But Laire wasn’t listening. She was already halfway out the door, and there was no more time left to try and explain.
* * *
John paced the porch of the church while Callum MacLeod stood with him, awaiting Gillian’s arrival. “Ye’ll wear out the floor, Sassenach. Ye’d think ye were the bridegroom.”
He most certainly was not. John thought of the gentleman he’d seen leaving Lindsay House, a man of wealth, influence, and position. Exactly what Donal Macleod wanted for his daughter, and just what Gillian needed.
She thought she wantedhim, but it was infatuation, bridal nerves, the shock of the events of the journey. Once she saw her handsome Scot waiting for her, she’d feel differently.
It was for the best, this wedding—the start of the fine life that Gillian deserved. He clenched his fists, wished he had something to offer her, something that would make dragging her away from all this, all she loved, all she deserved, even remotely right.
He’d give her away, give her up, and smile and congratulate the lucky bastard of a groom even if it killed him. He loved her. Of course he loved her—but he loved her enough to let her go, and to be the one who gave her away.
He’d decided all this during the night. He’d considered slipping away without a word, but he knew how shy she was, how nervous she’d be . . . He stayed. He could give her courage, draw courage from her, put a firm end to their affaire de coeur so they could both go on with their lives.
A coach pulled up at the church steps. “Here she is at last,” Callum said. He strode down to open the door of the vehicle and John waited on the porch, holding his breath.
A Highlander descended first—Laird Iain Lindsay, no doubt, Laire’s husband—and he turned to hand a dark-haired woman out. Then John saw the toe of a satin slipper and the hem of a skirt—soft green, not pink, thank God. Then her hand was in Callum’s and she was stepping down. He felt the shock of how beautiful she was like a body blow that drove his heart against his ribs, stole his breath. He told himself the sudden urge to throw up was from lack of sleep and not his own regrets.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and green and luminous, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, couldn’t.
Callum bussed her cheek and grinned at her. “As bonny a bride as I’ve ever seen,” he said, and the spell was broken. John turned away, looked at the ceiling of the porch, the steps, the street beyond, anything but Gillian. His heart was hammering, and a bead of sweat trickled down his spine.
“Is Sir Douglas inside?” she asked, her voice breathless, husky.
She’s eager now, John thought. He forced himself to step forward. “Shall we go in? The guests are all inside, and your intended is waiting.” He tried for a light tone, something jaunty, but it came out flat. He held out his arm.
He could smell roses, and Gillian’s own wildflower scent as she set her palm on his sleeve. He felt a shiver rush through him at even that slight contact. For a moment her grip tightened, but he kept his eyes on her fingers, long and white and delicate against the pewter blue velvet of the elegant coat he wore. But even the coat wasn’t his. He’d borrowed one, since he hadn’t any fine clothes of his own. Ah, but he’d once been a dandy to rival any man.
He didn’t tell her she looked beautiful or wish her happy. He concentrated on taking the first step, leading her toward a future he had no part in.
The doors swung open before them. At the opposite end of the aisle, John saw the tall man he’d seen yesterday. He stood with an older man, and a sober, dough-faced parson.
He heard the rustle of Gillian’s petticoats as she walked beside him. She squeezed his arm. “John . . .” she whispered, but he kept moving. He looked at the groom’s eager blue eyes, at the fine wig he wore, his elegant coat—russet velvet today—and his brocade waistcoat. He looked at Gillian with lusty appreciation clear in his eyes.
Bastard. John felt his fist clench. He hesitated a step, and she shook his arm slightly. He took a breath and walked on.
She wasn’t his.
But she had been. In a moonlit garden, and in the soft light of dawn, on a bed of fir. He heard her take in a nervous little breath now, felt her trembling. Her steps were uneven. She was nervous, but he had no comfort to give her after all, not here, not now.
She wasn’t his, and it wasn’t his place or his privilege.
He stopped a few feet from the altar, met the sharp eyes of the groom, and somehow managed to keep his own expression flat and cool, and was rewarded by the same from Gillian’s husband-to-be. Then the man’s attention went back to Gillian, and his eyes traveled over her slowly. John watched his mouth tighten, knew he was anticipating the wedding night,everynight with her in his bed.
John hesitated—but the minister stepped forward.
“Do you give this woman in matrimony?” he asked, his voice hollow and bland, as if they were trading hides or a cargo of wool.
Gillian’s hand tensed on his arm as John opened his mouth to speak.
“Wait,” she said. “Please wait.”
The minister turned expressionless eyes to her. The groom frowned, and the older man next to him blinked. John turned to look at Gillian. She was blushing, her face as pink as a rose, a blush that continued over her throat and the slopes of her breasts to disappear under her gown. He was willing to bet she was pink all the way to her toes.
The groom looked impatient, while the older man was indulgent. “Can this wait, my dear?” he asked.
Gillian glanced up at John and bit her lip. She let go of his arm and clasped her hands together. “No, it can’t. You see, I can’t marry you, Sir Douglas.”
