CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Davy was still writing as mayhem erupted. Padraig Grant was calling for a search party to be organized at once. The Robertson warriors were blaming the Grants for losing Gillian, and the brawl started all over again. Donal was questioning Meggie and Aileen, fearing the worst, wondering if he’d find that Gillian had eloped or was dead at the Sassenach’s hand.
But the door opened once more, and Gillian entered the hall with John Erly by her side, her hair tangled with leaves, her bruises shocking, her gown stained and rumpled, and her eyes as bright as stars. Everyone in the hall fell silent.
Donal wondered if his daughter had ever looked lovelier. His heart climbed into his throat, and he felt tears of relief in his eyes at the sight of her. She looked at the Englishman with a smile of such love and confidence that even Donal MacLeod heard the chime of the bells that signaled true love.
The Sassenach lowered a body to the floor.He’d killed another man.Donal was on his feet in an instant, reaching for his claymore.
But the MacKenzies began to roar and point, and Davy MacKenzie was on his feet, too, and the pot of ink before him spilled across the table like black blood, and he was pointing at the Englishman, limping toward him.
“Now, Davy, we’ll not shed blood in this hall before my daughters,” Donal said, but Davy had already reached John Erly. He gathered the Englishman in a warm embrace.
“Thank ye,” he mouthed. “Thank ye.”
* * *
Gillian stood by John’s side and looked at her father. “John brought me back, Papa. He didn’t hang Davy, Rabbie Bain did.” She looked at the unconscious man at her feet. “Rabbie is one of the outlaws who attacked us on the road to Edinburgh. You can ask the MacKenzies if you don’t believe me.”
Her father stared at her. “And ye captured him again?”
She ignored that. “If not for John, Davy would be dead, Papa. So would Callum, and I—” She turned to look at the Englishman. Davy stood beside him now. Callum struggled out of his chair and crossed to regard John silently. He took a place next to the Englishman as well, and looked at Donal.
Her father regarded John. John looked steadily back at him. “Ye could have escaped, eloped, taken her away,” Donal said. “Why didn’t ye?”
“You love her, and she loves you. I want your permission, Laird, because I love her as well.”
“And what if I said no?” her father demanded.
* * *
There had to be a trial, John had known that.
Donal MacLeod wouldn’t—couldn’t—give in so easily. Not with Cormag and Padraig still clamoring for a fair decision. Everyone wanted to hear the full story—all of it—in detail.
From across the hall, Dair grinned at him, and John nodded.
“I’ll have order, if you please,” Donal said. “We’re here to decide who won the contests and has the right to claim Gillian as his bride.
“Papa!” Gillian said again, but he held up his hand.
“Since the MacKenzie cannot speak, he has written down his testimony,” Fia said, taking the parchment to her father. He read it and looked up at Davy in surprise. “It says here that it was the outlaw Rabbie Bain who tried to hang him, who beat Callum MacLeod, and my daughter. Am I reading it aright, Davy?”
Davy blinked.
“And it also says that the Englishman severed the rope that hanged ye with an arrow shot that saved your life.”
A murmur went through the hall. Donal looked at John in surprise, and John held his gaze, keeping his expression flat.
Donal turned back to the letter, then glanced at Davy MacKenzie. “Laird MacKenzie also writes that he is withdrawing his proposal of marriage.”
Another ripple went through the hall, and people gaped at John. He felt his chest tighten. Gillian stood silently beside him, waiting.
Donal looked at Cormag and Padraig. John noted that the two lairds were staring at him, their mouths wide with grudging admiration. “Will ye also withdraw your proposals?” Donal asked them.
Padraig sighed loudly. He swiped his bonnet off his head. “I withdraw my proposal,” he said. “In favor of the Sass—” He paused “In favor of John Erly of Carraig Brigh.”
Donal frowned. “Who my daughter weds is up to me. What about ye, Cormag?”
