Gillian blinked. “Oh.”
He moved to the other side of the bed and began to chat with her father about the Campbells. For some reason Gillian felt as if he purposely ignored her, though in truth he acted no different than he always did. Had last night meant nothing to him?
Gillian’s shoulders slumped. She excused herself and slipped out of the room. She stood outside the door,thinking. Perhaps this was a good time to go to Kincreag’s chambers to steal hair from his comb. She started out of the hall but was distracted by two little girls playing by themselves near the largest fireplace. Gillian watched them for several minutes. They were remarkably familiar, reminding her of children she’d played with when she was a child, right down to their stained smocks and the flowers—wilting daisies—stuck jauntily in their curls. This last detail caused Gillian’s heart to leap in a sickening manner. This was more than mere similarities—they were identical.
She started toward the girls but was waylaid by Broc, bouncing joyfully around her legs, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
Gillian scratched his head absently, continuing across the hall, dog on her heels. She searched her mind for the girls’ names. Pain throbbed momentarily in her temples, but she pressed on, a worm of fear wiggling in her belly. Why did her head ache when she thought of these girls or of her mother’s death?
The girls did not seem to notice her until she was beside them. Her head screamed, but she would not let that stop her. “Good morn,” she said.
They turned toward her, poppets clutched to their chests, and Gillian saw their faces clearly. They were thesamechildren. But that was impossible . . . and yet as she stared into the girls’ eyes—blue and brown—they were the same eyes, the same welcoming smiles, the same childish voices. The blood drained from Gillian’s face. Her mouth gaped in horrified surprise.
“Gilly! We’ve missed you!” one said. Cinnie was hername. It came back to Gillian all at once. Cinnie and Rowena. She gasped, the pain squeezing her head like a vise, blinding her.
She clutched her head, fighting against it. “How can this be . . .?” she heard herself ask from a distance. The pain was too great, crowding everything out. Yawning blackness opened before her, promising a refuge from the crippling pain.
The next thing she knew she couldn’t breathe—something crushed her chest and smelled of sweaty dog. Someone yelled her name.
“Bloody Christ!” A man. “Get Rose!” Her uncle Roderick.
“Gilly! Oh my God, Gilly!” A woman—her sister, Isobel.
“Get off,” Uncle Roderick said. A fierce growl rumbled through Gillian’s chest, resonating into her spine. She cracked an eye and saw wiry gray fur. Broc had stationed himself on her chest. No wonder she couldn’t breathe—the deerhound weighed at least seven stone.
Uncle Roderick reached for the dog again and it snapped at him, snarling viciously. Gillian couldn’t see her uncle, but she heard his sharp intake of breath. Then he whispered in Gaelic, his voice low and angry. “I command you—stand down, Beast!”
The growling died, replaced by a whine.
Gillian pushed at Broc and the dog moved off her, hovering over her face and licking her ear. The slurping was like a cannon, splitting her head. She groaned and feebly tried to move her head away.
Her uncle pushed the dog away; then his face wasover hers, frowning worriedly. “Can you speak, Gilly?”
She peered upward, catching sight of a crowd forming around her. She had to close her eyes, as moving them sent excruciating pain radiating through her skull.
“I think she fainted again,” Roderick murmured.
“No,” Gillian managed to force out between stiff lips. “I’m awake.”
Someone took her hand. It was cool and soft. “What happened, Gilly?” Isobel asked.
“I was trying to talk to Cinnie—” The pain stabbed her again. She cried out, trying to curl into herself, clutching her head.
“Move aside,” Rose said. Gillian heard the shift in the crowd around her, but she was afraid to move. Her head ached horribly, and she feared any movement would cause her to vomit.
Rose’s hands touched hers, moving them gently away from her head. “Let me see, darling,” she murmured. A cool hand pressed against her forehead.
An anxious voice from her other side asked, “What happened?” Kincreag. Gillian’s heart did a little leap, but she couldn’t move, afraid her head would split open.
Rose was silent. She knew what was wrong but was unwilling to speak of it among so many people. There was silence as Rose passed her hands over Gillian, trying to discover the cause of her pain.
“Gillian? Can you hear me?” The earl again.
Gillian tried to nod her head, but a wave of nausea rolled through her, and she moaned instead.
“Pick her up,” Rose ordered.
Strong hands were on her, and a moment later she was pressed into the warmth of Kincreag’s chest, his arms tight around her. As he carried her through the castle, she felt better by increments. He laid her gently on her bed, and she squinted up at him. He had turned away already to face Rose.
