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But when Graeme said it . . .

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of his hand against her.

Just as suddenly, his hand pulled back. Gillian’s eyes flew open to see the chief, not the husband.

“What is it?”

Graeme sighed, a painful sound she was sure held more meaning than she could unlock standing here among the oaks and pines just a few short hours from Lyndwood. But unlock it she would.

“We’d best be getting back.”

His hand dropped. For a moment, Gillian thought he’d kiss her again, but instead he took a step away from her, clearly intent on rejoining the men. With nothing else to do, she followed.

* * *

Lyndwood Castle, an old motte and bailey castle, its moat long since dry, was a modest holding for a man of Lord Lyndwood’s reputation. Though Gillian rarely spoke of her father, changing the subject every time he raised it, Graeme had heard plenty of tales about the man.

There were few secrets along the border. Some of the borderers had scattered north, moving deeper into the bosom of Scotland. Others had fled south, where the English king still cared enough to intervene. The men and women who remained all had one thing in common: pride. None wanted to admit the rising tensions might eventually be their downfall.

For the rest of them, protected only by March Law and their own alliances, life had not gotten much easier. Raids continued, though they were less bloody than they’d been before the Days of Truce. Blackmail and bribes were part of their way of life. But despite it, those who continued, perhaps foolishly, to believe Scottish and English could live peaceably less than a half-day’s ride apart—those like Clan Scott and Clan Kerr and Kenshire and Clave—would have to work together to survive.

And then there were traitors like Lyndwood.

“Allie!”

His wife dismounted more quickly than Aidan moved when he spotted a fallow buck.

He’d seen Gillian’s sister at Kenshire but had not really noticed her then. He thought back to Gillian’s description of her. She’d called her sister “sweet and lovely.” And indeed, she was lovely, but the sisters did not share much of a likeness. Whereas his wife was beautiful and dark, proper and perfect, her sister’s gold-kissed brown hair looked more like his own and her movements were far less reserved than Gillian’s.

“Gill, oh how I’ve missed you.”

He tore his gaze away from the women, allowing them their privacy, and concentrated instead on the rest of their greeting party. Namely, the man who’d betrayed him. Gillian’s father stood with his wife at the entrance to the keep. Dismounting, Graeme didn’t take his eyes off the baron who’d allowed Grace’s murderer to walk free.

Graeme could understand why the man held a grudge against him after the events at Kenshire. But now he felt neither guilt, nor remorse, for what he’d done. Marrying Gillian had been an unexpected boon of the May Day celebration, and despite the circumstances, he didn’t regret it for a moment.

Graeme dismounted and walked toward Gillian’s father. Neither man smiled. Indeed, it took every bit of restraint left to him not to strike the bastard down where he stood.

“Scott.”

Graeme stopped, surprised. He’d not have expected the man to acknowledge his position as chief of his clan. The greeting, though curt, was not without courtesy.

“Lord Lyndwood.”

He turned toward Gillian’s plain-looking mother, who resembled neither of her daughters. Where, indeed, had the women inherited their beauty, and each so different from the other? Certainly not from either parent.

“My lady.”

He took her hand, kissed it, and stood. She looked past him, at Gillian, who’d suddenly appeared at his side. And then her mother did something remarkable. She held out her hand, took Gillian’s, and squeezed it. No embrace. No words of welcome. Just a simple touch—the kind of greeting his mother would only have given him if he’d done something badly wrong.

As he listened to their exchanged greetings, Graeme studied the older woman’s expression. There was love there, but it was tempered by restraint—so unlike the much more natural connection between the two sisters.

“Do come inside,” her mother said, ushering the group into Lyndwood.

Everything about it was different than Highgate End. That both halls exuded cleanliness and order was about the only thing they had in common. The servants here moved slowly, deliberately, and none talked out of turn. And where Highgate had become a castle in just the last generation or so, Lyndwood’s décor—coats of arms and elaborate tapestries reenacting the feats of various English kings—clearly announced to visitors the Lyndwood family was old, connected, and important.

“As you can see, preparations are underway for the evening meal. Daughter?” The lady of Lyndwood indicated for Gillian to accompany her, and Gillian followed. The woman who had so passionately embraced him in the forest was not in this hall.

Or so he thought. The sparkle in her eyes when she turned to offer a final glance made him smile.