Chapter 9
Wake up!”
Gillian jerked awake from a rather unpleasant dream in which she stumbled endlessly along a cliff, pursued by an enormous dark figure. She blinked up at the red blur slowly coming into focus.
Rose stood over her, dressed in fine velvet skirts but no bodice. Her silk-embroidered shift strained across her breasts. Rose saw where Gillian stared and glanced down at her chest.
“Do you think they’re getting bigger?” Rose had smallish breasts and had expressed concern that Jamie MacPherson would not find them to his liking. She’d told Gillian she’d even placed an “enhancing” spell on her bosom, but it had proved futile.
Gillian frowned at her sister, shading her eyes to block out the blaze of candles illuminating the room. “You woke me for that?”
“No! Your love philter worked perfectly!” Rose spun away and returned, slipping into a crimson velvet bodice with gathered and pleated shoulders, trimmed with gold thread and silk roses. She struggled to hook the front of it. “Jesu! I’m just getting fat!”
Rose was anything but fat—she was lean and muscular—but perhaps she’d been a bit thin a month ago. Her face, previously angular and as sharp as a wolf’s, had filled out, giving her a softer appearance, belying the hard-edged cynic beneath.
Gillian tried to shake off the sleep fogging her brain. “What are you talking about? My love philter worked? How do you know?”
“Because he can’t wait until tomorrow to wed you. He wants to marry you today. This morning.” Rose beamed down at her. “He’s completely smitten.”
Gillian fell back on the pillow, hands over her mouth.
She’d been afraid that burning the hair when the moon had not been quite full would render the philter useless.
But apparently it had been full enough. A surge of excited anticipation shot through her, and she threw back the covers, jumped out of bed, and embraced her sister.
“Come on,” Rose said. “Our hair will take forever, so let’s get you dressed.”
Gillian perched on her father’s bed in her finest gown, one he’d had made especially for this occasion.
It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen—a froth of pale pink caffa, silver embroidery, and gossamer white lawn puffed out through slits in the sleeves and bodice.
Her braided hair was coiled at her nape and encased in a silver mesh caul.
Her father had just informed her there would be no wedding celebration.
There was trouble at Kincreag, and Nicholas had to return posthaste.
After the wedding they would depart. Gillian had been a bit chagrined that it wasn’t his great passion for her that made him rush the nuptials, but it was for the best. Once it was done, it was not so easily undone.
Rose also assured her it was a good thing.
Away from Glen Laire, her headaches would likely ease.
As soon as Rose discovered a means to break the curse, she would come to Kincreag. All would be well.
“Yesterday you began to tell me about Lord Kincreag’s late wife,” Gillian reminded her father.
Alan frowned, scratching the head of his newest pet, a silver-gray Skye terrier.
Long, thick hair fell over its face, parting at the snout and hiding its eyes.
Another gift from Uncle Roderick. Gillian thought it was very sweet.
Uncle Roderick took a great deal on his shoulders, yet he always had time to fash on his poor pregnant wife and make sure Alan had a special pet.
Like Broc, this dog seemed satisfied to lie on his master’s bed, panting contentedly.
Not that Broc was content to lay around anymore—something odd had happened to the dog.
Now that he belonged to Gillian, he was a ball of energy.
Stephen currently had him in the courtyard letting him run before putting him in the kennels so he didn’t ruin the ceremony.
“What was I saying about her?” Alan asked. He was a bit wan today, which made Gillian’s heart heavy after the burst of health he’d experienced the day before. She supposed all the searching for a counter-curse with Rose had overtired him.
“You were telling me that the earl only seems unpleasant, and then you brought up the late countess, as if she had something to do with it.”
“Ah. I remember.” He patted Gillian’s gloved hands.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you this, and I’d better now, since it’s certain he will not.
The king arranged Kincreag’s first marriage.
Catriona Campbell was a very rich widow.
She’d been married young to an old man, and he’d died a few years later.
