Chapter 7
Gillian?” Alan said, his irritation tinged with affection. “What happened next?”
Gillian started from a daze of daydreams and looked down at the open book on her lap, searching for her place.
It was the third time she’d trailed off in her reading, leaving her father to stare at her in amused exasperation.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Lord Kincreag.
Nicholas. She loved the sound of his name in her mind.
She dared not speak it aloud, but as she’d lain in bed last night, she’d imagined calling him by his given name as he kissed her again and held her.
In fact, she couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything this morning, her mind forever drifting back to her betrothed.
Alan sighed. “Let’s leave off the reading for now.”
Gillian closed the book and set it aside. He’d had a good night. No nightmares. Healthy color replaced the pallor of his cheeks above his beard, though they were still gaunt and rawboned. At times like this, it seemed there really was hope for the chieftain of the Glen Laire MacDonells.
“You’re certain you don’t mind me leaving?” she asked again. She’d told him of her conversation with Nicholas and that she wished to accompany him to Kincreag. But she felt a pang of guilt for leaving her father, whom she’d been separated from for so long.
“Why should I? I’m the one that wished to see you wed before I died.
It’s what I want. Your place is with your husband.
Isobel lives at Sgor Dubh with Philip. It does my heart good to know she has a good man to protect her in these times.
” He took Gillian’s hand. “As it does my heart good to see you with Kincreag.”
Gillian squeezed her father’s hand.
“Besides, Kincreag is not far—closer than Isobel at Sgor Dubh.”
Isobel and Sir Philip’s party had been sighted from the walls nearly an hour ago.
They would be here soon, so Uncle Roderick had crossed the loch to wait for them.
Gillian had missed her sister this past month.
She hoped they would visit often in spite of the awkwardness the broken betrothal caused.
Alan studied her closely. “Are you happy with him, sweeting?”
Gillian had gotten her wish—to marry a Scotsman and remain in Scotland, close to her family. And besides that, she was intrigued and drawn to the brooding earl. Perhaps it wasn’t deep love, like her sisters had for their men, but it was the best Gillian could hope for.
“Aye, Da. I’m satisfied.”
His green eyes narrowed as he studied her critically. “Now, ye dinna have to lie to me. I ken he . . . seems unpleasant and perhaps a trifle cold, but in truth, he’s a good man. His first wife . . .”
“Aye?” Gillian leaned forward eagerly. She hadn’t thought to ask her father about Kincreag’s first wife, but now it seemed a thoughtless oversight. Of course Alan would be biased, but still, he’d known Nicholas when he’d been married to Catriona. Her father should have much to tell.
But before he could say anything more, the door opened and Broc trotted in, followed by Hagan, then the earl himself.
Gillian sighed, curiosity unsatisfied. She was determined to finish this conversation before she left for Kincreag. She was developing a rather morbid curiosity about the late countess.
She avoided looking at the earl, as his presence did more than remind her of the night before; it sent her pulse galloping and made her feel flushed and awkward.
She was so involved in trying to behave normally and hide her suddenly trembling hands that she was startled when Broc bounded over and jumped on her, planting his large, hairy paws on her chest and licking her face enthusiastically.
“Down, Broc!” Alan laughed. “I’ve never seen him like this. Oh, Hagan, get him!”
Hagan grabbed the dog’s collar before he knocked Gillian out of her chair.
“Good morn—” Alan started to greet the earl, but he was cut off by Gillian’s shriek as Broc flew at her again.
“Confounded dog!” Alan sat up in the bed, scowling fiercely.
Hagan wrestled with the ardent deerhound, finally shoving him out the door. Broc scratched and whined at the door for several minutes before finally falling silent.
Alan shook his head, bewildered. “I’ve never seen him behave so.”
Gillian hadn’t either. The deerhound usually lay at her father’s bedside like an old rug, barely rousing himself to eat.
She chanced a glance up at Kincreag and found him staring darkly at her.
She quickly looked away, her cheeks burning in embarrassment.
Perhaps the love philter had worn off and he regretted kissing her the night before?
But that couldn’t be. Hazel had told her it would last for some time, a month at least. But then she remembered she’d not completed the spell. She still needed his hair.
She gathered her courage and turned to Kincreag, smiling cheerfully. “I was talking to Father about preparations for the wedding—”
“My people have prepared everything,” he said, his enigmatic stare still fixed on her.
