CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
On the night before they were due to reach Edinburgh, they were the honored guests of yet another laird. Florrie lay asleep and snoring, but Gillian paced her grand chamber in the dark. Her dazzled hosts had given her an elegant room that overlooked a rose garden, the lady of the keep’s pride and joy. Gillian opened the window and let the moonlight and the scent of roses fill the room. It roused a longing so strong she thought she could hear John’s flute in the dark. But it wasn’t her imagination. She scanned the dark garden, but he was somewhere beyond it, by the loch beyond the garden wall, perhaps.
She pulled on her boots and wrapped herself in her plaid. She sheathed her dirk in her sleeve and opened the door.
Six warriors—four Grants and two MacKenzies—snapped to attention. “Can we fetch ye something, mistress?” one asked politely.
Gillian shook her head and retreated back inside her room. Of course there were guards on her door—och, there were probably men lining the hallway and sleeping on the stairs, ready to die for her should a marauder be daft enough to try and sneak past them. Men even guarded her garron in the stable. No woman had ever been as safe as she was.
But right now she wanted freedom.
She peered out the window. The rough stones of the low tower offered plenty of hand and footholds. She borrowed Florrie’s MacKenzie plaid and left her own, then slipped her leg over the windowsill and climbed down. At the bottom, she stood for a moment with her back against the wall, listening for shouts of alarm, but there was only the chirp of crickets in the dark and the soft notes of John’s flute.
She clung to the shadows that edged the garden, slipped through a gate—and found herself in a courtyard filled with men.
She held her breath, but none of them did more than glance at her as she hurried past, bundled to the eyes in Florrie’s plaid.
Gillian checked the dirk in her sleeve and wondered if she’d have the courage to use it on someone who tried to stop her.
She had two days, and shehadto speak with John. What if he hadn’t lied, but truly felt nothing for her? She had to know.
She slipped along the dark path, hurried through the trees that hemmed the shore of the loch, following the sound of his flute. The tune had changed to something she didn’t recognize. She wasn’t concerned it wasn’t John. She knew the way he played, as if he were caressing a lover with his fingers, making her sing with pleasure. It made Gillian shiver.
She found him sitting alone on a rock by the water. She saw the golden spill of his hair in the moonlight, the silhouette of his lean and familiar body, his long legs stretched out before him.
She paused for a moment and leaned against a tree, listening. Her heart thundering against her ribs.
She gathered her courage and walked the last few steps to him, and lowered the plaid that covered her hair.
The music stopped. His face was in shadow.
“Hello,” she said when he didn’t speak.
He turned to look out over the loch, scanning the water, his expression unreadable. “Are you alone? However did you lose your entourage of admirers?”
“I climbed out the window.”
He gaped at her for a moment then laughed. “I daresay I’m likely be the only one not surprised by that.”
“You know me better than anyone else.”
“I was composing a song about you—I suppose it should be about how you vanquished a hundred knaves with only a teaspoon and a pointed quip, but there are plenty of songs about brave Gillian MacLeod now.”
“How does your tune go?” she asked.
He played her a sweet melody, as haunting as a caress, as full of passion as his kisses. It brought tears to her eyes. “I like yours best,” she said when the last note died away. “It reminds me of—”
“Don’t say it,” he said, his voice rough. “You’ve become quite famous. Will your husband appreciate that? He’s sure to hear the tales.”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about Sir Douglas. I came to talk toyou. I would have done so sooner, but there’s been no chance.”
“You’ve been holding court,” he said with dry amusement. “At least after wedding your husband can deal with your admirers for you. Has he strong clansmen to drive them away, or a tall tower for you to hide in?”
Douglas MacKinnon stood like a shade between them. John was looking at anything but her—the starry sky, the dark loch, the fringed branches of the fir trees. She raised her chin. “I’m not sure that’s going to happen, John.”
He turned at that, but it was too dark to read his expression. “What? The man won’t defend your honor? I’m sure your father would never have allowed you to accept him if he wasn’t a good man, strong and brave and handsome as the devil. Perhaps I should write a song abouthim.”
“I don’t love him.”