He’d had one son and a daughter—not from her, mind you—and they both died shortly before he did.
So it all went to Catriona. The king did not like such power in the hands of a woman and so married her off to Nicholas, one of his favorites.
Nicholas was very pleased with the match.
Catriona was a great beauty in addition to being a financial windfall. ”
Seeing the sour look on Gillian’s face, Alan laughed, giving her hand a weak squeeze. “She was not nearly so bonny as you, my love, dinna fash. Besides, there is a big difference between the two of you that Nicholas will no doubt cherish.”
“What’s that?” Gillian asked doubtfully.
“Let me finish. Though Kincreag is a very good friend, he does not speak of his marriage to Catriona. Here is what I know. She was unfaithful to him, but he did not set her aside, because they had a son. When both wife and son died within days of each other, much suspicion was aroused.”
Already Gillian didn’t like this story. It made her belly clench uneasily.
Alan smoothed his hand over the dog’s silky fur. “Then there was the matter of several of her lovers dying mysteriously. And a few of her servants. Afore you know it, the rumors were thriving and the king himself was investigating. Nasty business.”
Gillian’s brows drew together and up with concern. “But it does sound awfully suspicious, don’t you think? What with him being so jealous, everyone associated with her dying, and finally she dies in a convenient accident.”
Alan’s expression grew implacable. “Listen to me, Gilly. I don’t believe Nicholas killed his wife.
He told me he didn’t, and I trust him. But if he had murdered her, he would have been justified.
She was unfaithful. And evil. There was something .
. . wrong with her. Something missing in her eyes, from her heart. ”
When Gillian said nothing, only stared at her father wide-eyed, he said, “But he didn’t, understand?
Just before their son died he’d begun searching for a legal means to rid himself of her.
Why murder her and cast suspicion on himself?
He’s smarter than that. Besides all that, the king found him innocent. ”
“But if he had killed her, you believe he would have been justified?” Gillian asked, stunned and uneasy at her father’s sentiments.
Alan nodded. “Aye. She tried to poison him once that I know of.”
Gillian gaped.
“I drank wine meant for him, wine that she’d served him. Thank God I didn’t drink all of it—it nearly killed me.”
Gillian covered her mouth, sickened with disbelief. She dropped her hands and said, “How could he keep her after that?”
“She had a way about her . . . a way many men could not resist. Nicholas was quite immune to her by the end, but early on, well . . .” He shrugged.
“She was very convincing. She told him it was a remedy to help him sleep. She carried on and on about her concern for him, because he paced the floors at night. It’s no wonder, his son was so ill, he rarely left the bairn’s side.
Anyway, she claimed she’d gone to the local healer for a physick.
The healer confirmed this but swore she gave the countess exactly what she asked for.
In the end Nicholas ruled it a mistake.”
“But it wasn’t?”
Alan shook his head. “Nay, I’m sure of it.
There’s more he has never told me, but she was a wicked woman, mark me.
” Alan studied Gillian’s horrified expression carefully.
“Isobel’s recent actions, bless her, haven’t helped.
I think he’s quite convinced that all women are full of wickedness.
But once he sees your loyal heart, Gillian, he will not remain so.
He is a good friend to me—a very good friend.
And I believe he will be a very good husband. ”
Gillian fell silent, digesting her father’s story.
Even if Nicholas had murdered his wife, she’d deserved it, according to her father.
The things he’d said to her last night began to make more sense.
Her heart ached dully for the earl, guarding himself diligently against being deceived again.
Gillian would never do such a thing. Even if she found marriage to him misery, she would never break her wedding vows and would certainly never try to kill him.
Her father was right— she’d always been intensely loyal to those who deserved it.
And as her husband, Nicholas did better than deserve it; she owed it to him.
The door opened, and Isobel entered with her husband. Hagan intercepted them, and they stayed near the door. But others soon arrived, and finally Alan said, “Do you feel better now, knowing the story?”
