“Strike if you wish the truce to end,” Mary continued, as fierce as any Highlands warrior and lovely even in a coat and trousers. “But you will all have to face the wrath of my grandfather, the Duke of Alkirk. The Campbell.”
“Will they now?” a new voice came from the edge of the clearing. Dry and cool, it made the hairs on the back of Arran’s neck prick.
“Good God,” Mary whispered. He risked a glance at her, to see that her flushed cheeks had paled to an alarming degree.
The nest of Campbells stirred, moving aside as someone passed among them. Bobbing heads, downcast eyes, and a bit away from them, the stiff-spined Fendarrow looking like he’d swallowed a bug. A tall man with snow-white, close-cropped hair, straight shoulders, and sharp eyes deeply set in an angular face stepped into view. Arran didn’t need to see the diamond pin in his lapel or the green and red plaid of his kilt to know precisely who he was.
“Yer Grace,” he said, lowering both pistols. The mad shooting might have been avoided, but unless he was greatly mistaken the situation had just become much more dangerous. “We thought to meet with ye in a few days, in the Highlands.”
“I received word that ye and my granddaughter were heading north. Yer brother and I seem to have come to the same conclusion—that ye would come here. Especially with Fendarrow on yer heels.”
“I knew they were coming to Gretna Green, Your Grace,” the marquis said crisply. “There was no need for you to travel all this way.”
“Aye, this looks very orderly,” Bear commented, his rifle lowered but still in his hands.
“I dunnae care who came from where,” Arran stated, wishing Mary would move back behind him again, where he could put himself between her and any gunfire. “Go and make yer peace or yer war as ye will. Mary and I are wed. All we ask is to be left alone.”
The Campbell came a few steps closer. “Are ye mute now, Muire?” he asked, using the Gaelic version of Mary’s name. “Does this MacLawry speak fer ye?”
“No, I am not mute, seanair,” she returned, “and yes, in this he does speak for me.”
“And together ye decided to flee north and risk war? Ye decided together to throw an alliance with the MacAllisters back into my face and set all the Highlands into a rage? Perhaps ye should speak fer yerself.”
“We didn’t decide to flee north,” she countered. “I kissed Arran and everyone saw us and Lord Delaveer walked away, and the next day Father declared that I was to marry Charles Calder instead. Arran rescued me from that, and we headed north so I could ask for your assistance.”
“Ah.” Alkirk flicked his gaze to Arran. “Ye wanted my assistance as well, did ye, MacLawry?”
“Nae. I wanted yer granddaughter. But I gave my word I would see her to yer door, whatever happened between us.”
“It seems a wedding happened between ye. Withoot my permission.”
Arran regarded him coolly. “Aye.”
“And if I’m nae mistaken, ye were to wed Lady Deirdre Stewart before ye began this wee holiday.”
Of course the Campbell would have heard about a potential alliance between the MacLawrys and the Stewarts. What angered Arran was the way the duke referred to their flight as a holiday, as if it had no significance. As if it could be easily done away with. “So I was. We’ve neither of us done well by our clans, I suppose. But if ye think ye can put a stop t—”
“Arran.” Reaching sideways, Mary abruptly gripped Arran’s arm with her left hand. “I love him, seanair,” she broke in, “and none of you left us any choice but to go behind your backs. We came to Scotland so no one would be able to part us.”
“There are still several ways to part ye, my dear,” Alkirk replied coolly.
Her fingers tightened convulsively. That was damned well enough of that. Arran broke away from her and walked up to the Campbell, ignoring the weapons bristling in his direction as he approached. “So ye think to stand here like a great bully and frighten yer own granddaughter? Ye think she hasnae been frightened enough over the past weeks, from her parents trying to barter her away and then promising her to a coldhearted weasel, to a gaggle of armed men chasing her all the way from London? Mary adores ye, and ye’re aboot one sentence away from trampling her respect fer ye into the mud. From all she’s told me aboot ye, I expected … better.”
“I dunnae answer to a MacLawry. Especially one who’s poached my kin. I could put a ball betwixt yer eyes and nae even blink.”
“I’d make ye blink, I reckon,” another, more familiar voice said. A big bay Thoroughbred cut through the clearing, stopping beside Bear. Ranulf swung to the ground and continued forward on foot, his gaze on Alkirk and an angry, bristling Fergus pacing beside him like a massive gray hellhound.
