John looked at her in surprise, felt shock course through him when he realized that Gillian was looking at the older man, not the younger. John gaped at him. He was old enough to be her father. The younger man rolled his eyes impatiently.
“Now what’s this about, my dear?” the aged groom asked in a soothing tone. He looked at Gillian’s sister. “Have you smelling salts, Lady Lindsay? Your sister is obviously overwrought . . .”
Gillian raised her chin. “Nay, I’m not overwrought. It wouldn’t be fair to marry you. I . . . I love someone else, another man.” She wasn’t whispering shyly. She spoke up, was sure. John could see that in her eyes, though she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were on her groom.
John felt as if lightning had struck him. A shocked murmur rose among the wedding guests.
The younger man flushed with angry color, but the older man looked more bemused than crushed. He tilted his head like a fond uncle, as if he were looking at a child with a ridiculous fancy, the kind of thing a pat on the head and a sweet might fix. He didn’t see Gillian as a woman, brave, courageous, and passionate. “I see. And does this man love you?”
John held his breath and waited. Still, she didn’t look at him. “I believe so,” she said softly.
“What did she say?” he heard Davy MacKenzie ask from somewhere near the back of the church.
“She said she loves someone else,” the reply came, nearly drowned in a cacophony of shushing.
“Is this man present?” Sir Douglas asked.
“I—I’d rather not say,” Gillian said.
“Gilly, what are you doing?” Laire said, but Gillian ignored her.
The younger man stepped forward, the one John had thought was the groom. “What foolishness is this?” he demanded angrily. “We have a contract, an agreement with your father—”
But the older man put his hand on his sleeve. “Perhaps Gillian and I should have a word in private, Kyle.”
“Nay,” Gillian said quickly. “I’ve said what I meant to. I wish you well, Sir Douglas, and I thank you for the honor of your proposal, but I am certain that the man I love loves me.”
There was no pain in Sir Douglas’s eyes at the loss of his bride. There was nothing but kind dignity. He took Gillian’s hand and leaned forward to kiss her forehead gently. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, my dear, but I do understand. I’ve been in love myself a time or two. I hoped for a charming young companion for my declining years, but I can see I haven’t been fair to you. I hope you win your heart’s desire.” He stepped back and turned to the crowd. “It appears there won’t be a wedding today after all. I believe the civilized thing to do under the circumstances is to invite you all to my home to raise a toast to Mistress MacLeod’s future happiness and to enjoy the excellent meal my cook has prepared.”
He bowed crisply to Gillian and strode out the side door without looking back. The younger man scowled at Gillian, all disappointed arrogance now. John felt his fist tighten, imagined planting it in the middle of the bastard’s face. John shifted his stance, just slightly, but enough to make Kyle MacKinnon look at him. He sent him a silent warning. If he dared to come near Gillian, he’d kill him. The fop blanched, and scampered to follow his father.
Then Laire and Callum and the whole damned crowd surged forward, rushing between John and Gillian, pushing them apart. Everyone was talking at once, admonishing and scolding, pressing in on her. Gillian stood with her head high, her face scarlet. No one looked at John, no one imagined a lass like Gillian MacLeod would be so foolish as to love a penniless, kinless Sassenach, an outsider, a rogue.
But over the crowd, she met his eyes, and he read love, and hope. Now she looked like a bride, like a woman in love. His heart skipped in his chest. He raised his hand, and hesitated.
She’d lose everything if he reached for her now, all the people she loved, their regard. He stayed where he was. Once she’d had a chance to think, to consider what he truly was, she’d see it, too.
He lowered his hand to his side, clenched it into a fist, his eyes still on hers. He shook his head slightly, told her no, but she simply gazed at him, a flush suffusing her cheeks. He’d seen that look before, that fearsome pride, that determination, when she was besting the thieves who would have killed them both, and it had been there again when she’d looked at him on the shore of the loch two nights earlier and told him she loved him. He felt admiration in his breast, and so much love, it was hard to breathe.
All around him, there was a great deal of speculation about who Gillian’s love might be, what kind of man she’d throw over a rich prize like Sir Douglas MacKinnon for.
His name didn’t come up.
Honor made one demand of him.
John turned and walked away, his boot heels ringing on the stone floor all the way down the aisle.
* * *
Gillian paced the floor of her bedchamber at Lindsay House. The sea-green gown now hung on the door of the wardrobe, looking forlorn. It was very late now, and John had not come to her.
Laire had thought it best that Gillian leave Edinburgh at once, before the scandal broke. They wished to protect her tender feelings, shield her from gossip and speculation, Gillian supposed, since the travel arrangements had been made without even consulting her. Her sister had asked the name of the man she loved, but Gillian would not give it, not until she was sure. And she wasn’t now.
He’d walked away, left the church, but not before she’d seen the indecision in his eyes, then love, and finally, regret. Still, he left her, and took with him his damned honor, his certainty that he wasn’t good enough, that she’d have less, be less, if he married her. He probably thought he was being kind and noble.
He was being an idiot.
Didn’t he know she’d have all she ever dreamed of with him, even in a cott, or a pine shelter?
She looked at the clock again. It was almost midnight. At dawn, Callum would escort her to the ship, and she would sail for home.
She felt another flare of annoyance. She’d jilted a respectable man, embarrassed Sir Douglas and bared her own soul for the first time. She’d angered her sister, and even if he didn’t know it yet, she’d betrayed her father.
She stared at the dark square outside the window.
She had a few things to say to John Erly before they parted for good. “Liar,” she whispered to the air. “Coward.” She clenched her fists, wished he was here so she could shake some sense into him.
He was staying at the same inn as Callum. Tomorrow he’d leave for Carraig Brigh, resume his life as captain of the guard, Dair’s friend, the charmer of women the secret hero to those who needed kindness most. It would be as if they’d never met, kissed, touched, fallen in love. Anger flared.
She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out a dark cloak. She took her dirk from the drawer by the bed and slid it into her sleeve. Then she slipped quietly down the stairs and out the front door.
