Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Arran shoved open the church’s double doors. The two men standing just outside stepped back, startled.
He likely would have been wise to cut them down before they recovered. Instead he put his arm around Peter, as if protecting the old woman the footman was pretending to be. “Step careful, màthair,” he said, not quite able to bring himself to apologize to the two men.
“What are they yelling aboot?” Mary asked, in a fine imitation of his own brogue.
“I dunnae ken, bràthair,” he answered truthfully. If the Campbells were certain they’d found their quarry, stealth from them would have seemed the better choice. He eyed one of the men as his troop maneuvered around them. “What’s amiss, then?”
The man frowned, actually taking another step back. “I…” He sent a glance at his companion. “John?”
With a disgusted snort Peter urged them forward, and the clearly baffled men let them pass.
Surprised they’d made it even that far, Arran kept the three of them at a slightly accelerated walk toward the waiting wagon.
If he could get them back north through the village, they had at least a slim chance of returning to their hiding place by the stream.
“Stop them, you halfwits!” came from farther down the hill.
Everything happened at once, but at the same time Arran seemed to have the clarity to make note of every moment, every action.
The Marquis of Fendarrow topped the rise, spurring his horse as he caught sight of them.
Another, larger group of riders charged up from the east, scattering Campbells as they came. In fact, they wore MacLawry colors.
Bear, he realized, even as he moved forward to put himself between Mary and the weapons that seemed to be appearing everywhere. He might have been relieved to see his mountainous younger brother, except if Ranulf had sent him, they weren’t allies. Not any longer.
“Stay back!” he bellowed, pulling a pistol from each pocket and leveling them at the nearest group.
The Campbells skidded to a stop, but didn’t lower their own weapons. Peter produced a blunderbuss from somewhere Arran didn’t care to contemplate, and the footman swung it around to gain them some room on the other side. No one had yet opened fire, but it would happen—and it would happen soon.
“Back to the church,” he growled.
“Father Leonard just barred the doors,” Mary said from directly behind him. He felt her hands at his back, and then she had his spare knife in her grip.
“Against the wall, then,” he amended, “so they cannae come at us from behind.”
“Arran!” Bear called, leaping from his big gray gelding and bowling over three Campbells as he strode forward.
Cursing, Arran shifted one of his pistols, aiming it at his brother and praying that hotheaded Munro wouldn’t press the issue. “No closer!”
“What the devil do ye think ye’re aboot?” Munro demanded, barely slowing his approach.
“Stop, Bear! I will shoot ye!”
His brother finally stopped, a look of baffled anger on his face. “The hell ye will, Arran.”
“You damned MacLawry, get away from my daughter!” Fendarrow swung down from his horse but approached much more cautiously than Bear had. There was no sign of Calder, and that troubled Arran.
“And I’m telling ye to stay away from my wife!” he snarled back.
The pushing and shoving around them changed to a roar. They were watching the resumption of a full-out clan war, he knew, MacLawrys against Campbells. And the first man to die would signal the last moment of peace he and Mary would ever find in the Highlands.
Abruptly Mary moved up beside him. “You’re too late!” she yelled, flinging off her hat and shaking out her hair. Thank God she’d done that; he didn’t want anyone mistaking her for a lad and shooting her by accident.
“Come away from there, Mary! Now!” her father shouted back.
“No! Arran and I are married. You can’t kill him and pretend it never happened, because all these men know it now!” The point of her knife flashed as she gestured.
“We dunnae want to hurt anyone,” Arran took up. “But by God I’ll nae let anyone between us!”
“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.