'You look… pretty,' he blurted out.
Judith agreed. Gillian's long hair had dried into a riot of curls that spilled across her slender shoulders and framed her delicate facial features. She was a striking woman who was going to cause quite a stir tonight, Judith predicted.
'Mama, Papa bids you come downstairs right this minute. He says, 'Can't you hear the music?' Everybody's here, and they're ready to eat the food. Gillian, you got to come downstairs too. Uncle Brodick said so.'
'Judith, you go ahead,' Gillian said. 'I've gotten this bandage all wet, but I'm supposed to take it off, anyway.'
Judith wanted to help, but Gillian insisted she join her husband. Once she was alone, she sat back down and slowly unwound the bandage, dreading what she was going to see. The wound was more appalling than she'd expected, but thankfully it wasn't seeping, and the swelling appeared to be gone. The skin was puckered, blistered in spots, raw, and horribly ugly. She reminded herself it was a sin to be vain and she shouldn't care about scars. Besides, the arm would always be covered by the sleeves of her gowns, and no one other than herself would ever see it. The injury was still extremely tender to the touch, though, and she grimaced while she cleaned the area with soap and cool water. By the time she was finished following Annie Drummond's instructions, her arm was throbbing.
She patted the skin dry, pulled the sleeve back down to her wrist, and put the matter of her paltry injury aside. There were so many more important matters to worry about. Her thoughts turned to her Uncle Morgan. Was he being treated well? If his own staff had been allowed to stay with him, Gillian knew he would do all right, but if Alford had moved him…
She buried her face in her hands.
The sound of laughter intruded on her prayers, and with a sigh, she stood up and reluctantly went to join the Maitlands.
Chapter Thirteen
Just as Judith had predicted, Gillian did indeed cause a commotion.
Quite a crowd had gathered to celebrate Alec's return, and the mood was festive and loud. The hall was awash with candlelight. A young man was playing the lute in the corner as servants threaded their way through the throng balancing silver trays of drinks. A pig roasting on a spit was being watched over by an older woman with a poker in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. She used the spoon as a weapon to discourage the soldiers from tearing off pieces of meat before it was ready to be served.
The lively music and joyful banter surrounded Gillian as she surveyed the great hall. She started down the stairs, and suddenly the music stopped. The lute player looked up, and then one by one the voices hushed as men and women turned their faces toward her.
Brodick was in the process of answering yet another question Iain had posed when he happened to glance up and see Gillian slowly descending the steps. He promptly lost his train of thought. He forgot his manners too, for he was in the middle of a sentence when he abruptly turned his back on his brother and his friend and walked to the stairs.
While Brodick had certainly noticed her shape before, the gentle curves of her body were more obvious to him now. He didn't much like the cut of her gown, thinking it flattered her figure a bit too much, and he seriously considered fetching another Buchanan plaid and draping it around her neck so that it would hang down and hide her feminine attributes from the spectators. Damn, but she was lovely.
Gillian took one look at the scowl on Brodick's face and felt a sudden urge to turn around and go back upstairs. But she was already halfway down and wasn't about to look like a coward by retreating now. The attention was mortifying, the silence defeaning. Several men, she noticed, appeared startled; others looked befuddled. Only Brodick's soldiers, loyal men, Robert, Stephen, Liam, Keith, and Aaron, smiled at her, and she decided to look at them and ignore the crowd, and Brodick, as she continued on.
Brodick wasn't about to be ignored, however. He waited at the bottom of the steps, and when she finally reached him, he put his hand out. Hesitantly, she placed her hand in his and looked up at him. Embarrassed to see that he was still glowering at her, she smiled sweetly and whispered, 'If you do not stop glaring at me, I swear I will kick you soundly. Then you will have something to frown about.'
He was so startled by her puny threat, he burst into laughter.
'You think you could injure me?'
'Undoubtedly.'
He laughed again, a wonderful booming sound, and, Lord, how his eyes sparkled with devilment. She suddenly felt much more in control and sure of herself. She barely minded her audience at all. Besides, they couldn't gawk at her now, because Brodick's men surrounded her on all sides as was their peculiar habit.
'Laird, you shouldn't allow the Maitlands to stare at milady. It's unseemly,' Robert muttered.
'And how would you have me stop them?' he asked.
'We'll be happy to see to that task,' Liam offered, a glint of eagerness in his voice.
'Aye, we'll make them forget about their lustful thoughts,' Stephen muttered.
Shoving an elbow into Liam's side, Aaron said, 'Don't use the word 'lust' in front of milady.'
Blessedly, the music started again, and the crowd resumed their celebration.
Brodick continued to hold her hand as he answered a question Liam had asked, and since he wasn't watching her, she pretended to be listening to what he was saying so she could stare at him. He was so ruggedly good- looking, she wondered if he had any idea how he surely affected women.
He also looked dangerous tonight, with his long golden hair about his shoulders and his day's growth of whiskers. He'd obviously washed, as his hair was only partially dry, and he was wearing a clean white shirt that either he had packed with him or Iain had loaned to him. His skin looked even more bronzed against the white fabric, and a strip of Buchanan plaid was draped over one of his broad shoulders.
He caught her watching him. The gleam in his eyes made her feel breathless, and she had a sudden urge to move into his arms and kiss that scowl right off his face. She sighed instead and thanked God the man couldn't read her unladylike thoughts.
'I say we take the Maitland soldiers outside and have a word with them, Laird,' Robert suggested.
'A fist is more powerful than a word, Robert,' Liam said. 'What say we take them all on?'
Gillian hadn't been paying much attention to the Buchanan soldiers' grumblings until she heard the word 'fist.'
'You will not fight tonight,' she ordered. 'This is a celebration, not a brawl.'
'But, milady, a good fight is always cause for celebration,' Stephen explained.
'Are you telling me you enjoy fighting?'
The soldiers looked at one another, obviously perplexed by her question. The usually dour-faced Robert actually grinned.
'It's what we do,' Liam told her.
Gillian kept waiting for Brodick to put a stop to the outrageous talk, but he didn't say a word. When she squeezed his hand, he merely retaliated by squeezing hers.
'I don't care if you enjoy fighting or not,' she began. 'Laird Maitland will be most displeased if you cause trouble tonight.'
'But, milady, his soldiers continue to stare at you. We can't allow that.'
'Yes, you can.'
'It's insolent,' Stephen explained.
'If anyone is staring, then it's my own fault.'
'Aye, it is your fault.' Brodick finally spoke. 'You're too damned beautiful tonight.'
She couldn't make up her mind if she was pleased or irritated. 'Only you could make a compliment sound like a criticism.'
'It was a criticism,' he told her. 'You simply cannot look the way you do and expect to be ignored. It's your own fault people are staring at you.'
She jerked her hand away from his. 'And just exactly what could I do to change the way I look?'
'It's your hair, milady,' Aaron said. 'Perhaps you could bind it up for tonight and cover it with a cloth.'
'I'll do no such thing.'
