“Gavin, tie off the team. We need two witnesses, and ye’ll be one of ’em.”
“I’d be honored, Master Niall. Most honored,” the groom gushed, hopping down from the driver’s seat.
They walked into the blacksmith’s shop, where a large man in Puritan black, a flat-brimmed hat on his head, sat in a chair beside the forge, a mug of something resting on one knee. He set the cup aside and stood. “David Lang. Bishop Lang, they call me. Ye here to marry?”
“Aye,” Niall returned.
“Do ye have another witness?”
“Just me,” Gavin answered, his hat in his hands.
The blacksmith walked to the rear of the shop. “Mary! I need a witness!”
“I’ll be right there, David!”
“That’s my wife,” he said. “Ye’ll need to sign yer names here,” he went on, pulling a book from beneath his chair, then paused to look them up and down. “It’ll cost ye … five pounds for my services.”
Five pounds seemed like a fortune, but Niall produced the money wordlessly and handed it over. “Is there a marriage certificate, so we can prove we wed?”
“Aye, for another pound.”
“Is there anything else ye’d care to offer us for a fee?” Niall commented with a swift grin.
“I can recommend an inn for yer wedding night. I’ll do that for free, because they pay me for every newlywed couple spending the night there.”
“Nae. We’ve a distance to go after this.”
A plump woman opened the rear door, a towel in her hands and the smell of fresh bread accompanying her. “I’ve ten minutes before the bread burns,” she informed her husband.
“Aye. The two of ye, stand before the anvil,” Prior Lang ordered. “Hold hands if ye like; it’s nae matter to me.”
Wordlessly Amelia-Rose took Niall’s proffered hand. No, she would never have expected a wedding like this. But what a story it would make for their children. Youngsters with light-green eyes and brogues and hopefully a liking for fine clothes and dancing. She grinned.
Lang looked at Niall. “Are ye of marriageable age?”
“Aye. I’m four-and-twenty.”
The blacksmith turned to Amelia-Rose. “And ye? Are ye of marriageable age?”
“Yes. I’m nineteen.”
“Are ye related to each other?”
“Nae,” Niall said, frowning.
“I have to ask, lad. Now. Are ye both free to marry? Neither of ye is already wed to someone else?”
“We are free to marry,” Amelia-Rose answered.
The door behind them burst open. “Just a damned minute!” Lionel West, the Marquis of Hurst, slammed into the smithy.
Her heart clenching, Amelia-Rose backed up, feeling Niall beside her coil like a panther ready to strike. “Ye get the hell out of here,” he growled.
“I will not! You belong to m—”
A muscular arm grabbed the marquis around the neck and hauled him backward, out of the building. Muffled yelling followed, and then Aden MacTaggert stuck his head into the doorway. “Sorry about that. He squirmed away from us. Get on with it; he and his friends are promising nae to bring more trouble.” With that he closed the door again.
“Did you know your brothers were here?” Amelia-Rose whispered.
“Nae. I should’ve figured it, though. Prior Lang, if ye dunnae mind? I’ve nae wish to see that fine-smelling bread burned.”
“Ye’re certain ye’re free to marry?” the smith asked again, pinning Amelia-Rose with a more interested gaze.
“Yes. What that man wants is not what I want.”
Lang continued to eye her, then nodded. “By yer kilt ye’re clan Ross,” the blacksmith stated to Niall. “Do ye have a tartan to use?”
Niall pulled a strip of plaid from his pocket. It bore the same red, black, and green pattern as his kilt, and he handed it to the smith. The big man indicated they should lift their joined hands, and he wrapped the tartan over them. Then he picked up his hammer and struck it against the anvil, the clang sharp and echoing. “Ye’re now married. I’ll get yer wee paper.”
The two of them along with Gavin and Mary Lang signed the wedding register, as did Prior Lang, and then they signed everything again on a small, printed paper. After she put her name down, Niall took the pen from Amelia-Rose and set it back in its stand. “I reckon I’ll kiss my bride now,” he murmured.
She lifted on her toes, putting her arms around his shoulders, and kissed him. Hope, relief, elation—it all mingled together in a heady joy that made her feel as if her feet weren’t even touching the floor. It had been so simple, and somehow that made it more real. She didn’t have to dream about a fairy tale any longer. She had better than a fairy tale.
Niall lifted his head. “I love ye, Amy Hyacinth MacTaggert. So much it scares me a bit. Ye name anything, any dragon, any quest, and I’ll slay it for ye.”
“The only request I have is that you don’t leave me behind,” she whispered back. “I love you, too, Niall Douglas MacTaggert.”
“Och, my bread,” Mary exclaimed, and left the room. And that seemed to be the end of the ceremony. Carefully folding their certificate, Niall stuck it into an inner coat pocket and motioned Gavin to precede them out the door.
Not until Niall paused just short of the doorway, waiting for Gavin to leave first, did she realize he’d sent out the groom to make certain they wouldn’t be attacked by anyone. The fact that Lionel had ventured this far from London during the Season surprised her no end. The idea that he’d done so in such a hurry and had very nearly provoked a fight with Niall made her wonder just how badly he’d needed the ten thousand pounds her parents had promised him in exchange for her.
“All’s well,” Gavin reported, leaning into the doorway again.
In fact, nothing on the narrow street looked unusual at all, other than the large coach stopped outside the blacksmith’s. None of the residents passing by seemed to notice the vehicle, either, which made sense if eloping couples arrived here as often as had been rumored. “Where are they?” Amelia-Rose asked.
