Chapter 3 #3
She turned her head toward him. “What about the horses?”
He said nothing. She turned more fully toward him, to see what made him so still and quiet. She found him gazing down at her. His face was taut, intent, his thick black lashes obscuring his eyes.
“The horses will be fine.” His hands, one firm on her shoulder, the other on her waist, turned her away from him again, but he did not move her from her position nestled against him.
Though the weather was chill, the exercise of climbing the mountain had left Gillian warm and winded.
Her temperature rose another notch at the warmth emanating from his body and hands, heating her so that perspiration dewed her forehead and dampened her palms. She still felt winded, too, though she’d had plenty of time to catch her breath.
“There’s more, if you look hard.” He pointed again, and she located several more wolves, reclining lazily. “The pack is small. The MacDonells have been trying to kill them for dozens of years.”
As she watched, one of the wolves, a large male, rose and moved closer to the first wolf they’d seen.
He lay partly on her, his head rolling with entreaty, and after a moment she groomed him, licking his ears and head thoroughly.
The male’s eyes closed in slits of ecstasy.
Gillian smiled, surprised at how adorable they were.
She’d seen few wolves in her life, and the ones she had seen had all been fleeing from a rain of arrows and bullets.
“That must be his mate,” Kincreag whispered. “They mate for life, you ken. The most loyal of beasts.”
He shifted behind her, and she thought he reached for his dag. Her hand moved back, catching his. “You’re not going to kill one now, are you? Please don’t. They’re so beautiful and peaceful . . . right now, that is. And they’re so far away—surely they won’t sense us if we’re quiet.”
A breeze swept through the forest, ruffling the wolves’ fur and showing the lighter bands of ticked hair. The male’s large head lifted; he sniffed casually, then went still, his head turned in their direction, yellow eyes locked on them.
Gillian inhaled softly but didn’t move or speak. Kincreag’s hands tightened on her.
“Fear not,” he whispered, his voice so low that it was a mere breath against her ear.
The hair on her neck tingled and her knees wobbled.
“They’re afraid of man and will only run if we make ourselves known.
” When he spoke to her like that, warm breath on her ear and temple, voice low and rumbling, she turned to soft wax and longed to turn her head so his lips made full contact with her skin.
She wouldn’t dream of acting on these wanton urges, but just thinking of them made her weak and strange to herself.
They stood that way for what seemed an eternity, even after the wolf looked away in disinterest. The wood had been quiet except for them and the wind stirring through the trees, but now other sounds started up again—the whirring of insects, the twitters and calls of birds, the scritching of mice in the underbrush.
Gillian could feel Kincreag’s heartbeat against her back, fast and strong.
Their fingers were still tangled and pressed between their bodies.
She had the oddest sensation of being watched—not by any beast in the forest, but by the man standing so close behind her.
Her skin warmed at this thought, and she could no longer focus on the wolves but on the way his hands felt, gripping her fingers and her waist, the way his breath felt against her temple, the faint, pleasant scent of his sandalwood soap.
She nearly gave in to the urge to turn to him.
His hand slid more fully around her waist. Her heart skipped with anticipation, but he only eased back, pulling her along with him.
She took small, silent steps but was still far noisier than he was.
It was her skirts and cloak, disturbing the leaves and bracken around them.
He released her fingers and gathered her skirts and cloak in one hand, pulling it up and tight against her legs.
That’s what he’d been about to do before, not draw a gun and shoot the beasts.
Now that she thought of it, she recalled that he did not even carry a dag—only a long dirk in his boot.
When they were far enough away, he released her. Gillian turned quickly, her face blazing and her breathing still uneven, as if she’d been running.
He stood with hands on hips, gazing around the forest thoughtfully. He nodded to the west. “There’s another way, I think, but it’s a bit rougher. Can you make it?”
Gillian nodded, gathering her skirts in her hand and trudging after him.
It was some time before she discovered their destination.
She saw it before they reached it—a bright light filtering through the trees.
