* * *
John woke facedown on the floor of the dungeon. For a moment he lay still and took stock of his injuries. His ankle hurt, and the gash the boar’s tusk had left in his leg was crusted with blood and throbbing. His face was bloody, too—but whether it was his, or the boar’s, or Gillian’s, he wasn’t sure. And his jaw hurt, pounded to a swollen pulp by Donal MacLeod’s fist.
He sat up and leaned against the wall. Judging by the shadows coming through the narrow barred window to stripe the floor, it was late afternoon. Outside, someone was pounding on something with a hammer, and the noise rang in his skull painfully.
An armed MacLeod warrior he didn’t know was standing guard outside the locked door of his cell.
“What’s that noise?” John asked.
The man grinned at him. “Scaffold. There’s to be a wedding, and a hanging.”
“Which one’s first?” John asked.
“The wedding. Gillian MacLeod is to wed Davy MacKenzie. And once the bride and groom have ridden away, ye’ll hang. Any last requests?”
* * *
Isobel and Aoife entered the hall with Hew MacLeod.
“What have you two been up to?” Donal demanded.
“We’ve brought a boar,” Aoife said.
Donal frowned. “A boar?” He glanced at Hew. “Weren’t you one of the men I ordered to bring Gillian home?” A thought occurred and Donal leaned forward in his chair. “Don’t tell me that Gillian stopped to kill a boar on her way home. Where is she now, dressing it?”
Isobel laughed. “Gilly didn’t kill it, Papa. John Erly did, for the contest.”
Donal felt something roaring in his head. “When the devil did he . . .” he began.He’d been busy hanging Davy MacKenzie, hadn’t he?
He rubbed his forehead. “Then where’s Gillian?” he asked again.
Aoife’s brow furrowed. “We thought we’d find her here with you.”
Donal glared at Hew. “I brought the younger lassies home, Laird. And the boar.”
Isobel clasped her hands together anxiously. “Gilly went to find you. She wanted to convince ye not to hang John Erly. He—”
Donal held up his hand. “I’ll not hear it. Hew, take five men and find Gillian. She’s probably sulking, thinking I’ll change my mind. I won’t. I’ve made my decision. She’ll marry Davy MacKenzie.”
But before Hew could obey, the door opened again, and Cormag Robertson and Padraig Grant returned. “Laird MacLeod, since ye can’t see your way clear to making a fair decision, we’ve taken matters into our own hands,” Padraig said.
“Gillian is our prisoner—” Cormag began.
“More like our guest,” Padraig corrected him, and Cormag pushed his bonnet back on his forehead and glowered at him.
“Mistress Gillian isin our careuntil the matter of who won the contest—”
“—And who has the right to wed the lass—” Padraig interrupted.
“—Has been determined,” Cormag finished.
Donal rose. “Ye’vekidnappedmy daughter?”
Cormag folded his arms over his chest and looked smug. “Now will ye give us a proper hearing?”
Alasdair Og Sinclair rose to his feet as well from where he’d been listening quietly as Donal’s careful plans dissolved into chaos. “And John deserves a chance to speak as well.”
Cormag and Padraig frowned at Alasdair Og, and at each other, then shrugged. “We’re not opposed to that,” Cormag said.
Donal knew he had no choice. “Fetch Davy MacKenzie and Callum MacLeod from their sickbeds, then.” He glared at the other two lairds. “And bring Gillian.”
Padraig pushed his bonnet back on his forehead. “We’ll produce the lass when the hearing’s done and not before.”
“What about John?” Isobel asked.
“And what about the boar, Papa?” Aoife asked.
Donal felt his face reddening, and a headache starting behind his eyes. He frowned at her. “Cook it.”
