CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Edinburgh
Gillian fell into her sister’s arms when she arrived at Lindsay House, Laire’s elegant home, on the morning of the day before her wedding.
She sent a note to Sir Douglas, asking him to call upon her at his earliest convenience.
But when the elderly housekeeper announced the arrival of a visitor that afternoon, it was Sir Douglas’s son, Kyle MacKinnon, who waited for her in her sister’s drawing room.
Kyle was a younger version of his handsome father, and Gillian imagined that Sir Douglas must have looked much like his son thirty years ago, tall, with dark hair and eyes as blue as a summer sky. Kyle MacKinnon was a barrister and nearly ten years older than she was, but when she married Sir Douglas, she’d be his stepmother. She felt herself blush, both at the idea of that and the inconvenient fact that her betrothed had not come himself.
Kyle looked appreciatively at the luxurious furnishings and paintings as he entered. He bowed over her hand, holding it to his lips a second too long with a roguish look in his eyes that reminded her of John at his most flirtatious. But there was no playfulness, no charm in Kyle’s cool blue eyes—just lust. She withdrew her hand from his and sat on the settee.
Kyle took a seat beside her, smiling at her, as charming as a man could be. “You wished to see my father. I hope I’ll do. He believes it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding. How can I be of service?” He sat so close that his knee brushed the skirt of her gown.
She shifted away. “I wished to speak to Sir Douglas in person. Privately.” He leaned closer, his face coming toward hers. She leaped to her feet. “I’ll ring for tea.”
Kyle’s brow furrowed as he rose as well. “You could write a note if it is some detail about the ceremony. Is it?”
“No,” she said. “Well, yes, actually.” Frustration welled. If only her groom come himself instead of sending Kyle.
Kyle came closer, towered over her, and leaned one elbow against the mantel of the fireplace beside her shoulder. “My father is a lucky man,” he said, looking down at her. “You’re even lovelier than he described.”
His eyes roamed over her again, from her hair to the hem of her gown and back again, stopping to break his journey at her fashionably low bodice. He picked up a lock of hair that lay against her skin and curled it around his finger. When she tried to pull away, he held on, teased her with a smile, and stepped closer still. It was not how a man should look at his father’s wife or his stepmother. She could feel his breath on her hair.
She looked down at her hands, at a small scar from her encounter with the outlaws, a crescent-shaped scratch from the tip of a dirk that curled around the base of her thumb. It reminded her that she was brave, and capable, and strong.
She wished she had her dirk, but she was in her sister’s drawing room, and the weapon was upstairs.
She plucked her hair out of Kyle’s fingers, met his eyes, and stepped around him, heading for the door, which she opened. “I shall not keep you. Please let Sir Douglas know I wish to see him before the wedding.”
Her sister’s housekeeper appeared. “You rang, mistress?”
Gillian raised her chin. “I’m sorry, Morag, I thought we’d want tea, but I was mistaken. Mr. MacKinnon is leaving.”
The barrister frowned, but there was little he could do but bow and go.
Gillian sank back onto the settee and wondered if he’d give Sir Douglas her message after all.
* * *
John wasn’t staying for the wedding. He couldn’t. It would be like having his heart torn out to give Gillian away to another man. He’d ask Callum MacLeod to do it, her kinsman, her childhood friend.
He wasn’t so much of a coward he wouldn’t tell her himself and wish her all the best in her marriage. He’d practiced saying the right words in the right tone with the right look on his face in front of the glass at his lodgings until he could almost do it without his lips twisting bitterly.
He strode along the streets that led to Lindsay House and wondered if he should purchase a wedding gift for the happy couple. A silver cup or a pair of matched throwing dirks, perhaps, suitably engraved. But he’d almost reached her sister’s house on King James’s Square, and it was too late to stop for a gift. His garron was waiting for him in the stable at his own lodgings, and his belongings were packed. He was ready to go just as soon as he’d taken his brief and final leave of Gillian MacLeod.
He turned into the elegant square and identified Lindsay House by the crest carved above the door.
John stopped in his tracks as the door opened. A tall gentleman emerged, well-dressed, elegant, wearing a fine wig and a blue velvet coat with a plaid waistcoat beneath. He carried a gold-topped walking stick, the kind that held a hidden blade inside.
John’s heart stopped in his chest. The man was, no doubt, Gillian’s betrothed. He was a fine man indeed, and he was, John supposed, a handsome one. Gillian may not love him now, but she would come to, surely. He’d make her happy, give her children, a fine home.
He stopped and watched as the man strode away.
And what was he by comparison? He looked at his scuffed boots, bearing the bloodstains and scars of his encounter with the outlaws. There was still a bruise on his forehead. His hands were the callused hands of a swordsman for hire. His hair was too long, tied with a scrap of leather, and he had no fortune, no plaid, no kin, no home.
She deserved better. She deserved the gentleman in the blue coat.
