“Aye, his mind is gone,” Padraig said. He turned to Donal. “Ye can’t marry your lass to a man who’s—” He twirled his forefinger beside his ear.
“Does that mean the contest is down to the two of us?”
Davy felt frustration well. “Writing paper,” he mouthed the words. “Pàipear-sgìobhadh.”
“Waiting! I got that!” Cormag said. “He’s waiting. Or perhaps he wantsusto wait.”
“What for?” Padraig asked.
“The bride for one thing. If it’s down to the two of us, we can have our men bring her back.”
But the door opened, and Meggie and Aileen and Will MacLeod entered with twelve bruised and rumpled warriors.
“Where’s Gillian?” Donal MacLeod asked.
The door opened again and another MacLeod burst in. “The Sassenach has escaped! The cell is empty.”
Davy would have cheered if he’d had the voice to do it. Then Fia Sinclair pushed past him and limped across the room to Davy. “I’ve been looking for you, Laird MacKenzie.” She held up a sheaf of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. Gratefully, he blinked at her, ignored the mayhem around him, sat down, and began to write.
