Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Just outside the churchyard, three of Blackwell’s bravos waited. Arran drew his sword as they advanced on him.
“Call them off, MacKeith! Ye will shed nae more blood than ye have already!” Arran yelled.
“Looks to me like ye are outnumbered, MacArthur,” Blackwell retorted, stepping closer to be heard. “Ye should be worrying about getting hurt.”
Arran looked relaxed, but he was ready to fight. He looked around, but Colin was nowhere to be seen. Nor were Douglas or Lyle. Had his men betrayed him? Or had they been ambushed coming out of the kirk?
He instinctively pushed Helena and Skye behind him. “Stay back,” he ordered, his voice stern but calm. “Magnus, see to their safety.”
The three men circled him, their blades shimmering in the fading sunlight. Arran looked at each man and assessed their strengths and abilities as best he could.
The man to his left was stocky, with arms as round as the pines that surrounded the kirk. His stance was menacing, and he held his sword, ready to strike.
The man in front of him was overly plump, and his eyes darted to and fro. He gripped his sword with two hands and looked as if he’d rather flee than fight. But the third man looked dangerous, as he appeared to be sizing Arran up the same way Arran was analyzing them.
Arran met the gaze of each man, his expression unwavering. “Ye are about to attack the Laird of Clan MacArthur on the command of a man who will be jailed for his crimes. Turn away now, and I assure ye, ye willnae be held accountable,” he warned.
His words fell on deaf ears, however, as the stocky man answered by attacking first. He swung his sword with a battle cry, but Arran sidestepped swiftly, his blade thrust out to counter the strike.
The impact reverberated up his arm, but he held firm, twisting his wrist to deflect the blow.
With a turn to his left, he drove his sword into the man’s gut, feeling the resistance as the blade pierced flesh.
The man’s eyes widened in shock before he crumpled to the ground.
Arran did not stop. He immediately turned to the lean man, his sword aimed directly at his chest, and lunged.
The man leaned back slightly, the blade narrowly missing his chest. Arran swung up his sword and slashed the man’s forearm.
The man swallowed a yell of pain and covered his wound with his free hand.
Seeing a chance, Arran lunged forward and pierced the man’s abdomen with three quick strikes. The man fell to the ground, and Arran drove his sword into his heart, ending the man’s life.
The last man, the one with the calculating gaze, watched his comrades fall, and he dropped his sword and fell to his knees. “Please, me Laird. I beg for yer mercy. I surrender.”
Arran lowered his sword and nodded to Magnus. The enforcer would take this man to the council for sentencing.
He stood, his chest heaving with exertion. When he didn’t spot any more threats, his breathing started to slow and his thoughts turned to Skye.
He didn’t enjoy killing, but he felt relieved and satisfied as he sheathed his sword. He turned to where Helena and Skye stood. Their faces were deathly pale, and Skye’s freckles stood out in stark contrast to her fair skin. Helena looked ready to faint. Magnus hovered by her side
Arran motioned to a couple of the wedding guests, intending to move the bodies away from view, but before he could begin the task, a feral cry rent the air.
It was Blackwell. His face twisted with rage and desperation, he pulled out his sword and charged toward Skye.
“Nay!” Arran shouted, but his warning came too late.
Helena pulled away from Magnus, her protective instincts driving out any fear. She threw herself between Blackwell and her daughter. With a fierce shove, she managed to knock him off balance.
Blackwell swung his sword wildly, and the blade grazed her arm. A thin line of blood welled up from the cut.
Helena cried out and fell to the ground, clutching her arm.
“Maither!” Skye cried, rushing to her side.
But Blackwell would not give up. He reached Skye before Arran could. He wrapped his arm around her neck and pressed his sword to her throat. With a strength born from desperation and panic, he pulled a kicking and screaming Skye toward his horse.
Arran knew what he intended to do. He was going to kill her.
His blood turned to ice in his veins, and he saw red. But he knew he could not let his rage overtake him.
“Let her go!” he demanded, his sword raised in the air.
Blackwell only tightened his grip on Skye. “Stay back, or I’ll slit her throat!” he yelled. “Ye think ye can take me to the council? I’d rather die than face that disgrace!”
Skye’s eyes flashed with determination. She locked eyes with Arran and gave him the slightest of nods.
Arran’s eyes narrowed at her signal, and he saw her lift her boot and stomp down hard on Blackwell’s foot.
The man howled in pain, his grip loosening just enough for her to drive her elbow into his gut.
With a sharp twist of her torso, she broke free from his hold and bolted for Arran.
Arran seized the moment. He gave Skye a gentle push and advanced on Blackwell with his sword raised. And this time, he gave the eneme no chance.
Blackwell lunged at him. Their swords clashed with a deafening clang. Arran parried Blackwell’s wild, desperate strikes and then swung his sword at him mercilessly. Each time their blades met, Arran could tell the man was growing tired.
“Ye’ve lost, Blackwell,” Arran growled between blows, his voice steady. “Give up.”
“Nay!” Blackwell screamed, his attacks growing more desperate but also weaker.
Arran sidestepped a particularly vicious swing, using the opening to deliver a swift kick to Blackwell’s midsection.
Blackwell staggered back, gasping for air, but he quickly regained his footing and charged at him again, his sword slicing through the air recklessly.
Rage fueled his attacks, but he was careless.
