Chapter 6
It was several anxious days before Kincreag returned, and when he finally did, he surprised Gillian by inviting her to join him for dinner.
It was the perfect opportunity to administer the philter.
She’d gone over and over her plan, but still found herself queasy with fear when he finally sent for her.
A servant escorted her into his chambers, then discreetly left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Gillian glanced around the room, at the fire roaring in the fireplace, and the table, covered with a modest feast.
She was alone. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the closed door of his bedchamber.
She tiptoed closer and heard muffled voices on the other side—Kincreag and Sir Evan.
She hurried to the table and snatched up the earl’s goblet of wine.
It was empty. She carried it to the decanter resting on the cabinet near the table.
She darted a glance at his bedchamber door, then removed a small packet from her sleeve.
It contained the philter Hazel had given her, plus the burned ashes from a lock of her own hair.
She must also find a way to steal some of his hair, as she had to burn it on the full moon, chanting an incantation over it to bind the spell.
She shook the packet into the empty goblet and quickly crammed the packet back up her sleeve.
Her heart hammered in her throat, and there was a strange buzzing in her ears.
Being devious was not fun. With trembling hands she poured wine into the goblet, spilling it on the cabinet.
She raced to the table, stirred the wine with his knife, grabbed a linen napkin, and mopped up her mess.
Moments later, as she loitered by the table with false idleness, she realized he might be suspicious if wine had only been poured for him. The table was clearly set for two. She poured wine for herself and was replacing her goblet on the table when the door to his bedchamber opened.
She jumped guiltily and almost spilled her goblet of wine. After a moment’s hesitation, she brought the wine to her lips and took a sip, so she at least had a reason to be hovering over the table.
The easy part was over. After he drank the philter, she must somehow get him to kiss her—a feat equal to the twelve labors of Heracles, she feared. True, he had kissed her once before, but that had been a shock, and she had no notion how to induce him to do it again.
She turned, a smile of greeting on her face. “Good evening, my lord. I trust your business was concluded to your satisfaction?”
He wore his customary black—black breeks and black doublet.
His neck was dark and corded with muscle.
Though he wore his usual severe attire, he looked more comfortable this evening than he’d ever appeared before.
He’d bathed recently. His damp hair hung sleek past his wide shoulders, gleaming like black ink.
“As well as can be expected.”
He came to the table and looked it over curiously.
Gillian noticed the linen napkin then, stained with wine.
She reined in the urge to snatch it up and try to explain it away.
That would only make her look guilty. He noted it immediately, picking it up and frowning at it.
No servant at Lochlaire would leave a stained napkin crumpled on the earl’s table, but Kincreag was a guest and a good friend of Gillian’s father, so, however uncouth it was, she doubted that he would bring up the breech of courtesy given the condition her father was in.
He might, however, bring it up with Uncle Roderick.
In that case, Gillian said a silent prayer of apology to the poor servants who would suffer for her foolishness.
When they were seated, the earl heaped food on Gillian’s plate, which surprised her. He’d not shown himself to be particularly solicitous. She found his quiet courtesy unnerving and so rushed to cover her discomfort with meaningless chatter.
“Whatever do you mean, as well as can be expected?”
He shrugged, peering at his wine but not drinking. “It is the way of the Highlanders to fight among themselves. I try to stay out of it, but sometimes they make it difficult.”
“You are a Highlander.”
“I’m an earl. Not quite the same thing.”
“Really?”
He leaned one elbow on the table, between the basket of bread and the plate bearing a whole smoked salmon.
“Most chieftains have never met the king, let alone spent time at court. Their whole lives are contained within their own lands—and the neighbors they choose to feud with. My course was plotted the day I was born and has not varied since. I’ve served the king, traveled abroad, schooled in Paris, and though I’ve tried very hard to stay at Kincreag these past ten years, I find myself endlessly summoned to court. ”
Gillian was impressed and even more intimidated by him than before. She felt very simple and provincial in comparison. “A mark of the king’s favor.”
“I wish sometimes that I could live as your father does and rarely leave my home except for a good raid or a MacDonell gathering.”