“Saint Bridget,” Arran swore. “We came here to get away from the lot of ye.”
“Then ye chose a poor way to go aboot it, bràthair,” Glengask shot back at him, his voice clipped with fury.
“Nae. Ye did. Ye call a truce, and then all either of ye do is try to increase the size of yer armies so ye can get back to killing again. And then ye clobber us, fer what? Fer being yer best chance fer a true and lasting peace? What do ye want, then? Peace, or more blood spilled?”
“That’s enough, Arran.”
“Aye, it is. Kill us, kill each other, or shake yer damn hands. Those are yer choices. Mary is my wife. Ye’ll have to murder me to separate us.” He dropped his pistols onto the ground. “I’m finished with yer proud nonsense.”
“Glengask, control yer brother. He began this, by stepping where he wasnae permitted.”
Arran felt Mary walk up behind him more than he heard her quiet footfalls. The knife clattered to the ground beside his pistols, and then her hand caught his. Almost without thinking he twined his fingers with hers.
“We began this latest mess,” she said, her voice shaking a little, “and we are ending it. If you kill Arran, you may as well kill me, because if you don’t, I will. And you’ll be killing your great-grandchild as well, seanair. A bairn who would be your best excuse for peace in a hundred years. For both clans.”
As he listened, Arran’s heart stopped and then began roaring like thunder in his chest. He faced her, ignoring the stunned faces of the onlookers. “Are ye carrying my bairn, lass? Why did ye nae tell me?”
“I wanted to wait until we were somewhere safe,” she returned quietly, tears in her moss-colored eyes. “But I don’t know if we will be.”
Instinctively he pulled her into his arms, tilting her face up to kiss her tears away. A bairn. A child. His child. His and Mary’s. And if nothing changed—and it looked like a very good chance that nothing would—not only would he be unable to ensure that he would be present to see the young one grown, but the babe had only the slimmest of chances of surviving a clan war. He lifted his head again.
“Tell me what ye want, then. Both of ye,” he said. Because whatever his own plans, the MacLawry and the Campbell were the ones with the power, the ability to put things right or allow them to crumble into bloody dust. “What’s the price for ye to stop hounding us, so I can hold my bairn in my arms and nae fear that he’ll lose his father to this stupidity the same way I lost mine? Tell me. Please. If it’s in my power, I will see it done.”
Ranulf cocked his head. Gazing intently at Arran, he slowly reached down to pat Fergus on the deerhound’s growling, low-held head. “Off, Fergus.”
The dog sat on his haunches, clearly not pleased with the order, but obeying anyway. Arran, though, kept his head high and his arms tightly around the sobbing Mary, both to comfort and protect her. He wasn’t a damned dog, after all, to blindly follow his brother’s orders. Not any longer.
“That tune ye’re singing is different than the one ye blasted at me in London,” Ranulf finally said, his tone neutral.
Arran nodded. “Aye, it is. And I’m aware that I put ye in a bad spot, and that I judged ye unfairly, as well. I thought ye were bowing to the Sasannach and turning us into merchants to please yer Charlotte
. It wasnae aboot pleasing her, though, was it? It was aboot making a place where she could be safe.”
The Campbell was studying the three of them like a cat studied a mouse. With the knife in his boot Arran figured he could still set his claws into the old man if it came to it, so he returned the duke’s gaze evenly. Hopefully Alkirk realized that calm and reasonable didn’t mean helpless, and that he’d meant every word he’d said. This was the clans’—both of them—last chance. If nothing could be resolved, then he and Mary would be leaving as swiftly as they could reach the coast. Or they would die here and now. There was no other option for them if the chiefs couldn’t see beyond their own stubborn noses.
“So ye want peace, do ye, Arran MacLawry?” the Campbell uttered.
“I do. They say ye and my father were friends once, Yer Grace. Ye must’ve wanted peace yerself, at least fer a while. And now it’s time fer ye to decide if ye want Mary in yer life.” He looked at his brother. “And are ye done with me, Ran? Ye said ye were. Because honestly, once I brought Mary to Alkirk my next task would have been to purchase us a berth on a ship bound fer America.” Yesterday that wouldn’t have been strictly true, but now everyone knew where they were and what they’d done. Hiding away had become a much more difficult proposition.
