Blackwell looked at the warriors surrounding him. He’d brought men of his own, but they were outnumbered.
“Ye cannae steal a laird’s daughter. The council will hear of this. Boyd, I demand an audience with the council now!”
“It doesnae matter, Grayson,” Skye declared, the hatred barely contained in her voice. Arran puffed out his chest with pride.
“What do ye mean, ye daft woman? Ye are mine to do what I want with.”
Skye held up their joined hands from beneath the folds of her dress, and Arran held up the papers. “Approved by the council. Ye have nae hold on her now.”
Blackwell was silent for a moment. Arran wondered if the man understood the implications of what he saw. And then he watched anger overtake him.
Blackwell raised a fist in the air, his teeth clenched and his face contorted with rage. “Nay!” he screamed. “Ye cannae do this. I willnae stand for it! I’ll see that ye lose everything, Laird MacArthur. Yer lands, yer keep, and yerwife!” He spat the last word.
Arran looked at Skye, but instead of being intimidated by Blackwell’s threats, she looked amused.
He squeezed her hand. “I can do it, and I have, old man. What’s done willnae be undone.”
“When I’ve taken all ye have, I’ll rip yer head clean off, ye bastard!”
“Watch yer words, Blackwell. Ye can start an unnecessary war if ye wish, but ye nay longer have power over Skye. She’s mine. Do ye understand?”
Blackwell seethed. Vile invectives spewed forth from his mouth.
Arran’s lips curled into a smirk. “And, that’s nay way to speak to yer new son-in-law.”
Laughter rang out in the courtyard.
Blackwell clamped his mouth shut and looked around. There was no support for him here.
“I’ll be back. This isnae over,” he warned.
He gave Skye a scathing look and then turned to leave.
Arran nodded toward one of his soldiers. The man knew his job was to follow Blackwell and make sure he didn’t come back.
Once Grayson and his men were out of sight, Arran turned to Skye, noting the relieved look on her face. “Do ye feel better now, wife?”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Aye, I do. But do ye think he will come back?”
“He will. I daenae think he will give up so easily.” Skye sighed, and he squeezed her hand once more. “I’ll handle him. For now, we have a wedding feast!”
Skye’s eyes went wide. “But Astrid wasnae supposed to?—”
“Can I borrow yer bride for a moment, me Laird?” Nellie interrupted. “I’m sure ye need to talk to yer men, and I’ll help her freshen up before the celebration.”
Arran reluctantly nodded and let go of Skye’s hand, but not before he placed a hand on her waist and gently pulled hertoward him. He planted a kiss on her lips, trying to breathe some reassurance into her.
He had her. He hoped he had proved it to her, and he would continue to do so as long as Blackwell continued to bother them.
“Come, me Lady, let me take ye inside,” Nellie said, nudging Skye along.
She followed Nellie up the main staircase and entered a large chamber at the front of the second-floor hall. This was Arran’s room. Or ratherrooms.
His chamber spanned the length of three rooms. A large stone fireplace dominated the far wall, and beside it sat a four-poster bed covered with a thick, woolen blanket. An oak chest of drawers stood in one corner next to a window that looked out over the courtyard.
Adjacent to the bedchamber, the sitting area boasted a small bookcase, a simple desk, and two high-back chairs upholstered in MacArthur tartan. The room was comfortable but masculine.
“These will be yer chambers now, me Lady,” Nellie said.
