“Rose fancies herself in love with her betrothed, Jamie MacPherson. But she refuses to marry him so long as I am ill. She has committed herself to nursing me to the end. My death will free her to be happy.”
“How selfless of you.” Nicholas shook his head in mock amazement. “I never thought I’d say this, but you’re a coward.”
Alan’s green eyes fired at the insult, and he seemed ready to leap out of bed to challenge Nicholas. But then the fire died, and he laughed softly.
“You think to shame me from my path? Fine, then. I can use shame, too. You owe me a life. Let it be my daughter’s.”
Nicholas closed his eyes and lowered his head to his hands. The dread that had pressed at his chest since he’d arrived settled in his gut. He couldn’t bear to hear these things. He did not want his friend to die. Did not want to do what Alan asked of him—and yet he was bound by their friendship and by the debt. He’d known he would be when he’d answered the missive by racing here. Had known, though he’d not admitted it to himself until this moment, that he would agree to whatever Alan asked. He had no choice.
Gillian paused outside her father’s chambers, her hand still on the door latch, ears straining, but with the doorclosed, she could hear nothing. She pressed her ear to the wood.
“What do you think you’re doing, Miss Gillian?”
She gave a little yelp of surprise and turned to look guiltily at Hagan. The enormous Irishman stood near by, waiting patiently.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
She glanced around the hall but saw no one except two small children playing in a far corner. A vague headache throbbed sullenly in her temples. She rubbed absently at it, then turned back to the door, pressing her ear close again.
“Now stop that, Miss Gillian,” Hagan said, a frown in his voice, but he made no move to stop her.
“I must hear what happens!”
Hagan caught her arm and pulled her away from the door. “You’ve been away too long, lass. You should know better than to eavesdrop. I’ll be telling your uncle if you don’t behave yourself.”
Gillian sighed. Hagan was right. Shehadbeen away too long. The only reason Alan had brought them home now was to see them married before he died. It had been a shock for all of them, as they’d not even known their father was ill. She’d lived in the Lowlands for the past twelve years. Glen Laire did not feel like home. Home was somewhere else, with other people. She’d have known if her foster father was dying, or even if he’d had a touch of ague. She’d lived more than half her life with the Hepburns. She knew nothing of Glen Laire and the MacDonells anymore. And yet her sistershad slid back into it so easily, as if they’d been born to it, and she hadn’t.
“Now be gone until your father sends for you,” Hagan said sternly.
Gillian went in search of her remaining sister. Isobel was in the west, living with her new husband, Sir Philip Kilpatrick. Only Rose and Gillian were left, and not for much longer. Kincreag had been Gillian’s last hope. If he didn’t marry her, it was the old Frenchman. Her father insisted. And besides, no one else would have her. It was laughable, really, though she couldn’t muster the will to laugh at it. She was the only one of the three sisters who had not inherited their mother and father’s magic. Alan was not a powerful witch, but he had a shine. Lillian had been a great witch, and Isobel and Rose were both gifted witches. Gillian was nothing. She didn’t even look like a MacDonell, with her brown hair and gray eyes. And yet she still carried the MacDonell taint. No one would touch her except the Frenchman.
Isobel and Rose were so fortunate. Isobel had married for love, and Rose would wed a man she’d known since they were children. There was fondness there, potential for deep love and contentment. Gillian knew nothing of her suitors except one was old and spoke no Scots, and the other, though relatively young and handsome, was supposed to be a murderer. But he didn’t want her anyway.
She found Rose in their chambers, mashing something in a small stone bowl. Her slender back was to Gillian, her white sleeves rolled up so the taut musclesof her forearms were visible. Thick, shimmering auburn hair hung sleekly down her back to her waist and trembled with her efforts.
“He’s here,” Gillian announced, throwing herself on the bed.
The grinding and mashing stopped. “So he came. I didn’t think he would—not after what Isobel did. Will he marry you?”
Gillian sat up and stared at her sister gloomily. Rose was not exactly beautiful, but she was striking. She had the fierce features of a Viking, broad forehead and narrow nose. A wide mouth and catlike dark blue eyes. Her body was lean and strong. Gillian had not yet seen her on horseback but deduced she was probably a skilled horsewoman. Men’s eyes followed her—several MacDonell lads seemed quite taken with her, though Rose was oblivious to anything but her healing.
“No. I put forth my case just as you instructed. I was strong and confident. I looked him in the eyes, just like you told me to. He was unmoved. He finds me ugly. And fat. And stupid. He looked at me like I was an unexpected worm in his apple.” Gillian sighed and dropped her head to her hands. “It’s to France with me.”
“You are not fat nor ugly nor stupid, and you know it. If he is blind enough to think so, then I say good riddance to the earl of Kincreag.”
Gillian wanted to agree, wanted to reject him as he’d so clearly rejected her. But she couldn’t. She wanted to be a countess. Wanted it more than she’d known. The disappointment weighed her down. If she were a countess, she’d finally be somebody. Countesses had duties.Countesses were respected. Countesses mattered. She felt certain that when she became one, she would be transformed into someone strong and brilliant, just like her sisters. She might not have magic, but she could have that.
And Kincreag was no old Frenchman. He was young and virile and handsome. Her insides tightened at the memory of his smile when he’d teased her. She pressed her fingers into her eyes. He’d not smiled at her or teased her. He’d smirked at her and mocked her. Her shoulders drooped further.
Rose’s hand touched Gillian’s shoulder, and she looked up. “Don’t despair. I’ll think of something.”
Rose’s words filled Gillian with more unhappiness. It washerlife. She wanted to be master of it, but she didn’t know how. If only she could be a countess. . . . She wished she could think of some way to win Kincreag. But she was out of ideas.
Rose dropped onto the bed beside Gillian and took her hand. There was nothing left to say. Gillian knew her sister was thinking furiously, auburn brows drawn together, blue eyes narrowed and distant. Rose was quick and clever. If she had no schemes, all truly was lost.
There was a sharp knock on the door. Gillian stood wearily and answered it. A man stood in the hall toying nervously with a loose thread in the crest upon his shoulder. The earl of Kincreag’s crest.
He dropped his hand and straightened importantly. “Lord Kincreag wishes a word with Gillian MacDonell.”
