“Bring a chair for Laird MacKenzie,” Donal MacLeod ordered, mistaking his agitation. “And one for Callum.”
When the two men were seated, the MacLeod looked at Davy grimly. “There seems to be some question as to your right to wed my daughter.”
The Sinclair cleared his throat, and Donal shot him a sharp look. “First things first, Alasdair Og. We’ll get to the Sassenach’s part in the attempted murders after we decide which of the three lairds has the right to wed Gillian.”
“The lass was to be given to the man who won the most contests,” Padraig said, stepping forward. “The Sassenach won the contest of swords, though Davy says he cheated. I assume he’ll be disqualified anyway by the fact that he’s soon to hang.”
“Which makes Davy the winner, since he came second,” Donal said.
“But I won theGillie Callum,” Cormag said proudly. “And Davy lost that one.” He ran his eyes over Davy’s battered body. “I seem to recall the swords predicted his death.”
Davy raised his chin and suppressed a wince. He settled for sending Robertson a rude hand gesture to remind him he was very much alive.
“And the drinking contest was won by—” Padraig frowned. “Who won that one?”
“Depends,” Donal said. “The MacKenzies believe that the Sassenach should have lost when he played the chanter without the pipes—”
“Itwasa beautiful tune,” Cormag admitted. “But if he’s disqualified there, it means . . .” He glared at Davy. Davy couldn’t resist a grin, though it hurt.
“Which still leaves the hunting contest to be decided,” Padraig said. “I brought in a roe deer.”
“I caught three fine, fat salmon and a pair of grouse,” Cormag said.
“Grouse are out of season,” Padraig argued.
“But John Erly got a boar,” Isobel MacLeod interrupted.
Davy gaped at her.A boar? The other two lairds stared at her as well. “It’s roasting now,” she said, blushing. Her father sent her a quelling look.
“Doesn’t count if he’s going to hang,” Cormag grumbled. “Though I suppose he should have some of the meat for his last meal.”
“’Tis a fine feat, bringing down a boar,” Padraig admitted, rubbing his chin. “Was that before or after he killed Davy?”
Davy glared at him. “Och, I misspoke, Davy. Of course you’re still alive. Mostly,” Padraig said.
“It still sounds like John won most of the contests,” Alasdair Og Sinclair said.
“It doesn’t count,” Donal said stubbornly. “I won’t marry my daughter to a man who’d murder his rival.” He looked at Cormag and Padraig. “The two of you might have been next.”
Padraig smoothed his hand over his own throat.
“Even if you’ve decided to give Gillian to another man, I’d still like to speak for John. I cannot believe he did the things you suggest. He’s a good man, an honorable man,” the Sinclair said.
Davy pointed to him, hoping it signified agreement.
“The MacKenzie disagrees,” Donal said.
Davy met Alasdair Og’s eyes with a pleading glance. “Nay,” he mouthed the word. “Rabbie Bain.”
“Rabbits, did he say?” Cormag said. “Is this about the contest? Did ye have time to hunt after all, Davy?”
Davy pointed to his neck, then mimed shooting an arrow from a bow, at a rope.
“Looks like the hanging addled his wits,” Padraig said. “The Sassenach didn’t shoot ye, lad—he hanged ye.”
“Nay—he’s describing how the Sassenach strung him up,” Cormag said. “Do ye want us to shoot him with arrows, Davy, instead of hanging him?”
Davy glared at them. What gestures described a hero, a man who’d saved his life? He looked at Alasdair Og Sinclair, wondering where his angelic wee wife was now. He looked at Donal, made writing motions with his fingers.