Gillian blinked. “Oh.”
He moved to the other side of the bed and began to chat with her father about the Campbells. For some reason Gillian felt as if he purposely ignored her, though in truth he acted no different than he always did. Had last night meant nothing to him?
Gillian’s shoulders slumped. She excused herself and slipped out of the room.
She stood outside the door, thinking. Perhaps this was a good time to go to Kincreag’s chambers to steal hair from his comb.
She started out of the hall but was distracted by two little girls playing by themselves near the largest fireplace.
Gillian watched them for several minutes.
They were remarkably familiar, reminding her of children she’d played with when she was a child, right down to their stained smocks and the flowers—wilting daisies—stuck jauntily in their curls.
This last detail caused Gillian’s heart to leap in a sickening manner.
This was more than mere similarities—they were identical.
She started toward the girls but was waylaid by Broc, bouncing joyfully around her legs, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
Gillian scratched his head absently, continuing across the hall, dog on her heels.
She searched her mind for the girls’ names.
Pain throbbed momentarily in her temples, but she pressed on, a worm of fear wiggling in her belly.
Why did her head ache when she thought of these girls or of her mother’s death?
The girls did not seem to notice her until she was beside them. Her head screamed, but she would not let that stop her. “Good morn,” she said.
They turned toward her, poppets clutched to their chests, and Gillian saw their faces clearly.
They were the same children. But that was impossible .
. . and yet as she stared into the girls’ eyes—blue and brown—they were the same eyes, the same welcoming smiles, the same childish voices.
The blood drained from Gillian’s face. Her mouth gaped in horrified surprise.
“Gilly! We’ve missed you!” one said. Cinnie was her name. It came back to Gillian all at once. Cinnie and Rowena. She gasped, the pain squeezing her head like a vise, blinding her.
She clutched her head, fighting against it. “How can this be . . .?” she heard herself ask from a distance. The pain was too great, crowding everything out. Yawning blackness opened before her, promising a refuge from the crippling pain.
The next thing she knew she couldn’t breathe—something crushed her chest and smelled of sweaty dog. Someone yelled her name.
“Bloody Christ!” A man. “Get Rose!” Her uncle Roderick.
“Gilly! Oh my God, Gilly!” A woman—her sister, Isobel.
“Get off,” Uncle Roderick said. A fierce growl rumbled through Gillian’s chest, resonating into her spine. She cracked an eye and saw wiry gray fur. Broc had stationed himself on her chest. No wonder she couldn’t breathe—the deerhound weighed at least seven stone.
Uncle Roderick reached for the dog again and it snapped at him, snarling viciously. Gillian couldn’t see her uncle, but she heard his sharp intake of breath. Then he whispered in Gaelic, his voice low and angry. “I command you—stand down, Beast!”
The growling died, replaced by a whine.
Gillian pushed at Broc and the dog moved off her, hovering over her face and licking her ear. The slurping was like a cannon, splitting her head. She groaned and feebly tried to move her head away.
Her uncle pushed the dog away; then his face was over hers, frowning worriedly. “Can you speak, Gilly?”
She peered upward, catching sight of a crowd forming around her. She had to close her eyes, as moving them sent excruciating pain radiating through her skull.
“I think she fainted again,” Roderick murmured.
“No,” Gillian managed to force out between stiff lips. “I’m awake.”
Someone took her hand. It was cool and soft. “What happened, Gilly?” Isobel asked.
“I was trying to talk to Cinnie—” The pain stabbed her again. She cried out, trying to curl into herself, clutching her head.
“Move aside,” Rose said. Gillian heard the shift in the crowd around her, but she was afraid to move. Her head ached horribly, and she feared any movement would cause her to vomit.
Rose’s hands touched hers, moving them gently away from her head. “Let me see, darling,” she murmured. A cool hand pressed against her forehead.
An anxious voice from her other side asked, “What happened?” Kincreag. Gillian’s heart did a little leap, but she couldn’t move, afraid her head would split open.
Rose was silent. She knew what was wrong but was unwilling to speak of it among so many people. There was silence as Rose passed her hands over Gillian, trying to discover the cause of her pain.
“Gillian? Can you hear me?” The earl again.
Gillian tried to nod her head, but a wave of nausea rolled through her, and she moaned instead.
“Pick her up,” Rose ordered.