Gillian hadn’t thought of that. But she couldn’t let that stop her—Hazel had said she could give her a love philter. Gillian’s pulse skipped excitedly. Itwaspossible. “No, he thinks I’m here for another reason. And if I am caught with the philter, I’ll lie.”
Hazel still looked uncertain.
Gillian clasped her hands together in a pleading manner. “I pray you, Ineedthis.”
Hazel shook her head, clearly perplexed. “But why, my dear? Ye’re to marry him, what need ye of a philter?”
“I don’t think he means to marry me at all. I think the betrothal is to make my father happy, and then when he dies”—she stumbled over this, but then rushed on—“then he will break the betrothal. If he does, my uncle will send me to France.”
Hazel considered her for a long time, clearly uneasy about it, but finally she nodded. “Verra well. Here’s what ye mun do. . . .”
Gillian left Hazel’s cottage nearly an hour later, with a packet of herbs tucked into her bodice and a set of instructions committed to memory. She felt better than she had in days, as if a great weight had finally eased from her heart. She had a plan, a good one, and she’d thought of it on her own. If the earl believed himself in love with her, he would go through with the wedding, and the sooner the better. Her belly tightened in anxious anticipation. The moment he returned, she would slip him the philter.
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 philterHazel 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 andblack 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.”
“Youare 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?”
