Chapter 1
Nicholas Lyon, twelfth earl of Kincreag, raced across the heather, his horse foaming in a flat-out run. He never mistreated his animals, but then never before had he received such a missive as he had on this night. Alan MacDonell of Glen Laire was dying.
This was not exactly startling news. Alan’s health had been failing for some time—all knew death would soon take him. Even so, he continued to linger, giving Nicholas hope that his friend would beat the mysterious illness that gripped him. Tonight that hope had been shattered.
He arrived at the loch that surrounded Lochlaire.
After handing off their horses to the stable hands, Nicholas and his men clambered into three skiffs and rowed to the castle.
The entrance glowed softly from the torches within.
The creaking of the rising portcullis echoed in the distance. The night was dark. Quiet. Ominous.
Inside the bowels of Lochlaire, Nicholas leapt onto the stairs that disappeared into the water.
The castle was subdued, fires dampened, hall deserted.
As if already in mourning. Was he too late?
He strode straight to Alan’s chambers, misery constricting his chest. Before he could knock, it opened, and Hagan slipped out, shutting the door behind him.
“You came,” the big, black-haired Irishman said. Barrel-chested and harsh featured, Hagan cut an imposing figure and was a bulwark shielding Alan from the world.
“You knew I would.”
“Aye.”
Hagan hesitated, which was odd. Nicholas had never known Hagan to be unsure of himself. But then Alan’s illness had taken its toll on everyone, most especially Hagan, who had become nursemaid to Alan.
“I must see him,” Nicholas said and pushed past, opening the door.
A candle flickered on a table near the bed.
A woman sat at the table, a book open before her.
Her voice, soft and feminine as a dove’s wings, glided softly over him, easing the crushing fear in his chest. Candlelight bathed the delicate line of her jaw, but the rest of her was in shadows.
Alan’s deerhound lay at her feet, its nose between its paws.
It did not lift its head; it merely shifted its strange, cloudy eyes to look at Nicholas.
She stopped her reading and raised her head.
Her eyes and hair appeared black in the gloom, but Nicholas remembered them well.
Eyes the soft gray of a Highland sky after a storm.
Hair a rich sable, thick with curls. The candlelight was full on her face now, illuminating the alabaster texture of her skin, so fine that it shone with a radiance he’d only seen before in paintings of the Madonna.
Another of Alan’s duplicitous daughters. Gillian was her name. The meekest of the three. He should have insisted on her from the beginning—then maybe he and Alan would not be estranged.
“You came,” she said, fine brows arched in surprise.
As if he wouldn’t have. He ignored her and went straight to the bed.
He couldn’t bring himself to look at Alan—not just yet—and so he busied himself with lighting the candelabra beside the bed.
He felt Gillian’s gaze on him, searching, questioning.
It was this one that Alan had tried to foist on him after his oldest daughter had run off with some renegade knight, practically leaving Nicholas at the altar.
It was a woman who had caused this rift between Nicholas and his best friend.
Women were the authors of all his problems. He was finished with them—especially with the MacDonell sisters.
He took a deep breath, then finally allowed his gaze to rest on Alan, bracing himself to see gaunt cheeks and a deathly gray pallor. His brow lowered in surprise.
Alan was sleeping—quite peacefully, it seemed. He’d clearly gained weight in the past month, and there was a healthy pink tinge to his cheeks above his white-streaked auburn beard.
Nicholas stared at him a long moment, his eyes moving to Alan’s chest, where he watched the gentle rise and fall for several moments before turning abruptly to Gillian.
“What is this? I was told he was dying.”
Gillian seemed frozen in her chair, hands folded primly in her lap. A slow blush climbed from her neck, staining her cheeks. Too terrified of him to speak? He had that effect on many people. The devil earl, they called him—murderer of wives and children.
“He is.” Her answer came out in a rush of breath just as he turned away. He turned back quizzically.
“He has been dying for months. You know that.”
“Aye, but that’s not what the letter I received said.”
Her lashes fluttered nervously, hands gripped tightly in her lap. “What did it say?”
She was lying. She knew what it said. He gave her a narrow look before returning his attention to the bed. Her skirts rustled as she came to the bedside.
“What did it say?” she repeated, her voice strong and steady.
“As if you don’t know.”
She let out a small breath. “I do not!”