She stepped into the sunny clearing. It was very small—a cliff, really, where no trees could grow.
Sunlight filled the clearing, blinding her after the dimness of the forest.
Kincreag stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down.
Gillian moved beside him. The entire glen of Glen Laire spread out before them.
She’d never seen it from this perspective, and she let out a long breath of appreciation.
It was lush and green, black crofts dotting the glen, with small smudges that were sheep and shaggy red kine.
Lochlaire sat in the center of the calm gray loch, an enormous edifice jutting from the steely waters.
The silver snake of the burn that emptied into the loch appeared from the trees somewhere below them.
“Thank you for showing me this.”
“This is not what I want to show you.”
He took her hand and led her back into the forest. A distant sound emerged, a low roar Gillian could not identify. Soon it grew louder, resonating through her chest, and just before they reached it, she realized it was a waterfall.
The trees parted for it, and it tumbled down the rocks between them. It emptied into a large pool just below them, then spilled out to continue its journey through the forest and eventually to the loch.
“I didn’t know this was here!”
He led her down to the pool and crouched before it, scooping water and splashing it over his face, then drinking from his cupped hands.
Gillian knelt beside him to do the same, wetting her handkerchief and mopping her face, watching him surreptitiously.
He was so tall that he gave the impression of leanness when standing, but crouching as he was, the leather of his breeks strained against the thick muscles of his thighs.
His elbows rested on his knees, dripping hands dangling between his legs.
Gillian noted how very large his arms were as well, as big as one of her thighs.
His size and strength made her fluttery and weak again.
“We’d come here sometimes, your father and I, when he was well.” He turned to her. Gillian quickly averted her gaze, embarrassed to have been examining him so intently. “Your mother is buried here.”
Gillian’s eyes widened, and she looked around.
Just past the long, curved slab of rock they crouched on, the trees crowded in again, but just beyond the trees her gaze snagged on it.
A stone cross. She rose slowly and entered the trees.
The cross was carved in the old Irish style, with a circle where the arms crossed the body.
She passed her fingers over the raised spiral and knotwork patterns, her throat tight.
Memories flooded her, memories she’d purposely refused to dwell on—nay, to even think on—in a dozen years.
Fear and dread descended like a rancid cloud, enveloping her, gagging her.
She was the only one who’d seen her mother die.
Her sisters had been at the castle with their father, but Gillian and her mother had been out gathering herbs.
Some plant her mother had needed grew only in rock crevices, high on the mountain.
So they’d ridden to the pass and had been wandering about with their baskets when Lillian had been lynched.
It had been a group of men. Gillian had recognized none of them. They’d struck Lillian and dragged her away. Gillian had cowered behind a boulder, and they’d not seen her at first. She’d stumbled down the mountain to get help but hadn’t gotten far before they’d caught her.
A throbbing clawed Gillian’s temples, and she struggled for air, horror crushing her chest as the long-suppressed memories consumed her.
The men had talked about burning two witches.
Gillian had been terrified, sobbing and carrying on so that they’d gagged her.
When Lillian had woken, she’d begged them to release Gillian, pleading that she was only a child and not a witch.
But they’d ignored her. Mother and daughter had been taken to a village not far from their glen.
A mob had greeted them—people had screamed at them and thrown rotting vegetables, accusing them of all sorts of horrors.
They’d meant to burn Gillian, too, but they hadn’t.
Someone had made them let her go. She’d run all the way back to the mountain pass, and when she’d turned to look back, she’d seen the smoke . . . then she’d seen . . .
Pain exploded in Gillian’s temples. She cried out, her hands flailing blindly before her, catching the cross and falling to her knees with her arms around it. The pain receded almost immediately.
She blinked slowly, alarmed to find her face pressed against the rough-cut stone.
“Mistress MacDonell?” the earl asked. He crouched beside her, peering worriedly into her face. “I should not have brought you here. I didn’t realize it would affect you so.”