“I worry that he will never become fond of me . . . that he feels forced into this because of your illness.”
Her father made a rude sound. “If he doesn’t ken what a fine lassie ye are by now, he’s surely drawn to your other, more obvious, attributes.”
Gillian blushed and felt conspicuous in her low-cut bodice.
“Fash not, lass. He’ll come around.” Her father’s gaze moved to something behind her. “It’s time.”
Gillian turned and froze, suddenly breathless.
Lord Kincreag stood at the door. He had forgone the severe black attire he usually wore for something more fitting to the occasion.
His coat was still black silk, but over it he wore a scarlet-and-black plaid, secured with a blood-red ruby.
His hair, devil-black and rich as silk, was tied at his nape with a scarlet ribbon, an errant lock touching his brow.
But it wasn’t his clothes or hair that arrested Gillian.
It was his fathomless black eyes, intent on her.
His face was carefully expressionless, yet savage in its dark beauty.
But his eyes—they burned over her possessively.
Gillian’s heart beat a rapid tattoo, so loud in her ears that she was certain everyone could hear.
The next few minutes passed in a daze. Her father called the room to order.
The pastor came forward. Isobel and Rose practically lifted Gillian off the bed and positioned her beside Nicholas.
She placed her hand in his, startled by the heat from his skin, penetrating the thin lace of her glove.
She glanced up at him and was caught again in his black gaze, riveted on her.
She barely heard the pastor’s words, though she was vaguely aware she repeated her part on cue.
Nicholas finally looked away to pass the ring over each of her fingers in turn—to protect her from evil—before coming to rest on her fourth.
His lashes, so long and black, shadowed his sharp cheekbones.
She never looked away from him through it all. Her husband. To love and cherish.
When his gaze captured hers again, she wondered if she’d somehow drunk the love philter by mistake, for she felt warm and fluttery and slightly giddy.
She had no time to consider it further; his mouth was on hers in the kiss to seal their union.
She squeezed his hand reflexively, her mouth pliant, giving him whatever he wanted.
It was a brief kiss, but when he broke away, he stared down at her for several heartbeats, eyes narrowed.
Though his expression remained impassive, a war raged behind those shadowy eyes.
She hoped one day he would share it with her.
Then people surrounded them, offering congratulations. Gillian was urged to say good-bye to her father, then was bustled through the castle, a sister on either side of her, gripping her arms.
Back in their chambers, they helped her change into something suitable for travel.
“Did you see the way he looked at you?” Isobel said, silver-green eyes wide with amazement. “Perhaps Da is right and this is a good match.”
Rose smiled secretly at Gillian. “Aye, he looked like a ravenous wolf and you but a juicy wee lamb.”
“He never looked at me in such a manner,” Isobel said. “He looked at me like I was a piece of rotten meat someone was trying to force him to eat!”
Gillian tried to smile at their jests, but she felt inexplicably melancholy.
She told herself it was because she was leaving her family, but she knew that was only part of it.
Her husband’s desire for her was a sham, induced by a love philter.
That made her deceitful. After hearing about his late wife, she felt particularly uncomfortable about what she’d done.
When the effects of the philter faded, she would not repeat it.
She would take what fate meted out and not seek to cloud his mind with untruths.
She had not anticipated the regret she would feel at deceiving him.
At the time, it had seemed the only thing she could do to ensure he would follow through with the betrothal.
But now it felt insidious. Her mind briefly touched on the idea of telling him the truth, but she shied away from it.
They hadn’t yet consummated the marriage.
She couldn’t predict how he would react to such a confession.
So perhaps she wasn’t really sorry for what she’d done.
Just sorry she’d been forced to resort to such tactics.
But what couldn’t be changed, must be endured.
She could not change what she’d done, and so she must endure the consequences.
She would make up for it by being a most loyal wife.
No one would ever question her devotion to her husband.
And maybe, when the philter faded, his affection for her would remain.