Gillian sipped her wine. “And why not? I’ve heard of many noblemen running raids. I’ve lived near the border the past twelve years. The noblemen there are as cutthroat as the outlaws . . . many of them were outlaws at one time or another.”
“They are unwise. I aim to stay in the king’s favor.”
Gillian looked down at her plate. “What of our marriage? Will that not put you in disfavor?”
“I petitioned the king for your sister, and he did not refuse me. He’ll not refuse this either. He knows my need for an heir. My first wife was a noblewoman, whom I married at the king’s insistence. Our only child died.”
Gillian nearly dropped her knife. “You had a child? I didn’t know.”
He raised a dubious brow. “I’m surprised. Most believe I killed him, too.”
Shivers chased down her spine. She didn’t like thinking about the rumors. She returned her attention to her meal and hastily picked up the thread of their conversation.
“Are you certain the king is not displeased? I am a Highlander . . . and, well, many people think the MacDonells of Glen Laire are witches. The king hates nothing more than Highanders and witches.”
“You do not have the reputation of being a witch or healer or aught else, and you spent more than half your life in the Lowlands. You have much to recommend you, to His Majesty’s way of thinking.”
Gillian toyed with her spoon. “And have I anything to recommend me to you?” She glanced at him beneath her lashes.
He had lifted his goblet to his mouth, but he lowered it, his gaze fixed on her. “Aye, your chastity. You’ve the hips for bearing braw lads, as well—less likely you’ll die in childbirth. I know the stock you come from, and it pleases me. You’ll do.”
Gillian’s face flamed at being referred to like a good breeding mare, but she suppressed her indignation, feeling perverse pleasure that he was about to fall hopelessly in love with her against his will.
Hips for bearing braw lads, indeed. She smiled and raised her goblet.
“Shall we drink then to the offspring you shall sire on me?”
He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, but he lifted his goblet readily enough.
Gillian drained hers, needing to fortify herself for the task to come—inducing him to kiss her.
The task grew more difficult by the moment.
When she set her goblet on the table, she noticed his was back in place, too.
She could not see the contents without being obvious.
They ate in silence for a moment, Gillian doing little more than picking at her food.
She stood suddenly. “Would you like more wine?” She crossed to the decanter.
When she turned back, he was replacing the lid on a crock, but he held his goblet out to her, watching her closely as she poured.
His goblet was empty. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
So that was done. She left the decanter on the table and took her seat.
As he lifted the goblet to his lips, her heart skipped in sudden fear he would note a difference in taste, but he said nothing, merely resumed eating.
After a long time, he asked, “Are you not hungry?”
Gillian had done little more than push her food around on her plate, though she’d consumed several goblets of wine. Her head swam, and she decided she’d had enough. Any more and she might make a fool of herself.
“I find myself preoccupied.”
“Aye?”
“I’m wondering why I’m here. Did my father force you to dine with me?”
He wiped his hands methodically on the stained napkin. “Do you think your father could force me?”
“Aye. He forced you to take me to the woods.”
“Ah, no. He only suggested that I make good on my reason for prolonging the betrothal. I chose to take you there because I like the wood and it occurred to me that you never saw your mother’s grave. If I truly didn’t want to be with you, even your father, friend that he is, couldn’t make me.”
Gillian stared at him, not quite sure what to make of his little speech. Was he saying he did want to be with her? The very thought made her heart stutter, until she remembered that he’d consumed the love philter. Of course. She must be certain to seal the effects by kissing him.
“But you’re correct that I didn’t invite you simply to share a meal with me tonight.”
Her heart sank, though she endeavored to look merely curious, rather than discouraged. “Why did you invite me, then?”
He sighed, looking down at his plate. “Your father . . .” He paused, as if trying to collect his thoughts. His unaccustomed uncertainty made her uneasy about what he would say.
He raised his head, regarding her seriously. “When I asked you to join me, I did so with the intention of telling you several things. I’ve since reconsidered. But there is still one thing you must know. I’ve set a date. We’re to be married in three days.”