Gillian sat back on her heels and shook her head. “No, no, that’s not it. I got a sudden pain in my head . . . it was so strong I couldn’t see.” She still felt queasy and weak.
He continued to peer at her, as if expecting her to topple over. “You still get the pain? After all these years?”
Gillian looked at him sharply. “What?”
“Your father told me you were with Lillian when it happened. And afterward, when they tried to get information from you so they might discover who was behind the burning, you were struck with such severe pain that sometimes you’d faint.
They thought someone was poisoning you at first, but so long as no one mentioned your mother, you were fine .
. . almost as if it had never happened.”
Gillian stared at him, frowning—not just because what he said made no sense but because the pain crept back, a mist in front of her eyes, blinding her, choking her.
She covered her eyes. “I don’t . . . remember this—I don’t think I do.
. . .” But she wasn’t so certain. There was a ring of familiarity to his words, but her head ached dreadfully.
She turned away from him abruptly and heaved up her breakfast. She leaned over the ground, panting, the back of her hand pressed to her trembling lips.
“I don’t understand this,” she said, suddenly frightened.
And then his hands were on her shoulders, turning her, pressing her face against his shoulder.
“Dinna think of it,” he whispered, his Scots—usually nearly imperceptible—growing broad.
Gillian closed her eyes and tried, but she saw her mother’s frightened face in her mind, and the pain hammered at her again.
She groaned, pressing her forehead into his shoulder and gripping his doublet in her fists.
She made a fantastic effort to think of nothing but the man crouched on the ground before her, his arms hard around her, stroking her hair and making crooning noises as if to a child.
As the pain receded, her body grew limp and she molded to him, the beat of his heart setting a cadence for hers.
His deep voice urged her not to think on it, so she thought instead of their wedding night.
He would be gentle with her, she believed that now.
There was more to him than arrogance and coldness.
She felt safe and comforted, engulfed in his strong arms.
It ended too soon when he stood, pulling her up with him. “Can you walk?”
Gillian nodded. She felt drained and shaky and desperately wanted to leave.
Waves of pain washed over her when she even looked at the cross.
He led her back to the cliff clearing. They sat on the sunny rock, and he pulled the bag of food from his belt.
He handed her a chunk of bread and cheese, watching her carefully as she ate it.
When Gillian’s nerves had steadied, she said, “I knew you and my father were very good friends . . . but I hadn’t realized, until just now, how very close you are.”
He said nothing, looking away from her, to the view below them.
“He would not have told you that, or showed you where my mother was buried, if you weren’t very important to him.”
He still said nothing. She gazed at his hawklike profile, in sharp relief against the brightness of the sun.
He seemed so dark and remote, apart from everything.
And she supposed he was. It was said he was reclusive and rarely left Castle Kincreag, though he had many other houses scattered across his lands.
Gillian frowned at the bread in her hands, frustrated with his silence.
“You seem to find me so . . . distasteful. Most of the time,” she added, thinking of how kind he’d just been.
“I couldn’t understand why an earl would wed someone he doesn’t like.
You could marry anyone you wanted . . . why bother with me?
Especially after what Isobel did. But I understand now.
You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you? ”
“Aye,” he answered readily enough, still not looking at her.
“Including marrying someone you hate.”
He had been looking out over the glen, but when she said that his lashes lowered as he looked at his hand propped on his knee. His mouth compressed. After a moment, he said, “I don’t hate you, Gillian.” It seemed a great effort for him to force the words out. But he’d made the effort.
Gillian studied his profile. Once she had wished for great love and passion when she married.
Then everything had changed, and all she’d hoped for was to be saved from the French fate.
But now, sitting here with this cruel, powerful earl—a man hated by many, loved by few, a man who had shown her wolves and held her when she was crippled with pain—she found that “I don’t hate you,” was enough. For now.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he glanced at her and arched a cynical brow.
“I don’t hate you, either,” she said. “Perhaps there’s hope for us after all.”
He grunted skeptically and turned back to the view, but Gillian was certain the corner of his mouth twitched the slightest bit in a smile.