CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The trip back to Carraig Brigh took longer than the trip south. John had turned his horse toward Glen Iolair a dozen times, thinking he’d go in person and tell her exactly why he wouldn’t be coming. And when he realized just how daft an idea that was, he turned back toward Carraig Brigh, crisscrossing the Highlands. He had noreasonto go to Glen Iolair—other than a love that devoured him. Riding alone made him realize how much he missed her company, her smile, her strength, her bold determination—and kissing her, loving her. He’d given her a pine lean-to—she deserved far better, a bower fit for a princess. He made excuses, nursed his doubts, fed them, until he was convinced that turning away from Glen Iolair, from her, was the right thing to do.
At last he stood outside the gates of Carraig Brigh. He stared up at the castle’s bony tower for an hour, fighting the urge to turn west yet again toward Glen Iolair.
He forced himself to go inside. He unsaddled the garron, rubbed the horse down and fed her, knowing the decision had been made, and he’d never see her again—Gillian, not the garron. Not without a damned good reason—like suddenly finding himself with a fortune and a title, a home to offer her, the hope of a life like the one she was used to.
“You’re back.” John turned to find Alasdair Og Sinclair standing in the doorway of the stable.
John crossed to clap his friend on the shoulder. “And so are you. Rough voyage?”
“An unexpected stop,” Dair said.
“And Fia?”
Dair smiled. “I have a daughter, born two days ago. Unlike her father, she arrived early, but she’s healthy, and Fia’s well.” Happiness radiated from his friend, and John grinned.
“Her name is Eilidh. Come and meet her. And Fia will want to see ye.” He paused. “When ye’ve done your obligatory cooing and cuddling, we need to talk.”
“Talk?” John said, hanging the bridle on a hook and picking up his gear. “Have you heard already about the wedding then?”
Dair frowned. “Was there a problem?”
John sighed. “It’s a long story.”
Fia was in the library with the child in her arms. She looked beautiful, and her cheeks were once again rosy and her eyes bright with joy. She handed the baby to Dair, and John bent to buss her cheek. He looked at the babe. Wee Eilidh had a frill of red curls around her face, and green eyes, and she looked as sweet and placid as—
John gaped at the child as a thought struck him with all the force of a hard punch to the gut.
“John?” Fia’s smile faded.
John didn’t answer, couldn’t. Why hadn’t he thought of it before, considered the possibility? He’d always been careful—but he hadn’t . . .theyhadn’t . . .
“John?” Now both Dair and Fia were staring at him, concerned. He heard words liketired,hungry,long ride, from a distance. He felt Dair’s hand on his shoulder. “Ye’d better sit down.” He blinked at him, stared at the concern on his friend’s face. He didn’t want to sit down. He counted the days, the weeks.
Would she know by now, if—?
John tried to speak, but it came out as an inarticulate grunt. He turned on his heel and walked out of the hall and went back to the stable.
Dair followed him. “Are ye going somewhere? Ye just got here.”
John reached for the saddle he’d just put away.
“I’m going to Glen Iolair.”
Dair gaped at him. “You’re going where?”
“Glen Iolair,” he said again, and felt the certainty of it growing in his mind. He wouldn’t turn back this time.
“Are ye daft? Donal MacLeod hates Sassenachs. He’ll kill ye.”
“Probably, but I have to see Gillian . . .”
Dair frowned. “Gillian? What for? Isn’t she with Sir Douglas MacKinnon on her wedding trip? His estate is near Aberdeen, and that’s nowhere near Glen Iolair.”
“She’s not married. The wedding didn’t happen,” John said, tightening the girth around the horse’s belly.
“Didn’t—? Why?” Dair asked.
