“Faither, we must do this now!”
Father William took his place in front of the altar, and Magnus and Fionn took their seats.
Skye looked at Elsie, only to find her smiling.
She’s gone daft with fear…
“Arran, I think there’s something wrong with yer aunt.”
Arran turned to Elsie, frowning. “Auntie, are ye all right? Are ye frightened?”
Elsie raised an eyebrow. “Are ye jokin’’, lad? This is the most excitement I’ve had in over thirty years. Daenae worry about me. Ye get yerself married!”
“Me Laird, ye’re runnin’ out of time!” a guard yelled from the back of the church.
Arran stood ramrod straight, took hold of Skye’s hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and told Father William, “Be quick, Faither.”
The ceremony was over before it began. Vows were exchanged, but Skye didn’t remember them, and now a ribbon, draped gently around their hands, was proof that they were officially married. Arran leaned in and pressed his lips to hers, gently at first and then with an intensity that reminded her of their encounter on the fourth floor of the keep.
The door to the kirk opened. It was Ramsey. “He’s at the gate, me Laird. I cannae hold him off much longer without a fight.”
Arran broke the kiss and held Skye’s hand, the ribbon still wrapped about their wrists.
“Let him in!” he commanded. “We are done here.”
Skye let out a shaky breath and looked up at Laird MacArthur,her husband.
“Do ye want to face him, Skye? Ye daenae have to. I speak for ye now.”
That statement made her pause. He was right. Now that she was married, he would make decisions for her. And for a second, that was unsettling. But in his eyes, there was no arrogance or cruelty.
“I think I’d like to tell me stepfaither meself about our union,” she replied.
With Arran beside her, she felt more steadfast and confident than she had in a long time.
He took her hand in his again and nodded once. “Then ye shall.”
Hands clasped together, they left the chapel and walked toward the courtyard gate.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After taking only a few steps outside, Arran saw that a crowd had formed in the courtyard. It wasn’t hard to figure out why.
Grayson Blackwell’s tirade of curses, punctuated with threats against Clan MacArthur for kidnapping and holding his daughter, was heard by everyone in and out of the keep. But it stopped when he saw her.
Skye, in her wedding dress, stood directly before him. Arran and Ramsey stood on either side of her. Four more of Arran’s men flanked them, ready to attack.
“What! What is this?” Blackwell asked, gesturing dramatically in her direction.
“I can ask ye the same,” Skye replied coldly. “Why are ye here?”
“I think that is obvious, Daughter. Ye were taken against yer will, and?—”
“Nay, I wasnae,” Skye interrupted. “I never wanted to come back. I never wanted to stay. I left because I wanted to.”
Blackwell became even more angry. “Ye are me daughter, and ye are comin’ back with me now.”
“Nay, Blackwell. She stays. With me.” Arran’s men advanced on Blackwell, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.
