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He’d deliberately misunderstood. So her husband had a sense of humor.

“Nay, it’s just that . . .”

He leaned forward. “That what?”

Gillian could hardly be honest with him. That particular topic had gotten them into this mess.

“That I’m married,” she blurted.

Graeme turned away, spoke to Sara briefly, and stood. The next moment, he extended a hand to her and she took it. He must have asked for permission to leave before the meal was over. Normally, the bride and groom leaving their first shared meal would be cause for celebration. But this was not an ordinary wedding. The feast . . . the music . . . they had been arranged to herald a new season, not a new union.

Before they slipped from the hall, Gillian caught her father’s eye. Well, at least she had her answer. He was, indeed, still furious with her.

She followed Graeme into the corridor and up to a small alcove that overlooked the very place they’d gotten into trouble. When they sat, she still had to look up, though not quite as far, to meet his eyes.

Her husband’s eyes. They were kind eyes. She’d not noticed that before.

“I am sorry for this,” he said. And it appeared that he meant it.

“I am as much to blame as you,” she said.

“Are you scared?”

What an odd question. “Nay,” she said. But then thought better of it. In fact, she was scared, but not for herself.

“Good,” he said. “There may be some in my clan who will question your—”

“That I am English?”

He seemed to regret his words. “Aye. But most feel as I do.”

“Which is?”

The set of his jaw changed, and suddenly it was the clan chief she sat with, and not the man. “To live this close to the border, peace can only be achieved by forging alliances on both sides. To ignore our shared land, and history, is to ignore our future.”

“My father . . .” She’d meant to tell him that her father thought much the same. She’d always admired his steadfast faithfulness to the borderlands. To peace. But some of the men he’d allied with recently were questionable. Instead, she spoke for herself.

“I believe that as well,” she said.

“You were going to say something about your father?”

Her father who now hated her. Her father whose future she’d put in jeopardy . . .

“I need to speak to him.” She stood so fast her foot nearly caught in the hem of her gown. “Pardon me, my lord.”

And without a backward glance, Gillian left her husband to have the conversation she’d dreaded all morning. Though she barely dared to hope, perhaps it would dispel the nagging suspicion that had plagued her.

That her father would never forgive her.

* * *

His wife.

Graeme sat back, watching her leave, trying to imagine what Aidan and the rest of his clan would say. They would accept her or find another clan. Most agreed with him about the English, but some of the elders had been pressuring him to strengthen their existing alliances through his choice of a wife. They would be less than pleased about this development. His brother harbored no hatred for their English neighbors, but he’d be surprised by the new development nonetheless. Graeme had confided in him that he no longer planned to marry. Not after Catrina . . . and then Emma.

Graeme did not regret the decision, for there had been none other to make. He’d dallied with the wrong woman, knowing it could get him into trouble, and now he’d pay for his weakness.

So be it.