Callum tried not to see the irony as the nearest tavern was cleared out to make room for him, Rebecca, Margaret, Stapp, all the witnesses, magistrates, local soldiers, and the four clan Maxwell chieftains and one additional guest Dennis Kimes had managed to drag to Inverness, but the Seven Fathoms remained full of old, uncomfortable memories. And it still smelled of beer and piss, even after ten years away.
From the arguing going on at the front of the main room, the captain of the guard wanted him taken into custody, if only for the sake of appearance and to preventthe locals from rioting at the news that a clan chief had been murdered.
“Not murdered,” one of the men, a tall, dark-haired one with an English accent, retorted. “I witnessed it, myself, and I’ll swear before anyone you please that by his actions Lord Geiry saved his niece’s life.”
Ah. That would be the Duke of Lattimer, then. “I dunnae ken if ye’d be considered an impartial witness, Yer Grace,” the captain returned, confirming Callum’s suspicion. The tall lad had smarts enough to look uncomfortable, at least.
“I’m a clan Maxwell chieftain,” the second, much more familiar-looking man said. “Do ye consider me impartial? Because if Geiry hadnae taken the shot, I would have.”
“Lord Maxton, once again, I ken that this is very emotional for everyone. But we must be certain the letter of the law is being followed here.”
“Then put Stapp in irons and march him down to Fort William,” Graeme, Lord Maxton returned. “I took a gander at those ledgers, the same as everyone else here. I saw theft, and a damned fine reason for him and Dunncraigh to murder two people, just as Geiry says.”
“But Lord Stapp is now the Duke of Dunncraigh.” The captain took off his hat and ran a hand through his damp hair. “This isnae what I had planned for my evening.”
“What are they fighting about?” Margaret asked, sipping a very watered-down rum and looking sleepy despite the excitement of the past day.
“About whether to arrest your uncle or Donnach,” Rebecca replied, her arm still close around her daughter’s shoulders.
“Arrest him!” the bairn yelled, pointing a finger atwhere Stapp—the new Dunncraigh—sat, surrounded by soldiers. “He kitnapped me, and he shot my wolf!”
“Kidnapped,” her mother corrected calmly, and reached across the table for Callum’s hand. “I remember this tavern. Do you?”
“Aye. Never thought to set foot here again, though.”
Light blue eyes assessed him. “You would have given him all our rights to Sanderson’s.”
“Aye. I told ye I’d get Margaret back safe, whatever the cost. I would’ve told ye, but I wasnae certain what I’d need to use.”
“I was about to shout at him to just take the stupid fleet, that if he’d given any of us the choice last year we all would have done what you offered.” She looked at their entwined fingers. “He won’t hurt anyone else. Ever again.”
“My laird?” The captain of the guard stopped at the foot of the table.
“Aye?”
“In my opinion ye should take Lady Geiry and the wee lass home. I’ve talked to every witness, and nae a man but His Grace over there,” and he gestured at Stapp, “says ye could have done anything but what ye did.”
“And Stapp? Dunncraigh, I mean?” Callum returned. Because while Domhnall Maxwell had been stopped, he couldn’t yet say the same for his eldest son.
“Yer man says ye sent for soldiers from Fort William. I reckon we’ll hold him at the garrison until the Sassenachs arrive, and they can decide what to do with him. I hear the Old Bailey in London is for lairds going to prison, aye?”
“That’s what I hear,” Callum agreed. “Thank ye, Captain.”
Inclining his head, the officer walked over to whereStapp and his men waited. Donnach immediately began protesting, but a man used to naught but ordering others about was no match for a half-dozen strapping Highlands soldiers.
Turning to face Rebecca again, Callum squeezed her fingers. “Would ye say I’ve kept my word to ye, then? I know I kept my word to Dunncraigh.”
“Yes. You’ve more than kept your word, Callum.”
He smiled. “Good. Because while this is the last place in the world I’d care to do this, I have to know this damned minute: Will ye marry me now, Rebecca Sanderson-MacCreath?”
A tear ran down her cheek. “Yes. I will marry you, Callum MacCreath. Very, very, happily.”
He leaned across the table and kissed her, ignoring the subsequent stir around them. They would have to become accustomed to it. And there was a damned precedent for a marriage to the widow of a man’s brother, anyway, at least in the Highlands. And this was the Highlands.
“What is going on?” Margaret demanded, sloshing her drink against the table.
“Your uncle and I are getting married, Mags,” Rebecca said, touching his cheek with her hand.