“You aren’t listening to this rogue, are you, Father?” the Marquis of Fendarrow snapped, stalking up to the small group at the center of the clearing. “MacLawry, Campbell, or … Jones, he had no right to make off with Mary against my wishes. And yours. We had plans. The MacAllisters will never trust us again.”
“And yer grand solution was fer Mary to wed Charles Calder?” the Campbell returned, lifting an eyebrow. “Do ye think I want that lunatic closer to becoming chief of this clan than he already is? I suppose ye thought him a pup to lie at yer feet and worship ye.” The duke snorted. “Mary’s got the right of that; if she’d come up to see me I’d have put a stop to it.”
The marquis flushed. “I’m sorry you didn’t approve of my choice. She embarrassed all of us, and I didn’t care to give her a chance to make things worse by dallying with a MacLawry. She couldn’t wed him if she was already married, and Charles offered to help.” He gestured at Arran. “You cannot want Glengask’s heir this close to your throne, either.”
Mary lifted her head, her face streaked with tears. “I want Arran,” she said simply. “I won’t be without him. So banish me like you did Aunt Sarah, and we’ll be away from here.”
“You were there,” her father growled, narrowing his eyes and clearly seeking a target to vent his own frustration and embarrassment. “I warned her that I would burn her out if she lied to me.”
“Mòrag took ye in?” the Campbell interrupted, his sharp voice cutting through his son’s blustering.
“Arran was injured when our carriage broke an axle,” she returned. “Don’t blame her; she didn’t wish to allow us in. She’s done everything possible to go unnoticed by any Campbells. And my father took a knife to her mattresses and her curtains and broke her precious things, just because she couldn’t do anything to stop him.”
“Well now,” Alkirk said slowly. “It seems my own hoose isnae quite in order.” He looked over at Ranulf. “Ye sent Munro here to protect Arran from us, didnae?”
Ranulf nodded. “I did. That’s why I rode up here, as well. Whatever I may think of Arran’s actions, he’s my bràthair. No one harms him.” The Marquis of Glengask sent an unreadable glance at Arran, then stepped directly up to the duke. “What do ye say, Alkirk? Do we see where these two intend to lead us, or do we stay mired in our own bog until there’s nae a man left standing?” With that, he held out his right hand to the duke.
Arran sucked in a hard breath. In all his imaginings, he’d never thought to see Ranulf actually offer peace. And certainly not without turning it to some strategic advantage for the MacLawrys. But there he stood, surrounded by a closing circle of Campbells and MacLawrys, each man of whom would be looking for any sign of weakness in his clan chief.
The Campbell gazed at Ranulf. If he ignored the hand, the best Arran and Mary could hope for was exile. If he turned his back, blood would spill here. Arran could feel the shudder that went through Mary and he tensed, ready to move.
Finally the Duke of Alkirk took a half step forward and clasped Ranulf’s hand with his own. “Guaimeas,” he said. “Peace.” He returned his attention to Arran and Mary. “We’ve a wedding to celebrate.”
The men around them roared, echoing the word in English and in Gaelic. Peace. “Thank God,” Arran murmured, and kissed his Mary. She dug her fingers into his arms, kissing him back with a passion that made him want to fall to the ground with her.
“You did it,” she whispered against his mouth.
“Nae. We did it. I told ye there’s nae a man could stand against ye when ye get that fierce look in yer eyes.”
She smiled. “I meant every word of it.”
“As did I.”
“Well,” the Campbell said, “we’ve shaken hands on it. Now I’d like to speak a word with my granddaughter and wish her well.”
Arran didn’t much like that; all of these people had been nothing but trouble for weeks. But Alkirk had shaken hands, and in the Highlands that was more binding than any law. “That’s fer Mary to decide,” he said aloud, reluctantly releasing her.
She nudged him in the shoulder. “Go make amends with your brothers,” she muttered, and walked away a few feet to speak with her grandfather.
At least she hadn’t told him to apologize, but he likely needed to do so. For some of it, anyway. He’d pointed a loaded weapon at Bear, for God’s sake. Squaring his shoulders, he walked up to where they stood. “I’m sorry I pointed a pistol at ye, Bear,” he drawled.
