“I petitioned the king for your sister, and he did not refuse me. He’ll not refuse this either. He knows my need for an heir. My first wife was a noblewoman, whom I married at the king’s insistence. Our only child died.”
Gillian nearly dropped her knife. “You had a child? I didn’t know.”
He raised a dubious brow. “I’m surprised. Most believe I killed him, too.”
Shivers chased down her spine. She didn’t like thinking about the rumors. She returned her attention to her meal and hastily picked up the thread of their conversation.
“Are you certain the king is not displeased? I am a Highlander . . . and, well, many people think the MacDonells of Glen Laire are witches. The king hates nothing more than Highanders and witches.”
“You do not have the reputation of being a witch or healer or aught else, and you spent more than half your life in the Lowlands. You have much to recommend you, to His Majesty’s way of thinking.”
Gillian toyed with her spoon. “And have I anything to recommend me toyou?”She glanced at him beneath her lashes.
He had lifted his goblet to his mouth, but he lowered it, his gaze fixed on her. “Aye, your chastity. You’ve the hips for bearing braw lads, as well—less likely you’ll die in childbirth. I know the stock you come from, and it pleases me. You’ll do.”
Gillian’s face flamed at being referred to like a good breeding mare, but she suppressed her indignation, feeling perverse pleasure that he was about to fall hopelessly in love with her against his will.Hips for bearing braw lads, indeed.She smiled and raised her goblet. “Shall we drink then to the offspring you shall sire on me?”
He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, but he lifted his goblet readily enough. Gillian drained hers, needing to fortify herself for the task to come—inducing him to kiss her. The task grew more difficult by the moment. When she set her goblet on the table, she noticed his was back in place, too. She could not see the contents without being obvious. They ate in silence for a moment, Gillian doing little more than picking at her food.
She stood suddenly. “Would you like more wine?” She crossed to the decanter.
When she turned back, he was replacing the lid on a crock, but he held his goblet out to her, watching her closely as she poured. His goblet was empty. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. So that was done. She left the decanter on the table and took her seat. As he lifted the goblet to his lips, her heart skipped in sudden fear he would note a difference in taste, but he said nothing, merely resumed eating.
After a long time, he asked, “Are you not hungry?”
Gillian had done little more than push her food around on her plate, though she’d consumed several goblets of wine. Her head swam, and she decided she’d had enough. Any more and she might make a fool of herself.
“I find myself preoccupied.”
“Aye?”
“I’m wondering why I’m here. Did my father force you to dine with me?”
He wiped his hands methodically on the stained napkin. “Do you think your father could force me?”
“Aye. He forced you to take me to the woods.”
“Ah, no. He only suggested that I make good on my reason for prolonging the betrothal. I chose to take you there because I like the wood and it occurred to me that you never saw your mother’s grave. If I truly didn’t want to be with you, even your father, friend that he is, couldn’t make me.”
Gillian stared at him, not quite sure what to make of his little speech. Was he saying hedidwant to be with her? The very thought made her heart stutter, until she remembered that he’d consumed the love philter.Of course.She must be certain to seal the effects by kissing him.
“But you’re correct that I didn’t invite you simply to share a meal with me tonight.”
Her heart sank, though she endeavored to look merely curious, rather than discouraged. “Why did you invite me, then?”
He sighed, looking down at his plate. “Your father . . .” He paused, as if trying to collect his thoughts. His unaccustomed uncertainty made her uneasy about what he would say.
He raised his head, regarding her seriously. “When I asked you to join me, I did so with the intention of telling you several things. I’ve since reconsidered. But there is still one thing you must know. I’ve set a date. We’re to be married in three days.”
Gillian gasped, her hand involuntarily clasping her throat. “Three days?”
“Aye. Your father’s condition is not worsening, and I have business to attend at Kincreag. You’re welcome tostay with your father after the ceremony. I will return frequently, of course, as I have these past months.”
Gillian thought of her father’s long illness. He’d been lingering for months already. There was little she could do to aid him except read to him. Rose and Hagan handled everything. She knocked around Lochlaire most days, not knowing how to fill her time. And then there were the headaches. She’d had some headaches when she’d lived with the Hepburns, but nothing of the intensity of the ones she’d had recently. She’d told Rose what Old Hazel had said, and though it had baffled her sister, she’d promised to help Gillian investigate it. Even so, the headaches were getting worse. She would welcome a respite from Lochlaire. Maybe at Kincreag she could determine who had cursed her and why. Just the thought of it made her temples throb.
She rubbed at them absently and said, “I would like to go with you . . . so long as I can return with you, as well. Kincreag is not far. Should something happen, we can be here quickly.”
The earl studied her, frowning vaguely. “Your head aches again?”
