“Yes, she has. Did I tell you I resigned my commission? I realized I couldn’t help these people without being here full-time, body and s—”
A rifle shot rang out, the second one this morning. Before she could finish registering the sound, her brother was already at the window. “It means someone’s spotted riders approaching,” she supplied.
With a nod he strode to the door and pulled it open. “Find somewhere safe,” he barked, and vanished toward the front door.
Marjorie stood, ready to retreat to Connell’s room again, but stopped herself in the doorway. The two men in her life did share one thing—the inability to keep from reminding her to go hide. However long the animosity between Graeme and the Maxwell had existed, it was her presence that had brought it to a head. Likewise Gabriel wouldn’t even be here if not for her.
As Cowen hurried into the morning room, rifle in hand, to take his place by the window, she followed to crouch beside him. The butler lifted both bushy eyebrows at her. “Ye’re meant to be in the duckling’s bedchamber with the lad and Mrs. Giswell.”
“I prefer being able to see and hear. And I want to be closer to the door.”
“Laird Maxton’ll have my head if someaught happens to ye, lass.”
“It’s my decision. And I don’t plan on being foolish.”
He likely would have continued arguing, but Gabriel’s men flashed by outside, leading their mounts around to the back of the house. Did they mean to stay clear of this particular argument, then? From the standpoint of a soldier, it made sense to do so; her brother had no sound reason to wish to increase the antagonism between himself and clan Maxwell. Nor had he promised her anything, including his permission for her to wed Graeme.
A moment later everything looked as it had before, with Graeme and two older boys positioned behind the wagon and everyone else—such as they were—hidden in the house and among the trees. This time, though, she knew it was trouble approaching. The only question was whether it was Paulk, or Dunncraigh.
Roughly twice the number of men Gabriel had brought galloped up the drive, spreading into the semicircle she remembered all too well from yesterday. She even recognized some of the same men, from the one with his right arm in a sling to the previously distinguished-looking Sir Hamish Paulk, now with two black eyes and a thick swath of gauze across the middle of his face and tied at the back of his head.
Once her gaze found the mounted man on Paulk’s right, though, she didn’t look any further. White, close-cropped hair, deep-set green eyes, and an air about him that as much as said all these men belonged to him. A tremor ran up her spine. The Duke of Dunncraigh. This was the man to whom Brendan had wanted to deliver her, the man Paulk had attempted to drag her off to yesterday.
“I see ye ken ye’re in some trouble, Maxton,” the duke called in a flat, carrying voice. This conversation wasn’t just for the two of them; he meant for everyone around them to hear it, as well.
“I’m fine,” Graeme returned. “Ye’re the one who’s ridden into rifle range.”
“If yer objection is to Hamish trying to steal the prize ye meant to deliver to me yerself, then I reckon he earned a broken nose.” He tilted his head. “Is that what’s happened, lad? A simple misunderstanding?”
“Aye,” Graeme returned, to her abrupt confusion and dismay. Of course he would never give her to that man, but this sounded like he meant to antagonize his clan chief. Further antagonize him, rather.
Dunncraigh briefly looked surprised, as well, but the cool, stoic expression quickly settled over his face again. “Then mayhap ye’re nae a lost cause, after all. Bring oot the Sassenach lass, and ye’ll have my gratitude.”
“And how would having the lass help ye?” Graeme pursued.
Oh, she hoped Gabriel was listening. Anything to convince her stubborn brother that his wasn’t the only land that needed to be free of the Duke of Dunncraigh’s influence.
“Dunnae pretend ye’re innocent in all this, Maxton. What, were ye considering making an alliance with Lattimer against me? Turn her over to the bastard and say ye’d kept me from her?” The duke sneered. “Aye, that’s what it was, I wager. I’ll let it pass, though, if ye give her to me. Now.”
At the corner of the wagon Graeme looked as relaxed as if he was chatting with a friend about the lowering weather. “I was agreeing that we’ve had a bit of a misunderstanding,” he said coolly. “And so I’ve a counterproposal fer ye. Ye leave my land withoot the lass, and ye nae set foot on my property again, and I’ll send ye the tithes due ye. My cotters will still call themselves Maxwell, and ye and Paulk and his broken beak will stay well clear of us.”
For a heartbeat or two she hoped the duke would agree to those terms. It wouldn’t be perfect by any means, but it would likely leave Graeme’s tenants the most comfortable.
“And have ye go to Lattimer behind my back? Nae.”
She knew what would happen next. The insults would grow more savage, and then someone would shoot. Whether or not Gabriel’s men charged in, it would mean a battle. And because it was what she feared and dreaded most, Graeme would be killed. She strode for the door.
“Lass,” Cowen hissed. “Where are ye going?”
“To put a stop to this.”
“I reckon we’re at an impasse, then,” Graeme retorted, motioning for Dùghlas to move farther into cover. This was about to get bloody, and he needed to keep the lads safe.
Dunncraigh’s gaze moved beyond him, a very unsettling expression touching his face. “I’m nae so certain weareat an impasse,” he drawled. “Welcome, Lady Marjorie Forrester. I’m glad ye dunnae see the point of hiding behind thisamadan.”
“What doesamadanmean?” she asked in a calm voice, moving around the wagon and into the open.
Bloody hell. Graeme wanted to grab her, tackle her to the ground. Moving toward her now, though, would very likely encourage someone to start shooting. This wasn’t her brother she’d decided to confront. This was a man who thought of nothing but his own power and pride. He took a shallow breath, ready to move if anyone dared approach her. “It means ‘fool,’” he said flatly.
