What did you give them to let you go?”
He picked up the medicine bag from among the branches of their bed. He weighed it in his palm a moment before he opened it. He poured the contents out on a fold of her skirt. She saw the bloody arrowhead, a letter, also stained, a bead, a feather, a pebble, and a signet ring. He picked up the ring and showed it to her. The stone had been pried loose, and only a gaping hole remained to mark its place. “It once held a diamond. That was how I bought Dair’s freedom.”
She ran her fingers over the items gently, picked them up one by one and put them back into the pouch. Then she pulled one of the pink silk bows off the bodice of her gown, the one closest to her heart, and added that to the pouch. He watched her without comment.
She tied the broken thong, slipped it over John’s head, and pressed the bag against his heart. “You’re a good man, John Erly, brave and kind, and fine.”
He put his hand over hers, held it there. “I still have nothing to offer you, cannot honorably—” He shook his head.
. “Do you not see? Fate brought us together, against all the odds, all the miles, all the waiting . . .”
“For a moment.”
She didn’t reply. She reached to lower the unlaced bodice of her gown again, let the silk fall off her shoulders in unspoken invitation, wanting him again. If she asked with words, he’d say no . . . His eyes fell to her breasts.
“I dreamed of this,” he said. “Sliding this gown off your body an inch at a time, making love to you.” He shifted, and the fir boughs creaked. “Only we were in a bed—a soft, thick, feather bed, not a prickly, miserable pine couch.”
She pushed back the linen of his shirt, opened it, kissed his exposed chest, ran her lips across the hard muscle and soft skin over his heart. “This is a palace. Our palace, and our bed.” She lay back and held out her hand.
* * *
John looked down at Gillian’s face, flushed pink in the rosy dawn. She looked—magical. She always looked magical to him—in moonlight and in sun, in candlelight and rain. When he kissed her at the masquerade, he hadn’t known her name, or the color of her eyes or hair, hadn’t known how brave she was, how clever. He’d kissed her in the dark then, and he’d made love to her in total blackness, by feel, by every sense but sight. He could see her now, and his throat closed with desire.
