Gillian bit her lip uncertainly, then began to write. When she finished, Nicholas called for Evan, who waited outside the door, having followed them when they’d left the hall.
“Have this delivered to Sir Philip at Sgor Dubh.”
“Aye, my lord,” Evan said, but before Nicholas could turn away, the knight added, “there’s news from Kincreag.” When Nicholas raised inquiring brows, Evan rushed on, “Campbells are feuding with the Gregors again. They lifted a score of kine—sheep, too, and a few goats when passing through your lands.”
Nicholas clenched his teeth in frustration. TheCampbells and Gregors—as well as the MacNabs and Colquhouns—were always at one another’s throats. Since the king had outlawed the Gregors, it had gone from bad to worse, since the other clans believed they could persecute them with impunity—and for the most part, they could. Nicholas had recently found himself in the unlikely position of defending the Gregors, and he was paying the price. He only hoped the king didn’t hear of it. The king had no fondness for Highlanders and considered the Gregors the most distasteful of the lot.
Nicholas looked back at Gillian. She’d risen from the stool and approached Nicholas cautiously.
“Is aught amiss?” she asked.
Nicholas considered sending Evan to deal with the situation, but he knew that would be futile. The Campbells would deal with no one but himself, and if he sent Evan, he might find himself paying a hefty ransom to get his man back.
“I have to go.”
He started out the door, but Gillian caught his arm. “Where are you going?”
“I have business to attend.”
“What business?” she cried, her fingers tightening. “What about Father? What if you don’t return . . . in time. . . .” Tears shimmered in her gray eyes again as she gazed up at him, pleading.
Nicholas felt himself faltering in the face of her tears. His knight was watching avidly, so he shut the door and took her firmly by the shoulders. “I’ll only be gone a few days.”
“Can we not marry before you go? Something quick, but in Da’s presence, so he knows, in case . . .” The tears spilled down her face freely, dripping from her delicate chin.
There had been a time in Nicholas’s life when he’d openly given and received affection. A time before Catriona. Since then he’d hardened his heart—and at times, it seemed he truly was made of stone, as few could elicit sympathy from him. Perhaps it was their shared concern for the chieftain of Glen Laire. Or maybe it was just because she was his best friend’s daughter. He didn’t know what made him soft to her, but her tears hollowed out his chest.
She gazed up at him, large gray eyes studying his face, and then her expression crumpled and she moved toward him, pressing her face against his plaid. Nicholas put his arms around her without thinking.
He held her for several minutes, patting her back awkwardly, her face pressed into his shoulder. She was small, yet beautifully well rounded. Heavy breasts pressed into him, and his hands drifted over a narrow back and tiny waist to the wide flare of hips. She was made to bear children. He should not be thinking of such things now, with Alan dying and her tears of grief drenching him, but he could not wait to bed her.
She moved back slightly, staying within the circle of his arms when he would have let her go. “It could be quick. Father keeps a pastor here . . . for when it’s time.”
Marriage. She wanted to have a quick ceremony before he left. But Alan had indicated that once Gillian and Nicholas married, he would take his own life.
“No.”
She tilted her head back to frown at him. “I don’t understand . . . it’s what he wishes.”
He could not tell her what Alan planned. It had been told to him in confidence, and besides, it would only upset her more.
“But it’s not what I wish.”
Her mouth dropped open, and she huffed an incredulous breath. When she tried to pull away from him, he held her shoulders.
“You don’t ever intend to go through with this, do you? If you will not do it now, when? Why wait until he’s dead?”
She had a point, and he felt himself caving in. Perhaps itwasinevitable, if Alan had sent for Isobel and Sir Philip. Surely Alan knew the end was near, and he did look awful. But then he’d looked this awful before—worse even—and rallied back.
When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Whatdoyou wish?”
He stared down at her flushed cheeks and soft eyes, long lashes still damp from her tears. Before he even knew what he intended, he found his mouth on hers. She stiffened, her hands against his chest. Her lips were soft, though, and bore the salty tang of her tears. He took her face in his hands and kissed her deeply. She responded immediately, her lips parting, fingers digging into his arms. It was a brief kiss, but it roused a hunger in him for more. He raised his head slightly, still holding her face between his hands.
She was very still, her gaze holding him prisoner. Hedid not know why he’d kissed her, other than sheer instinct from holding a beautiful woman, but he generally had more control than to act on errant impulses. Damn troubling that he was tempted to kiss her again. But that’s all it was, really. Lust. She was fragrant and soft—what man wouldn’t be sore tempted by such a woman? Her skin was silken and warm beneath his hands. His heart beat loudly. Her lashes were impossibly long, and he watched them as they lowered, her own gaze dropping to his mouth, as if she expected him to kiss her again. With a terrific effort, he dropped his hands and stepped away from her.
She watched him with a dazed expression. “Why did you do that?”
Various responses, all inappropriate, flitted through his mind. He finally settled on, “A promise.”
