Davy grinned. His clansmen squared their shoulders and grinned as well, their eyes on Gillian. Donal watched his shy lass stop where she was, halfway down the steps. She looked at the troop of fine MacKenzies with wide eyes and a blush rising over her cheeks.
Davy MacKenzie strode to the bottom of the stairs and dropped to his knee again, gazing up at her with what Donal could only think of as keen admiration. The man didn’t even look at his other daughters. He gave Gillian a toothsome smile as he dragged his bonnet off his head.
“There ye are, Mistress Gillian—ye’ll be very happy to know I’ve come to marry ye.”
* * *
The day after that, Donal opened his gates to Laird Padraig Grant of Gilmossie, who arrived with twenty warriors in his tail. Since the heroic Gillian MacLeod had not married in Edinburgh after all, Padraig had come with the sincere hope that Gillian would agree to become the next Lady Grant and bear him a dozen strapping sons, each one as bold and brave as the lass herself.
Gillian had blushed prettily once again, but demurred to give an answer to either proposal for the moment. “Perhaps ye’d like to join Davy MacKenzie for a dram while she considers,” Donal said and called for whisky.
And just when he had the two lairds and their men had settled in to await Gillian’s decision, Laird Cormag Robertson of Drumelinn showed up, accompanied by thirty men, with pipes, drums, and fife at his back, and a fine white mare meant as a wedding present for Gillian, if she’d agree to marryhim.
Donal stared at his daughter in surprise—everyonestared at Gillian. But the lass herself just smiled shyly and glanced at the gates, as if she were expecting more men to arrive.
Donal called for more whisky for his guests. Then he took Gillian’s arm, and led her to his chamber for a wee chat. He sat her down and looked her straight in the forehead, since she kept her eyes on her clasped hands.
Gilly looked and behaved the same as she always had—she was quiet, shy, and she preferred her own company. However, he’d noted she got a certain look in her eye when her sisters—and even himself—tried to give her advice. Donal could only call it stubbornness, but he suspected it might be something else, something she wouldn’t speak of.The adventure, the outlaws.The tales that had arrived with the lairds were almost impossible to believe, though they all seemed like honest, sensible men.
He leaned forward and raised his daughter’s chin and met her eyes. He feared he’d upset her if he brought up outlaws now, since she clearly wished to forget the whole incident. Instead he tackled the problem at hand. “Three men have come to ask for your hand, lass,” he said gently. “Three very fine, brave, wealthy lairds for ye to choose from, and they’re impatient for a decision. So which man will ye have?”
She lowered her gaze again. “None of them, Papa,” she whispered.
Donal frowned. “Ye can’t reject every man who wants to marry ye.”
She met his eyes then. “You have always said the man we choose must be therightman.” For shy Gillian, that was a remarkable show of spirit.
“Then whom do ye wish to marry?”
She blinked hard, and he suspected tears. He reached for his kerchief and braced himself. The full tale would come tumbling out now. He kept his expression calm, reassuring, and wondered if he was going to need his claymore.
But she rose to her feet, stood before him. “I’m not ready to marry yet, Papa.”
And with that she took her leave and left him still wondering just what she was thinking.
* * *
Gillian climbed to the top of the tower and looked out over the glen. It was full of campfires and men, and all of them were waiting for her to make a decision. She scanned the dusty track that led up and over the lip of the glen, the road that John would travel when he came.
Ifhe came.
“What of my choice?” he’d said. She hadn’t given him one. She, who had always had the will of others imposed on her, decisions made for her, hadn’t given him a choice until the end, when it was almost too late.
She put a hand against her aching heart. There was still hope, wasn’t there? There must be. But it had been three weeks and five days since she’d arrived home, and there’d been no word.
Then someone on the field below caught sight of her standing on the tower, and a shout went up among the Robertsons, and they began to cheer and wave. The excitement quickly spread to the Grants and the MacKenzies, until it seemed that the whole glen was roaring at her.
Gillian backed up against the wall where they couldn’t see her. She curled her fingers into the yellow stone, felt frustration and yearning and desperation.
He would come—he must. She loved him.
“What are you thinking about?”
Gillian turned to find Meggie standing beside her, her hands on her hips, her head tilted as she regarded her sister. “You’ve been up here for hours, and you come every day.” Meggie went to the edge and looked down at the cheering men below. “Are you considering which laird you’ll marry? Who is it you’re looking at down there?”
“None of them,” Gillian murmured.
Meggie raised her eyebrows. “None of them? Three strong, handsome lairds have come with offers of marriage, and you don’t want any of them? Who exactly are you waiting for?”
