John turned and left the square.
* * *
Callum laughed at him. “Fia will never forgive ye if ye go now,” he said when John told him he was leaving and asked him to give Gillian away. “I suspect Gilly won’t either. She seems fond of ye.”
If you only knew how fond, John thought.
The big Highlander gave him a friendly buffet on the shoulder that would have toppled a smaller man. He refilled John’s cup and leaned across the scarred table in the taproom of the inn where they were both staying. “Come on, lad, cheer up. It won’t be as dull as ye fear. Sir Douglas MacKinnon is a wealthy man. The wedding will be grand, with lots to eat and drink. Some of the lairds have even decided to stay—Davy MacKenzie, and Cormag Robertson, and Padraig Grant. It will be a fine party.”
“Perhaps one of them would be more suitable to give the bride away,” John said, but Callum shook his head.
“They’re strangers. Ye know how shy she is. Fia wouldn’t have asked ye if she didn’t want ye to do it. And if ye don’t—” He crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. “I’ll not be the one to face Fia’s fury. A Scot’s word is his bond—are ye saying it’s different with Sassenachs?”
John shook his head, and Callum grinned and raised his cup. “Then ye’ll have to stay and give Gillian away as ye promised.”
John’s belly tensed. “Do you—um, happen to know what Gillian plans to wear tomorrow?”
Callum stared at him as if he’d invited him to drink poison. “What she’ll wear? Why does that matter? Is this a Sassenach thing? Do your folk match their coats or the fancy buckles on their shoes to the bride’s gown or some such thing?”
John forced a grin. “Aye. Some such thing.” He drained his cup and picked up the pitcher of ale on the table and proceeded to drain that, too.
He prayed that she would wear green to match her eyes or blue to match her MacLeod plaid—anything but pink silk lined with gold.
