“Oh, thank the lord,” Kirsten gasped and pulled Finley into an embrace, and Dand Blair knelt on the other side of her.
“Lachlan?” Finley asked of no one, of everyone, even as she struggled free of Kirsten’s hold to see for herself around the shapes of the legs blocking her view. “Lachlan!” she screamed.
“Doona try to get up, Mistress,” Dand advised. “You’ll only find your seat again. He’s coming.”
And Dand was right: There was Lachlan, pushing through the crowd, rushing to her side and gathering her into his arms once more.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, running her left hand over his chest, up to his face, searching his eyes with hers.
“Nay,” he said with a shake of his head.
She didn’t want to ask—she already knew—but… “Murdoch?”
“Your arm needs tending. Kirsten, Dand, take her to Mother Bl—”
“Nay,” Finley said. “I’m not leaving. Harrell—”
“Oh my lord,” Kirsten breathed, and everyone’s attention was drawn to the edge of the green once more, where Harrell Blair still lay.
Marcas pulled the crossbow from Harrell’s hands and flung it to the ground behind him, and now he stood over the blubbering, pleading, wide-eyed Harrell, who held up his palms before his face.
“I wasna trying to shoot Lachlan, Marcas. I wasna,” he rushed.
Marcas’s voice was icy, monotone. “The only reason you didna is because Murdoch Carson gave his life to protect my son.” He stared at him. “You would have killedmy son. Instead, you killed the Carson chief. And for that—and so many other wrongs you have committed—you will pay. You will pay now.”
“There has to be a council,” Harrell stammered. “The fines must be called. They will decide my fate. It’s the law, Marcas! It’s the law!”
“Iam the law,” Marcas said, and he brought his sword before him, tip pointing toward the earth, both hands wrapped around the hilt. He raised his clenched hands above his head.
Harrell screamed. “Nay!Nay!”
Lachlan pulled Finley’s face against his chest. An instant later, Harrell’s scream ended.
When Finley looked again, Marcas was turning away from the body of Harrell Blair, his bloodied sword tip dragging the ground as he faced the crowd of shocked, grieving Carsons and Blairs gathered on the green.
“It’s over,” he cried out hoarsely in the eerie silence, and flung his arm about. “Do ye hear? It’s all over, as of now. What I said earlier, that I am not Town Blair’s rightful chief; it is truer than I realized.” He walked to the center of the green, where Geordie Blair and Finley’s own father knelt at the side of Murdoch Carson’s dead body. Once there, Marcas laid down his sword carefully and then straightened, his hands going to the ties of the old shawl. As his fingers worked at the knot, Geordie Blair rose to his feet.
“What’s he doing?” Lachlan murmured.
But Finley knew in the instant before Marcas once more began to speak.
“Geordie Blair, firstborn child and only son of Archibald Blair, this belongs to you, by the laws of our clan.” Marcas draped Archibald’s old shawl around the man’s neck.
Beneath her hand, Finley felt Lachlan still. She looked up at him. “He’s Edna’s brother, Lachlan,” she said. “Don’t you see? It’s why he wept when he learned who you were. He’s your uncle. Your family.”
Lachlan’s handsome face, sweat- and dirt-streaked, was drawn into a pained frown. He said nothing, only looked back to the center of the green, where Geordie Blair’s odd, bulging eyes were already watching him closely.
“Me father never wanted aught to do with me,” he said. “Archibald. Was ashamed of me. I reckon he had reason. Never was clever.” He glanced down at the body of Murdoch Carson, whose face Rory had covered with the man’s shawl.
He looked back up at Lachlan. “You saved my life, Edna’s son. My Edna’s son. Me own little sister. Reckon you didna ken who I was.”
Lachlan shook his head slightly.
“Edna’d be proud,” Geordie said with his bobbing nod. “Tommy, too, I reckon.” His gaze roamed around the green for a long, quiet moment, as if he wanted the people gathered there to have a good, long look at him. “They’d nae be proud of what’s gone on here, though. By neither o’ the clans. Marcas’s right: It ends now. It must. We canna put right everything that’s happened. But, sure, we can be right going on.” Geordie began walking toward where Lachlan and Finley held on to each other.
Finley felt an expanding of her chest—pride perhaps—but then a chill rushed in as Lachlan again moved away from her.
Geordie stood before Lachlan. “As the Blair,” Geordie announced loudly, and then his toothless mouth crooked in a self-conscious grin, “I call Lachlan Blair, me own nephew, chief of Town Blair.” Geordie removed Archibald’s shawl and draped it around Lachlan’s neck. He patted it in place over Lachlan’s wide shoulders almost tenderly.
