That was true. After their mother was burned for witchcraft, Alan sent his daughters away for their safety, each hidden from the world and from each other. For twelve years.
Gillian raised her chin again, fixing him with a determined, gray stare. “I would be a good countess.”
He rubbed his chin with his thumb and studied her, amused and intrigued by her false bravado. “And this has nothing to do with your betrothal to the Frenchman?”
Her expressive skin flushed. “Well. Aye. Of course.”
“My heart palpitates. I am the lesser of two dreadful fates. I am thus wooed.”
Her brows drew together. “Wooed? I am not wooing you!”
“Obviously.”
“My lord!” she said, a shrill edge to her voice. “You never speak, and when you do, you make no sense. Women do not woo.”
“We don’t know the same women.”
She seemed completely bewildered. In truth, in his amusement at teasing her, he’d forgotten for a moment the deceit that had brought him here. Her eyes widened with comprehension, and she took a deep, shaky breath, her ample bosom rising.
“I understand. You have many other opportunities. I have been impertinent. Forgive me.”
He raised a hand to stop her, but it was too late— she’d scurried to the door and was gone. He stared at the closed door several seconds, discomfited. He had not intended to upset her. He shook his head at himself. He didn’t want to marry her anyway, so what did he care?
He returned his attention to the bed and found Alan watching him. How long had the old fool been awake?
Nicholas moved closer to the bed. “I nearly killed my horse to get here. Yet you look quite well . . . considering.” He did not look well now that Nicholas examined him closer without the distraction of Gillian. He looked nothing like the good friend Nicholas had known most of his life. The man in bed was a pale shade of his former self. But still, it was an improvement over the last time Nicholas had been here.
“Really?” Alan said, pleased. “Nearly killed your horse? Well, and here I didn’t think you’d even come.”
“Clearly you’ll live to see the daylight. So why am I here?”
Alan looked a bit abashed, but he met Nicholas’s eyes directly. “I knew of no other way to bring you back here. Your replies to my letters were distant . . . and I could not come to you.”
A heavy cloud of dread enveloped Nicholas. He’d been afraid of this. He owed Alan his life—a debt the chieftain had never called—and yet Nicholas felt the weight of it, knowing Alan’s time was short.
The deerhound pushed past, laying its snout on the bed as if to solicit affection, watching Nicholas with those strange eyes.
“Now that I’m here,” Nicholas said carefully, “I’m glad I came. I have much to say . . . but on the matter of marriage, I’ve not changed my mind.”
Alan stroked the hound’s wiry fur. “But if you’d just get to know her. Spend some time—”
“No.” Nicholas’s voice was forceful, but he felt himself faltering.
Damnation. Nicholas would not be forced into marriage. He’d given in to Alan grudgingly the first time because of the life debt—protecting Alan’s daughters had seemed fair payment of it. Scotland was a dangerous place these days, with women burning for witchcraft nearly every other day. Alan’s first wife, Lillian, had been burned for witchcraft, and it was said that his daughters were fey, too. There were few prospects for women carrying the taint of sorcery. Alan had asked Nicholas if he would marry his eldest daughter, Isobel, knowing Nicholas’s title and honor would protect Isobel and her sisters. Nicholas had needed a wife, but the suitable women in Scotland, though eager enough tobecome countesses, had not appealed to him. He’d accepted that he might never marry again. There had been relief in acceptance, partnered with loneliness, but he could have lived with that.
And then Alan had offered him Isobel.
She was the oldest and practically an heiress. Should Alan’s half brother, Roderick, die without issue, as it seemed he would despite years of plowing the barren fields of three wives, Glen Laire would pass to Isobel’s husband. And so they had been betrothed . . . until she’d run off with some Highland knight.
Alan sighed deeply. “I’m sorry I deceived you. But it wasn’t a complete untruth. I don’t know how it is I live still. Most days I cannot even eat. Rose forces water down my throat with her disgusting concoctions. I haven’t walked on my own legs in three months. I tried, yesterday, and fell. Hagan scolded me, then turned Rose loose on me.” Alan shuddered. His eyes turned up to Nicholas’s, mournful in the folds of loose skin. “I don’t know how I can go on like this . . . I can’t see it getting any better. I’m still here because of Rose and her healing, but even she cannot fathom what is wrong or how to end it. And this . . . this existence . . .” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Well, it’s unacceptable. I want to see Gillian well married. Then I can go in peace.”
Nicholas stared down at his friend, vague alarm quickening his pulse. “It’s a sin, what you speak of.”
Alan’s gaze stabbed him. “You’re one to speak of sins. Besides, is it not a mercy to end a beast’s suffering? Why is a man any different?”
There was a stool nearby. Nicholas hooked his footaround the leg and drew it near, lowering himself onto it so he was closer to Alan’s level.
“What of Rose? You’ve said she’s the most willful of the lot and she’s determined to heal you.”