With a powerful upward swing, Arran disarmed Blackwell, and his sword flew through the air. Blackwell fell to his knees in despair, letting out a grunt of dismay and fury.
Arran stood over him, the tip of his sword just piercing the fabric of his tunic above his heart. “It’s over, Blackwell,” he said coldly.
Blackwell looked up at him, his eyes wild and pleading. He had no route of escape left, with all his men defeated, and himself no match for a yethful warrior like Arran. “Mercy,” he begged. “Spare me.”
Arran’s gaze was unwavering. “Ye showed nary a morsel o’ mercy to those ye hurt. Ye will answer for yer crimes before the council.”
Blackwell’s shoulders slumped in defeat. The sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention, and they turned to see Magnus, his expression grim.
Magnus stepped forward, his hand on the pommel of his sword. “I’ll take him from here,” he said, his voice heavy with resolve. “He’ll face justice for what he’s done.”
Arran nodded, lowering his blade.
“An’ so should these fellows,” Douglas called out. He, Lyle and Colin made their way through the crowd pushing five bound men before them.
“Sorry, Arran, we couldnae get them all,” Lyle added. “They set upon Colin, saying he was a turncoat.”
Blackwell started to rise to his feet, and in a flash, he pulled a dirk from his boot.
“Watch out!” Helena yelled from where she sat.
Blackwell swung the blade at Arran’s middle, and Skye screamed.
But Arran saw the attack even before Helena yelled out her warning. He stepped back and deflected the blow with his sword. Before Blackwell could look up, Arran swung his sword up and drove it into Blackwell’s heart. The man crumpled to the ground in a heap.
And this time Helena did faint. Mary knelt beside her, waving a viol of hartshorn beneath her nose. The priest did his best to comfort Lilias who was sobbing with fear and dismay. Her son and daughter hovered near her.
Arran turned to Skye. “Are ye all right?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.
He pulled her into his arms and buried his nose in her hair, breathing in her scent. Then he let her go and ran his hands over her shoulders and arms. Assured that she was not hurt, he pulled her back into his embrace.
Skye was shaking, but she nodded and clung tightly to him. “I am now,” she whispered. “But I should be asking ye that question.”
Her healer instincts forced her to pull away, and she took her turn looking him up and down, searching for any sign of injury.
“I’m fine, Skye. I am unharmed.”
Skye nodded, but the shock of seeing Grayson Blackwell dead at their feet and the relief that Arran was unhurt suddenly hit her, and her legs gave way.
“Easy there, Skye. Here, come sit.”
He motioned for Colin and Magnus to remove Blackwell’s body from the view of the women and the rest of the guests and then assisted Skye to where her mother sat.
Helena was shocked but almost calm at the same time, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Ye did it,” she uttered softly. “Ye really did it.”
Her face lit up at the realization, and tears welled up in her eyes.
Magnus, after removing Blackwell’s body, rejoined the group. “Ye were very brave, Helena. But ye’ll be the death of me if ye ever throw yerself in front of a sword-wielding madman again.”
Helena smiled weakly, her eyes glistening with tears. “I couldnae let him hurt her. Nae after everything we’ve been through.”
They sat to catch their breaths as the setting sun painted the sky in orange and pink hues. But it wasn’t long before the implications of Laird MacKeith’s death sank in.
“What now?” Skye asked the question on everyone’s minds. “Clan MacKeith has nae Laird.”
“Arran is their Laird now. He is Blackwell’s heir,” Colin stated. “Nae e’en Magnus knew it, but I am the council’s man. Too many ill rumors were coming out of Castle MacKeith. An’ I’d been sent to investigate. Little did I know the tangled mess I would find.”
Many in the small crowd agreed, and two of Blackwell’s remaining men stepped forward and pledged their loyalty to Arran. But Magnus held up his hand.
“Ye may be right, Colin. But the matter must be formalized by the council, e’en though the two of us are here to act as witnesses. And there could be challengers for the Lairdship. Blackwell could have male relatives out there.”
“There is much to be decided on. But first, we must inform Clan MacKeith that their Laird is dead.”
Arran had no doubt that some who witnessed the fight were already riding back to Castle MacKeith with news of Blackwell’s death. He was sure that chaos would ensue.
“Magnus, ye and Colin must ride to Castle MacKeith as swiftly as possible. As enforcer, Magnus, ye can keep the order until I arrive. I will camp here with the remaining guests, and we will set out at first light.”
Colin and Magnus obeyed without question.
The servants from Castle MacKeith were not prepared to spend the night at the kirk, but light victuals had been packed for after the ceremony. Mary fetched fresh water from the well, and Helena, Lilias and her children, and the remaining guests filed into the kirk.
Arran looked at Skye and saw her eyes flutter shut as she held a roll in her hand. He walked over to her and scooped her up into his arms.
“Ye are falling asleep as ye eat, woman. Off to bed with ye,” he commanded gently.
“And just where do we plan to sleep?” she asked drowsily.
He carried her back into the kirk and sat her on a bench. Then he spread out his blanket on the floor, and she didn’t need any more urging. She curled up on the blanket and was asleep in seconds.
Arran sat on the bench and watched her sleep. His mind replayed the image of Blackwell’s blade at her neck over and over, and he broke out in a cold sweat.
And he now knew without any doubt that he loved her.