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Graeme looked at the woman. Her kindly but stern expression put him in mind of Fiona, though Faye was younger than his grandmother’s—nay, Gillian’s—maid.
“More than I thought possible,” he found himself saying. “Her father has proven to be difficult. And Gillian . . .” He shrugged, wishing he had not said anything.
“Aye? Lady Gillian?” Faye prompted.
Something about the woman forced his mouth open once again. “Married me because she had no choice.”
Even he did not believe that anymore. So why did he say it?
“Ha!” Faye promptly began to rock Hayden again, for her robust response had startled a cry from him. “You forget, Chief, I’ve known Lady Gillian nearly since the day she was born.”
Indeed, he had forgotten that fact. Though he didn’t see how—
“If ye think she found herself in that garden by chance, then you don’t deserve such a fine woman.”
“I did not mean to imply—”
“I know what you meant. But Faye is tellin’ you she ain’t never seen Lady Gillian in such a state over a man. An’ we’ve had some fine young knights strutting around Kenshire. In fact,” she grinned, “I remember one time—”
“If it pleases you, let’s not discuss the fine men Gillian has met at Kenshire.”
He should want to leave, but something about Faye rooted his feet to the spot.
“An’ as for that father of hers,” Faye said. “I know he promised Allie to Covington before the earl passed along.” Faye shook her head. “He wasn’t always like that.”
“Lord Lyndwood?”
“Now don’t mistake me, he didn’t coddle those poor girls. But he’s done himself a disservice these last years, allying himself with the likes of the Earl of Covington, God rest his soul.”
Hayden began to cry in earnest then and Faye stood up, moving him to the front of her chest.
“’Tis time for his feedin’.”
“Of course.” Graeme stepped aside as the maid walked past him.
“And give Gillian my love,” she said on her way out of the room.
He agreed to do so, but did not follow Faye out. Instead, he thought of all she’d said to him.
Would she have wed you had you not been found in that garden?
The truth was, they had not met under different circumstances. But it no longer mattered. His true purpose for visiting England lay ahead of him. He’d get the deed done quickly and return home to the woman he loved.
33
She hated him.
No, that was not true. She loved him.
Gillian looked back at the guard riding behind her. Still there, still stoic. His expression never changed. She couldn’t force a smile from him no matter how hard she tried. She’d even resorted to making faces at him every time she turned around to see if he was still there.
Nothing.
She lifted her face to the sun, slowing as they approached a ridge that gave her a sweeping view past Scott property. They weren’t close enough to the border for her to see England, but on clear days, Gillian could spot a tall mountaintop far enough away that perhaps, just perhaps, it could be English.
The borders moved, she knew, even after having been “established” thirty years earlier in March Law. The raids by which manors changed hands—one day English, the next day Scottish—would likely never cease. Or not in her lifetime, at least. But she supposed she should be happy. According to her father, the situation had once been much, much worse.
When Gillian met someone from the south, they nearly always asked the same question. “Why do you stay?” Her answer . . . her parent’s answer . . . was the only one they had to give.