“That’s what ye apologize fer?” his younger brother rumbled. “Ye disappear, we hear that ye’ve kidnapped the Campbell’s favorite granddaughter, and then ye go and marry her, and ye apologize fer a pistol.” Shaking his head, Munro wrapped him into a hard bear hug. “I thought we’d lost ye, Arran.”
Arran hugged him back. Bear might have a short and heated temper, but he was also generous to a fault. Today he would call himself lucky that he’d found the generous part. “So did I, fer a moment,” he returned.
“Ye married a girl in trousers. And Peter Gilling’s wearing a dress.”
“Aye,” Arran said, straightening again. “It’s been a long day.”
“And it’s nae noon yet,” Ranulf commented. “Why didnae ye tell me how much ye cared fer the lass?”
“I tried to tell ye. Ye didnae want to listen.” Arran took a breath. “I ken now that ye were trying to find a way to protect yer own lass, and me being after Mary didnae help ye any.” He grimaced. “I misunderstood. I apologize fer that. But I’ll nae apologize fer escaping Deirdre Stewart. If ye dunnae wish to forgive me, so be it, but I wanted ye to know.”
“I should’ve listened harder to ye, Arran,” Ranulf returned. “Love’s a damned tricky bastard.”
“Aye. I’ll agree with—”
Something slammed hot into his upper arm. Half a second later the sound of a pistol discharging echoed across the hillside. Arran staggered sideways, his shoulder on fire. Ranulf grabbed him as he went to his knees, while Bear stepped between them and the sound and lifted his rifle.
He heard Mary scream, and then she was on her knees beside him, tugging on his coat and ripping his sleeve. “Who did this?” she shrieked. “Who did this?”
“I thought we had a plan,” Charles Calder’s voice came. Arran looked over Mary’s head to see her cousin drop the spent pistol and pull a second one from his pocket. “Arran MacLawry disappears, we bribe the priest to burn one of the pages of the register, and I become Fendarrow’s son-in-law.”
“Put that down!” Mary’s father ordered.
“Someone’s going to do as they said, even if it’s only me.” He lifted the pistol, aiming it at Arran—and Mary in front of him.
Grabbing her, Arran flung her to the gro
und, offering Calder his back. Even if he wouldn’t live to see his child, she would. She had to.
Another shot shattered the air. Arran tensed, waiting for a ball to pierce his spine. Nothing. Still holding Mary down despite her struggling to rise, he looked over his shoulder.
Charles Calder lay in the grass, moaning and holding his left thigh. To either side a dozen weapons were aimed at him, but only the one the Duke of Alkirk held was smoking. Slowly the Campbell lowered it again. “No damned nephew of mine will begin a war I just ended,” he declared. “Get him doon to the blacksmith and press a hot iron to that. Make certain it hurts, lads.” Then he handed over the pistol and approached. “Ye’re nae dead, are ye, MacLawry?”
“Nae. Ye’re nae going to poke me with a hot iron, are ye? I think a bandage would do me better,” Arran said, sitting up with Mary’s help. “Thank ye.”
The Campbell nodded. “Let’s get ye doon to the tavern and patched up. Arnold, go have the innkeeper drag oot his best whisky, and take someone with ye to find a proper gown fer Mary.”
“I’ll see to it, Your Grace.”
“And find us a piper. We cannae celebrate a wedding withoot pipes.”
“Right away, Grandfather.”
Climbing to his feet, Arran let Mary pull his good arm across her shoulders. “I can walk, ye know,” he murmured.
“Perhaps I just want to be in your arms,” she whispered back, smiling. “I love you, Arran MacLawry.”
“Tha gaol agam ort,” he returned. “I love ye, my sweet, bonny lass.”
She leaned her head against his. “We have a great deal more than a wedding to celebrate, don’t we? A child, the first peace in four hundred years between our clans, gaining our families back … Have I missed anything?”
Arran kissed her on the temple. “I dunnae believe so. But tonight I’ll only be celebrating the fact that ye’re mine. Forever. Everything else is … buttermilk.”
Mary laughed and kissed him back, his fierce Highlands lass.
Rogue with a Brogue: A Scandalous Highlanders Novel Page 30