CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Donal rode into the bailey and began barking orders. “Fetch Ada to see to Callum and Laird MacKenzie. Prepare for a wedding tonight, and a feast to follow it.” He glared at John’s unconscious body, lying face down over a garron. “And there’ll be a hanging to follow that. Take him back to the dungeon for now.”
He waited while his men dragged the Sassenach off the garron and carried him away before he turned to his steward. “Now about the wedding—”
“Papa!” Donal turned to find Fia coming through the gate with her husband and children and an escort of Sinclairs. Fia handed the babe in her arms to a nursemaid and climbed off the garron, her eyes bright. “Did I hear you say wedding? How wonderful! When John said he was coming, and Dair told me why, I feared you’d hang him, or worse. But now—”
Donal pulled away. “Ye knew? Ye knew he was coming here, and ye didn’t stop him? Iamgoing to hang him.”
Fia blanched. “You can’t!” She caught her father’s sleeve. “It’s very important we speak to John at once.”
“He tried to kill three men—and Gillian!”
“John? English John? John Erly?” Fia turned to Dair.
Dair frowned. “John is my friend. I’d know more about what’s happened here.”
The babe was fussing in the nurse’s arms, and Donal crossed to take his new granddaughter. The child had russet hair and golden-green eyes like her mother—and Gillian. He looked at up at her parents. “Come inside, and I’ll tell ye the whole ugly tale.”
But a voice rang out across the bailey. “A word if ye please, Laird MacLeod.” Donal looked up to see Padraig Grant and Cormag Robertson striding toward him.
“Ye promised us a fair contest,” Padraig said.
“And yet we hear Gillian is to marry Davy MacKenzie this very day,” Cormag said.
“No one’s been declared the winner as far as we’ve heard,” Padraig said. “And if someone’s won, it surely wasn’t Davy MacKenzie.”
“I have my reasons,” Donal said stubbornly. “The wedding will take place in my hall, at supper.”
“If that’s so, your hall will no’ be standing by then,” Cormag said. “We want a hearing, a clear winner of the contests determined before anyone weds Gillian.”
Donal handed his granddaughter back to her mother and glowered at them. “I’ve made my decision. The MacKenzie has won, and he’ll wed my daughter tonight. You’re welcome to stay for the wedding or take your leave as ye please.”
Padraig looked at Cormag. “So be it,” he said, and the two lairds turned on their heels and strode away.
* * *
Gillian returned to the clearing, but her father had gone.
She saw the horror in her sisters’ eyes as they looked around at the blood and the rope and the trampled grass.
Gillian turned to go. “We’ve got to catch up with Papa.”
They’d nearly reached Glen Iolair when a dozen men rode up, half of them Grants, and the other half Robertsons. They pointed their swords at Cam.
“Ye’ll forgive us, mistress, but we were sent to fetch ye,” one of the Robertsons said to Gillian. “You’re to be our prisoner—”
“And ours,” a Grant added.
“Until a fair decision has been made as to who you’ll wed,” the Robertson continued. “We’ve got our pride, mistress. We’ll not let ye throw over our laird to wed Davy MacKenzie unless he won the contest right and proper.”
“Which he didn’t,” the Grant said. “Our laird won.” He looked at the Robertson. “Should we tie her up?”
The Robertson squared his shoulders. “She’s going to be the next lady of Drumellin. I will not tie her.”
“She’ll be the lady of Gilmossie,” the Grant replied, and both clans glared at each other.
Another Grant indicated a fallen log and gallantly laid a plaid over it. “If you’d please be seated, mistress—we’ll just have a wee wait while our lairds arrange things.”