His mouth twisted with disbelief, but he said, “The letter claimed he was at death’s door. That this is it— he’s to die before first light.”
“Oh.” She looked at her father askance.
Nicholas snorted softly and glanced away dismissively. “Wake up, old man.”
Before he could shake Alan awake, a small, pale hand touched his sleeve. “Wait.” Though she looked meek, a thread of command ran through her voice. She met his gaze. “Why did you make that noise?”
“What noise?”
Color slowly filled her cheeks again, and she dropped her gaze. Her chin immediately popped up, as though she forced herself to be bold. “You think I am lying.”
Nicholas’s mouth curved. “I know you are.”
She blinked at him, her mouth slightly ajar, exposing a line of small, white teeth. “But I am not! I knew nothing of a letter, only that you were summoned. I did not know why. Father has been trying to bring you here for months!”
Summoned. He should be insulted. A mere chieftain did not summon an earl, but then nothing about his relationship with Alan had ever been normal.
“Aye, letters and letters in which he tried to foist you off on me. I’ve had a taste of the MacDonell idea of fidelity, and that was quite enough, thank you. Your father is fortunate we are friends. I could have forced the betrothal, or demanded restitution for his default. But I did not.”
“He offered restitution.” She drew herself up taller and squared her shoulders, though her chin trembled and she nervously twirled a silver ring on her finger. “Me.”
Nicholas looked her up and down. She was a beauty, all soft curves, but he did not exaggerate when he said he’d had his fill of duplicitous women. He wanted nothing more to do with MacDonell women.
“I’m not interested. I never was.”
Her throat tightened, and her strong stance slowly sagged. She looked away from him, to her father.
He felt a small stab of remorse until she said, “My sister is not as horrible as you believe. She did not even know you. Did not know anything about you but the rumors. She entered the betrothal in good faith, not expecting to fall in love with the knight who delivered her.”
“Aye, it was quite inconvenient for all parties.”
Gillian nodded quickly. “I respect your own . . . disappointment, my lord, but—”
“You are mistaken if you think me disappointed. Indeed, I am overjoyed to have discovered her true nature before being tied to her for life.”
The corners of Gillian’s mouth tightened, and she darted him an irritated look. She returned her gaze to her father and took a deep breath. “It is unfair of you to judge me by my sister’s actions. I am not like her . . . we weren’t even raised together.”
That was true. After their mother was burned for witchcraft, Alan sent his daughters away for their safety, each hidden from the world and from each other. For twelve years.
Gillian raised her chin again, fixing him with a determined, gray stare. “I would be a good countess.”
He rubbed his chin with his thumb and studied her, amused and intrigued by her false bravado. “And this has nothing to do with your betrothal to the Frenchman?”
Her expressive skin flushed. “Well. Aye. Of course.”
“My heart palpitates. I am the lesser of two dreadful fates. I am thus wooed.”
Her brows drew together. “Wooed? I am not wooing you!”
“Obviously.”
“My lord!” she said, a shrill edge to her voice. “You never speak, and when you do, you make no sense. Women do not woo.”
“We don’t know the same women.”
She seemed completely bewildered. In truth, in his amusement at teasing her, he’d forgotten for a moment the deceit that had brought him here. Her eyes widened with comprehension, and she took a deep, shaky breath, her ample bosom rising.
“I understand. You have many other opportunities. I have been impertinent. Forgive me.”
He raised a hand to stop her, but it was too late— she’d scurried to the door and was gone. He stared at the closed door several seconds, discomfited. He had not intended to upset her. He shook his head at himself. He didn’t want to marry her anyway, so what did he care?
He returned his attention to the bed and found Alan watching him. How long had the old fool been awake?
Nicholas moved closer to the bed. “I nearly killed my horse to get here. Yet you look quite well . . . considering.” He did not look well now that Nicholas examined him closer without the distraction of Gillian.
He looked nothing like the good friend Nicholas had known most of his life.
The man in bed was a pale shade of his former self.
But still, it was an improvement over the last time Nicholas had been here.
“Really?” Alan said, pleased. “Nearly killed your horse? Well, and here I didn’t think you’d even come.”
“Clearly you’ll live to see the daylight. So why am I here?”
Alan looked a bit abashed, but he met Nicholas’s eyes directly. “I knew of no other way to bring you back here. Your replies to my letters were distant . . . and I could not come to you.”