CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Her father dragged John away from her, and Gillian’s clansmen immediately surrounded her, their swords drawn and pointed at John. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Gillian tried to shove them aside, but they stood firm, wouldn’t listen. She saw the rage in her father’s eyes, heard the terrible accusation as he looked around the clearing, saw the injured men. She saw her father’s fist fly, and watched John fall next to Davy and lay still.
“No!” she screamed, shoving at her immovable kinsmen. “No, Papa, please—he didn’t do this!”
But Donal glared at her. “He’s the only one standing. He’s covered with blood, and he’s holding your dirk in one hand and you in the other. I warned ye Sassenachs couldn’t be trusted, that they’re treacherous and vicious. They have no honor, not a shred of kindness or decency.”
“It’s not true! Papa, it isn’t true!”
But he wasn’t listening. “The maid told me ye weren’t in your room when she took your breakfast up. I feared ye’d run off with him. I never imagined—” She saw the anger in his eyes, the fear of what might have happened.
“He didn’t do this—” But her father turned away, his expression hard, the Fearsome Laird of Glen Iolair now, not her papa.
“Take her home to Ada at once,” he ordered two of the clansmen. “Tell Ada we’re bringing back three injured men that need tending.”
But there were four. “Papa,” she whispered. “John didn’t—”
He silenced her with a terrifying glare. “You’ve tried my patience long enough, Gillian. Go home and make yourself ready—ye’ll wed Davy MacKenzie this evening.”
The flat pronouncement stunned her, and Gillian stared at her father. “Oh, Papa, no,” she whispered, but he ignored her.
“Tie the Sassenach dog and take him back. Tell the steward to prepare for a hanging.”
Gillian screamed, fought the unyielding yet careful grip of her clansmen as they lifted her up onto a garron, held her there. “Papa, please! Ask Davy, ask Callum—it wasn’t John!” She pointed desperately at Rabbie’s still form, but her guards rode out, oblivious to all but their laird’s commands, and all her struggles were for nothing.
* * *
Donal stared at the fallen Englishman. He was covered with blood, his clothes and his hair soaked in it. Callum’s no doubt, and Davy’s—and Gillian’s—though he could hardly bear to think of that now. Davy MacKenzie was thrashing on the ground, making a terrible grating noise, and Donal knelt beside him.
Davy gazed up at him, his eyes bloodshot, his breathing labored. Raw, red rope marks circled his throat.
“We got him, lad. You’re safe now, and so’s Gillian,” Donal MacLeod said. Davy tried to speak, but only an ugly hiss came from his injured throat. He gripped Donal’s plaid in his shaking fist and pointed at the man sprawled next to him. Donal turned the man over. He’d not seen him before, but perhaps he was one of Davy’s ghillies, here to help the laird carry the game today in the contest.
The contest.
Donal looked around, but there was no evidence of even so much as a snared coney. He frowned. Davy MacKenzie hadn’t had a chance to hunt before the Sassenach caught him. He never should have let the bastard out of the dungeon. Davy shook him again, and Donal unwound himself from the MacKenzie’s grip as gently as he could.
“Aye, Davy, I can see—the English bastard killed your ghillie, did he? Don’t worry, I’ll make him pay—I’m going to hang him.” Davy hissed again, and across the clearing, Callum groaned, tried to rise, and fell back. “See to Callum,” Donal ordered his men.
He tried not to grimace as he looked at the young man’s battered face. It had been a hard beating, brutal. The lad’s jaw was likely broken, and though he was conscious, his agony was evident. His left arm hung at an awkward angle, and he groaned in pain as his fellow clansmen lifted him, carried him as gently as they could. He gripped Donal’s hand as they led him past, leaving gore and mud on his skin. He likely wanted to thank his laird for saving them all from the Sassenach, Donal thought as he clasped Callum’s hand. “I ken what you’re trying to say, lad. We’ll see ye right. Ye did your best to protect Gillian, and I’m proud of ye. Can ye ride?”
Callum pointed to John.
Donal nodded. “Aye, lad. I ken. He’ll pay with his life.” He looked at Callum’s bearers. “Handle him gently.”
Callum tried to shake his head, but the pain was too much, and he passed out. Donal sighed. “Probably best if he’s not awake for the ride back.”
His men helped Davy onto a horse, ignoring his grunting and gurgling and frantic points at the unconscious Sassenach and the sprawled ghillie as they led the Mackenzie’s horse out of the clearing.
Donal glared down at the Englishman that Gillian loved. She’d seen for herself the kind of man he truly was now. Donal added breaking Gillian’s heart to the Sassenach’s tally of crimes. He looked at the rope dangling from the tree. It would be very easy to simply hang him now.
“Throw him over a horse and take him back,” he said.
* * *
Gillian fought the clansman who held her in the saddle before him. “Please—John Erlysavedus! My father’s wrong!”
Cam MacLeod looked pained, his face red with the effort of keeping his laird’s daughter under control without hurting her any worse than she already was.
