“How long were you married before your wife died?”
He had been answering readily enough, if shortly, as if he’d wanted to get this over with, but now he paused, his mouth flattening, considering his answer carefully—or perhaps considering whether or not to answer at all.
“Five years.”
Gillian opened her mouth to ask another question about the late countess and, as if reading her mind, he shook his head firmly.
“No more questions about Catriona. I’ll not speak of her.”
“What? Why?”
“Because it is of no concern to you.”
“But it does concern me. She was your first wife; I should like to know more about her.”
“She’s dead now. I don’t want to discuss it—least of all with you.”
Gillian fell into injured silence. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to talk about his late wife—he didn’t want to talk toGillianabout her. She turned the ring on her finger. It had been her mother’s wedding ring. She thought of her mother and father’s marriage, full of love and happiness, and her heart sank lower, the outing soured. She did not speak to him again the rest of their trip, nursing her disappointment and wounded feelings. He didn’t seem to notice.
He held out his hand to help her from the boat, but Gillian scrambled out on her own and walked stiffly behind him. He made no mention of her silence. He was probably relieved. This was supposed to have been an outing to get acquainted, and he hadn’t asked her a single question about herself. The more Gillian thought on these things, the angrier she became, so that by the time the stable lad led her gray stallion out to her, she was practically fuming.
Kincreag caught Morfran’s bridle to hold him steady so she could mount. Morfran was having none of it and twisted his head around, velvet lips peeled back from his teeth. He snapped viciously at Kincreag. The earl jerked his hand away but not in time. The large white teeth grazed his knuckles. Rather than backing away cautiously, like most prudent souls would, the earl pushed his other hand against the nose that jerked forward to take another bite.
The stallion did not like this at all and started to rear upward. Gillian caught his bridle. “Morfran, no!”
The horse dropped his forehooves but pawed at the ground, snorting and shaking his head, his large black eyes glaring maliciously at the earl.
“A fitting name,” Kincreag said, inspecting his knuckles before viewing the horse again, this time at a more respectful distance. “He is as ugly as a demon.”
“He isnotugly. And I didn’t name him,” Gillian said, mounting the now-docile horse without aid. It turned and lipped gently at her skirts. “But I am thinking of renaming him. He’s such a sweet boy, aren’t you, my laddy?” She stroked his neck and crooned at him. Morfran shook his mane and whickered.
Kincreag stared at them a moment before turning away, muttering about gelding shears. Gillian smiled, mollified now that Morfran had taken the earl down a peg, and followed his large white horse around the loch. Even as a child Gillian had not explored the glen extensively, and so she was pleased when Kincreag entered the north wood. The glen was a peaceful place to live and free from most of the raiding and feuding that plagued the Highlands, thanks to being situated in a remote and naturally defensive valley, but it still had its dangers. Children were kept far from the wood with stories of ghosts and dragons—but in truth, the real danger was wolves and other nasty creatures.
They followed a faint trail for a bit, but soon even that disappeared, and the thick underbrush forced them to dismount.
Kincreag made no attempt to hobble Morfran, so Gillian led him a safe distance from the earl’s mount and secured his reins to a tree trunk. She and Morfranwere still getting acquainted, though they’d taken to each other nicely. He was very aggressive to most people—and very intelligent, too. She rubbed his nose and followed Kincreag, who’d already disappeared into the trees.
The terrain was much more difficult than she’d expected. She’d known, of course, that the glen was nearly impregnable, with the mountains rising all around it, but in truth, she’d never bothered with anything but the single southern pass. They were at the far north of the glen where a thick wood climbed the mountainside. The ground had grown rocky, with great jagged black crags jutting out of the ground. Those weren’t so much the problem. It was the smaller ones, camouflaged with pine needles and birch leaves, so that they seemed to pierce her feet right through the soles of her shoes when she stepped on them unexpectedly.
She was about to call out to Kincreag to wait for her when she saw him, leaning against a tree, his back to her. The forest had grown so quiet that the sound of her stumbling after him seemed magnified. When she was close, Kincreag’s hand snaked out, pulling her around in front of him. She managed not to yelp in surprise.
He pressed her back against his chest, his head lowered near her ear, his warm breath tickling the hair at her temple. Gillian shivered. His hands rested on her shoulders, holding her motionless—a useless gesture, as she was frozen, unable to believe he’d touched her at all.
“Look. There,” he whispered. His voice was soft and deep. Gillian searched the thick trees and bushes, the steeply inclined ground, but saw nothing, just foliageand shadowed rocky ridges. One of his hands moved from her shoulder and came slowly around in front of her, pointing upward. “There, watch carefully.”
Gillian’s gaze climbed upward in the direction he pointed. High above them, a wolf lounged under a large gray outcropping. Its gray and brown fur blended into its surroundings. It was not asleep but seemed sleepy and content, its eyes half closed. Fear jolted through her as an unpleasant thought followed on the heels of her wonder.
“Don’t they live in packs?” she breathed, backing into the earl. He’d dropped the hand that had been pointing. It reappeared at her waist, holding her still.
“Aye.”
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.”
