CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Donal MacLeod paced the floor of his chamber. Of all twelve of his daughters, he never would have thought Gillian, shy, quiet, sweet Gillian, would turn out to be the difficult one.
Six months ago her sisters were helping Gillian prepare her wedding trousseau, dozens of fine gowns and linens suitable for a quiet, refined life as the wife of an aging scholar.
He thought she was happy.
But with Gillian it was hard to tell. She smiled shyly, a faint curving of her lips, or she blushed and stared at her hands, and silently let others voice their opinions and ideas. Her sisters were so full of opinions that it was difficult for anyone—especially their shy sister—to get a word in.
Ah, but he hadn’t missed the way she smiled when the Sassenach walked into his hall. Her whole face lit up. Her opinion had been clear enough then. Anyone could see she was in love with the bastard.
Or shethoughtshe was.
It was his job as her father and guardian, her laird, to keep her from making such a dreadful mistake.
“If she had to start having her own ideas, why now? Whyhim?” he muttered to the air. He looked at the room’s décor—the ancient shield of the first Fearsome MacLeod hung over the fireplace with his mighty Lochaber axe. The axe was still stained with the blood of a long-dead English knight who had tried to invade Scotland with his blasted king. “He won six feet of Scottish soil, and only because we buried him in it,” Donal said aloud.
And in the hundreds of years that had passed since the grim day the first Fearsome MacLeod had fought with Robert the Bruce against the English, no Sassenach had dared to set foot in Glen Iolair.
Donal shook his head at Fearsome’s axe. “A perfect record, ruined.”
He didn’t know who to blame—Gillian or the Sassenach.
He shut his eyes. Gillian’s face had been filled with such love, it made his heart sing with joy for her—until he realized who she was looking at. “She never looked at Douglas MacKinnon that way,” he muttered. He crossed and poured a cup of whisky.
“Ye can’t choose who ye fall in love with,” he said as he stared into the amber depths of the whisky. The man was Dair Sinclair’s friend, his captain. “Perhaps . . .”
He set the cup down untouched and resumed pacing. The Sassenach was penniless, disowned by his kin, a faithless charmer, a rogue—even Fia said so. “I can’t—won’t—let her throw her life away on a man with no fortune or family—and no sense, either, if he’s willing to walk into my hall as bold as you please and ask to wed one of my daughters.” But what else was the man to do? It was honorable, at least, if stupid. “He’s brave, I’ll give him that, but no more.”
He went back and picked up the cup after all, sipped, let the fine, sweet burn of the whisky slide along his throat to explode in his belly. “Och, Gilly, what happened to ye? You’re slaying outlaws and jiltin’ gentlemen, and refusing the suit of three damned good lairds, any one of whom could make ye happy.” He imagined saying that to her . . . And he knew just how she’d answer him. She’d give him that shy, fragile little smile, the one that had always made him want to protect her, shield her, keep her from the cruelties of life, and she’d say, “I love him, Papa.”
He smiled slightly, a grimace really, at the idea of Gillian in love. What did this man have that the others didn’t? Besides English blood. “What d’ye see in him?” he’d ask her.
And this time, he hadn’t a clue how she’d answer him.
Worst of all, she did not seem to appreciate the situation she’d put him in. Three Highland lairds had offered for her, powerful, important men, and he could hardly snub them and give his daughter to a penniless Sassenach. “They proposed first,” he said.
But would Gilly ever forgive him if he chose for her, tore her away from the man she thought she loved and married her where he thought best?
She would not.
He poured another cup of whisky and tried to think of a way out. No matter what he did, someone was going to be unhappy. When lairds as powerful as MacKenzie, or Robertson, or Grant were unhappy it usually led to a world of trouble. Rejecting an honorable proposal was something feuds were built on, wars. It was not just a marriage he had to consider—it was politics and honor. “And my own pride,” he said.
Perhaps this was his own fault. If he was honest, he felt a wee bit guilty for his part in pushing Gilly to wed Douglas MacKinnon, a man who was three years older than he was himself. “I had no idea she wanted love. I offered her security, a dull, quiet, ordinary life.”
There was a knock on the door, and four of his daughters entered in a rustle of silk and a drift of perfume. Donal MacLeod’s eyes narrowed. “What are ye up to?” he asked, for silk and perfume always meant they were up to something, especially when paired with such canny wee smiles as they wore now.
“We have an idea, Papa,” Meggie said, and the other three smiled sweetly at him.
“A contest!” Isobel cried.
Donal clasped his hands behind his back and looked at their shining, eager faces and saw trouble, mayhem, and tangled plots.
“A contest,” he said flatly.
“It’s a good idea, Papa,” Aileen said, and he dismayed that even his eldest, most sensible daughter was in on the scheme.
“Gilly’s suitors will compete for her hand, perform brave deeds,” Meggie said. “It was Gillian’s idea.” Her canny smile widened. “She’s agreed to wed the winner.”
