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Her sister was doomed.

Gillian found her mother before dinner, but their conversation led nowhere. Her mother was, as always, polite, understanding, and completely ineffective. The argument she put forward was a familiar one. Without Allie’s dowry, Lyndwood would be lost. It was the very reason she’d agreed to marry Covington herself, only she wouldn’t let her sweet, innocent sister bear the sacrificial burden.

In the end, she kissed her mother on the cheek, excused herself, and went in search of the only man who could change her sister’s future.

Unfortunately, her father was already seated at the high table, early for the meal as was his custom. Despite their reduced circumstances, Lyndwood continued to boast an impressive staff, including the cupbearer who filled her father’s mug with ale. Perhaps if they’d made more adjustments, the alliance with Covington wouldn’t have been needed.

“Good evening, Father.”

His beard, less closely shaven than usual and now dotted with gray, made him look older. She much preferred him clean-shaven.

“Daughter.”

So he was still upset with her. That he’d taken himself away with her husband without hardly a greeting should have told her as much, but it still hurt. This was the man who had betrothed her to the Earl of Covington, aye. But she also remembered him as the father who’d held her on his lap and told her tales of King Arthur. The one who had showed her how to mount a horse and hold a bow.

“I’d hoped to speak with you before the meal,” she said, stepping up onto the raised dais and coming around to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Mayhap if she pretended all was well, it would be. In the end.

“And here I am.”

She sat next to him, in the seat that had been hers before she became a Scottish clan chief’s wife. Her sister would sit here now, and she and Graeme would move farther down the dais.

“You are still upset with me,” she said, lifting her hand to get the attention of the cupbearer. She smiled as the boy filled her goblet with wine and tried not to dwell on her father’s dour expression.

“Upset? Indeed not. Lyndwood fares well in your absence.”

Oh, Father, please don’t do this.

“I am pleased to hear it,” she said, folding her hands on her lap. “Although”—she peeked out from under her lashes—“I cannot say I am pleased to hear of Allie’s impending nuptials.”

No response.

“Father.” Since he refused to be reasonable, she might as well speak her mind. “There must be another way. After what happened with Blackburn—”

“You know nothing of such things.”

Her temper flared. Gillian had spent a lifetime containing it, and for once, she nearly allowed it to take hold. But that would not do. Not if she wanted her father to listen. He’d always made it quite clear he did not abide emotional women.

“I know only what my husband has told me,” she agreed.

“And why would he have told you anything?” her father asked.

“Because she is my wife.”

She’d been so intent on studying her father’s face, looking for any signs of hope, that she had not noticed Graeme’s approach from the side of the hall. Though she was still deeply upset by his casual dismissal of her plan, Gillian would put her disappointment aside for the sake of appearances. After a lifetime with her mother, she found the appearance of civility came easily to her.

Gillian stood, gave her hand to Graeme, who kissed it so lightly she could hardly feel his touch, and allowed herself to be escorted to her seat. She watched as her mother and sister entered the hall.

“You were correct,” Graeme said politely. “Your sister is quite lovely.”

“And kind,” she offered. “Allie thinks more of others than she does of herself.”

Graeme stood as the women approached. “Sounds familiar.”

She glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye, only to immediately regret it. Though she was still angry with him, Gillian’s heart raced as she watched him greet her mother and sister. Had a more handsome man ever existed? Of course, there were other handsome men, nearly as good-looking as Graeme, who’d never caused her heart to beat at this furious pace. The Waryn men, or so she’d heard beyond Geoffrey, with their black hair and crystal blue eyes, sent women into an absolute frenzy, much to the dismay of Sara and her sister-in-law Catrina. But there was something about Graeme . . . his easy charm and fierce loyalty, his natural leadership, and the way he wielded his eyes as if they were weapons.

She sat and leaned forward to greet her mother, seated on the other side of her sister.

“Good evening, Mother.”