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“You were speaking of Emma.”

“Indeed.” As he talked, it became easier to get the words out. To put the thoughts he’d been mulling over into words. “I thought it would be as good an alliance as any. Although the clan elders may have felt otherwise, I’d never been against marriage to an Englishwoman. Especially one whose ties to the borderlands could provide further inducement to peace.”

“Did you love her?”

It was the same question his brother had asked. The answer came easily enough. “Nay, I did not love Emma Waryn. I only admired her.”

“Catrina?”

Now that was a more difficult question to answer. Graeme tapped the side of his goblet.

“I did love her.” Seeing Gillian’s expression, he rushed to finish. “As one would love an old friend. Which is exactly what she is to me. A friend. I am glad she married Bryce.”

And he was. He’d been telling himself that for a long while, wondering if it were really true. He’d avoided speaking about the two women who had spurned him, but he meant every word he’d said to Gillian. The rejection still stung, but he was happy they’d married other men.

His glass empty, Graeme stood and held out his hand to Gillian. When she simply looked at it, he said, “We cannot break the agreement for such a simple thing? I wish only to hold your hand.”

She didn’t look convinced.

“That is all, I promise.”

Though I very much wish it could be more.

When she put her goblet on the table and took his hand, Graeme set his own goblet aside and led her to their bed. Climbing inside, he lay next to her and thought of their discussion. One of many that had left him feeling . . . exposed.

But not altogether bad. In fact, he enjoyed these intimate moments with her and looked forward to them each day. He looked over to tell her just that, and not surprisingly, his wife was already asleep. The woman really did have an uncanny ability to fall asleep quickly.

He took her hand once more, enjoying its easy warmth, knowing he was in for another long, uncomfortable night.

And not simply because he could not ravish his own wife. But because, when she’d asked if he loved Emma or Catrina, the answer that had almost spilled from him was as frightening as it was exciting.

Nay, he did not love either of those women in that way.

But he did love his wife.

27

“My lady, come quickly.”

Gillian had just been prepared to inspect the herb garden when Morgan called to her.

“What is it?” she said, alarmed by her maid’s tone. Her cheerful friend had never sounded so morose.

“’Tis Fiona.”

Her hands began to tremble as she followed Morgan through the inner ward and toward the granary, the two of them almost running. “She isn’t talking or moving, just lyin’ there.”

A crowd had begun to gather, but Gillian pushed her way through them. Just as Morgan had said, Fiona was lying on the ground. The young stableboy was leaning over her, his eyes wide.

“She’s no’ yet dead,” he said.

Please God, spare this woman. Please.

Gillian knelt at her side and took Fiona’s hand. It was warm, but she did not look good. It seemed as if all of the color had drained from her face.

“Did someone send for a physician?” she called, trying her best to remain calm.

By the blank stares, Gillian surmised Highgate had no physician. “A healer then, get—”