* * *
The next morning Gillian rode out of Kinfell with the Laird Mackenzie, a tail of ten warriors, one maidservant, an English swordsman, and Callum. Her wounded kinsmen waved a tearful goodbye, and Donella promised to send them home to Glen Iolair when they were healthy enough to travel.
They passed through Grant territory two days later, and the tale of Gillian’s adventure had arrived before her. Folk turned out by the score to see the fearless MacLeod lass who singlehandedly killedeightlawless brigands on the way to her wedding. Gillian and her tail were feted and feasted in Laird Padraig Grant’s hall at Gilmossie Castle, and six strong Grant warriors joined her escort.
And the MacPhersons had heard that it wastwelvebandits that the Fearsome MacLeod’s daughter had dispatched, armed with nothing more than a simple eating knife and the sharp pin of her brooch. Nine MacPhersons rode out with Gillian.
The Robertsons understood that the valiant lass had encounteredthirtylawless men while she was walking in the wood alone, picking wildflowers for her bridal bouquet. She’d outwitted them all, bound them, drove them like cattle to the sheriff, and laughed as they hanged. Eight dazzled Robertsons joined her tail.
By the time they reached Stirling, there was a small army of adoring Highlanders following Gillian. “Are ye Jacobites?” the castellan called down from the walls suspiciously before he agreed to open his gates to her, but a merry tale always opens doors, and every man in her escort was happy to embellish the story even more for a dram and a good meal.
Gillian herself said little about anything at all, since no one wanted to listen to her version of the tale. But her silence and her blushes only served to make her amodestwarrior maiden, which was all the more heroic in the eyes of her admirers.
There was no more camping at the end of the day or slipping away to hunt in the dark. Instead, Gillian and her followers were honored guests at the finest keeps and castles. She was offered the best rooms, the softest beds, and the most watchful guards.Seanchaidhscomposed still more songs in her honor.
Not one of those songs mentioned John, and when Gillian shyly turned aside the praise and said she could not have managed to escape without him, everyone ignored her, or suggested reinventing John as a proper Highlander for the tale, a fine figure in kilt, bonnet, and brooch—if he had to be included at all. A Sassenach hero simply would not do.
By day, a dense forest of warriors surrounded Gillian. By night, Florrie slept beside her, guarding Gillian’s virtue and her privacy, snoring like a warrior herself while Gillian paced the floor, thinking of John. She had never been so protected in her life, not even by her own well-meaning, overbearing family.
She tried everything. On the road, she wrapped herself in her plaid and hid, , but that just made the lairds and warriors more determined to coax a smile or a word from Gillian’s sweet lips by any means possible. Her horse’s mane was adorned with ribbons and wildflowers, and they hunted birds for her supper. They wrote terrible poetry and paid her silly compliments.
If she sighed, a dozen men brought her canteens of water or whisky or even milk. Davy Mackenzie tried to buy a cow, just to have on hand in case a whim for milk came over her again. When the crofter refused to sell the beast, Padraig Grant tried to steal it.
If she dismounted, Florrie had to threaten the crowd of protectors with terrible injury if they didn’t give Gillian a few moments of privacy.
Gillian wanted to set her heels to her garron and ride off into the wood, alone, hoping that John would follow. But she knew they’dallfollow her, and she couldn’t bear the thought of all that trampled forest.
Shehadto see John—it was most important that she speak to him before they reached Edinburgh.
But John kept his distance, or found it impossible to break through the human walls that enclosed her night and day. She knew he was close by, could see him in the tail, his blond hair shining in the sun, his leather jack plain against the sea of plaids.
But they were just two days from reaching Edinburgh, and her wedding was the day after that. She tightened anxious hands on the reins as she rode, and her garron shied at the sudden tension.
Four men raced to aid her, but John wasn’t one of them. Gillian dismissed her would-be rescuers with a shy smile and rode on.
* * *
John knew how much Gillian hated the attention. Even relegated to the back of the tail, he watched her grow pale and fatigued, overwhelmed by the accolades, the questions, and the worshipful stares.Nowshe was quiet, delicate, and shy.
If he’d had his way, he would have intervened, grabbed her hand or her reins and taken her away someplace private where she could shoot something, or he could kiss her, soothe her, or lay her down and make love to her all over again.
He thought of all the ways he’d tease her, please her, and make her blush if he had the chance to love her again, in a bed, with time and privacy. He relived the sounds she made, the way her skin felt against his, the taste and scent of her until he was half mad with wanting.
But it served no purpose. Her wedding was three days away, and there was no opportunity to even touch her hand now. He did not dally with other men’s wives, and it was clear that he should not have given in to temptation in the first place. It only made the thought of giving her away damned near unbearable. He was already bracing himself for the moment when he’d have to place her hand into her husband’s and step back.
It was better, he decided, if he kept his distance, gave them both space to forget, but his body reacted every time he thought of her or heard her name, or caught sight of her hair, or her hand, or saw her shy smile, until he was riding with a perpetual erection and his heart trapped in his throat, wanting her all over again.