Niall let her hand go, hopped up onto the wheel of the coach, then clambered onto its roof. Standing, he did a quick circle, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. Up there like that, in his kilt and boots, he looked once more like a warrior—but then he was a warrior. Her warrior.
He jumped down again. “This way,” he said, retrieving her hand and heading up the street toward a stand of trees and a quaint-looking stream.
As they topped a short rise, she spied five horses at the edge of the water, one of them unmistakably Lord Glendarril’s huge black Friesian, Nuckelavee. Men came into sight, two of them in kilts matching Niall’s, and then three more men who appeared to be tied to trees. Amelia-Rose stopped short. “Niall, this will cause trouble.”
“An English marquis trying to stop a Highlands wedding? Aye, I’d call that trouble,” he returned, tugging her forward again. Abruptly he stopped, as well. “If ye dunnae want to see him, I’ll send Gavin back to the village with ye.”
Did she want to see Lord Hurst again? Not really, but at the same time the marquis needed to understand that she was no longer available, and had never been interested. Not since she’d met Niall, anyway. “I wouldn’t mind a word with him,” she returned.
He sent her a sideways glance, then started forward again. “Lads,” he said, stopping between the two big men.
“Niall,” Coll rumbled. “Are ye wed?”
“Aye.”
“Can ye prove it?”
Niall patted his pocket. “Aye.”
Moving with surprising speed for such a large man, Coll lunged forward, grabbed Niall, and hugged him. “I’m happy for ye, bràthair.”
Niall grunted. “Put me down, ye ogre.”
The viscount did so, then turned to her. His gaze on her face, he reached down for her hand, lifted it, and kissed her knuckle. “Welcome to the family, Amelia-Rose MacTaggert.”
“It’s Amy, now,” Niall countered.
Glendarril cocked his head. “That suits ye better. ‘Amelia-Rose’ is a bit pretentious.”
Aden elbowed his older brother out of the way. He did hug her, but with a care that said he worried she might break. “I apologize again for letting that toad in the smithy. He looks boneless, but he’s got a quick trot.”
Niall stepped between her and his brother, accepting another hug. “Did ye know he was following us?”
“Nae till this morning. We passed ye last night, decided to get here first and take a look about.” He angled a thumb at Hurst, and Amelia-Rose noticed they’d put a gag over the marquis’s mouth. “Good thing we did.”
“Did ye have someaught ye wanted to say to Lord Hurst, Mrs. MacTaggert?” Niall asked her.
Previously she might have hesitated. The price she would likely pay for speaking her mind would be too dear. But these three men, these brothers, were part of a clan. Niall had spoken about how when trouble befell one clansman, the others stepped forward to help. And she was a MacTaggert now, as well. She wasn’t alone any longer. “Yes, I would,” she said.
“Ye wanted him silent, or yapping?” Coll asked.
“Remove the gag, if you please.”
The viscount complied, and Lionel spat onto the ground. “You are dead men,” he hissed. “I am looking at dead men. You cannot put your hands on me twice. I will see you all transported or hanged.”
“Lionel,” she said, interrupting the tail end of his rant, “I’m sorry you fell into the middle of this. I know my mother promised you a fortune for my hand, and I understand that this blinded you to any questions over whether I wanted to marry you or not. I did not. I—”
“There is a signed agreement, Miss Baxter.”
“You sketch lugubrious saints, you consider women with dark hair to be more solemn than those with blond hair, and you dislike the idea of reading. While I don’t have a great deal of knowledge about saints, except to know that Saint Andrew is the patron saint of Scotland, I don’t have dark hair, and I very much enjoy reading. In addition, I find you to be dull to the point of ridiculousness, and while you do have a pretty face, I would consider that to be your only virtue.”
His mouth gaped open, his face turning purple. He didn’t look so very soulful anymore. Now he more closely resembled a toddler whose toy had been taken away. “You stu—”
“I’ve two things to add,” Niall said, moving up beside her. “She’s a married woman, and ye’re nae in England. So ye think hard before ye finish that sentence, Hurst. Yer future may rest on it.”
As good-humored as Niall generally was, she heard the steel in those words, the utter calm in his level gaze. Hurst heard it, too, because the marquis snapped his mouth shut, the remainder of his sentence unspoken.
“A word, Niall?” Aden asked, moving away from their three prisoners.
She wasn’t certain if she was to be included, but Niall took her hand in his callused one again to follow his brother. “Aye?”
“We’ve a bit of a dilemma,” Aden said, lowering his voice.
“Keep ’em here till sunset,” Niall returned flatly. “They’ll nae be able to follow us north, even if there was a reason for ’em to do so.”
“Francesca wants ye back in London. The sooner the better.”
Niall frowned. “We’re nae going back to London. Even you two ken what’s changed for us there. And I’ll nae have Amy facing her parents unless or until she wants to.”
Coll joined them, shaking his head. “Nae. Francesca’s done someaught. Wouldnae tell us what, but she said the longer ye’re gone, the harder repairing the damage will be. She said ye need to trust her.”
“And what do the two of ye think of that?”
Aden grimaced. “When it comes to London, I reckon she’s the expert,” he said slowly.
“Amy?” Niall asked, facing her. “This affects ye far more than it does me.”
He meant to leave the decision to her. Some of this new independence she’d found was rather intimidating. But she’d always liked Lady Aldriss, and had never heard anything but kindness and understanding from the countess. “I’ve seen your mother walk through a room and with a glance stop an argument or quiet a rumor,” she said. “She is formidable. If she says she can help, I think we should believe her.” She shrugged. “At the worst, we travel for another week back to London and then up here again.”
“I dunnae ken if my backside can take that,” Niall said with a faint grin. “I didnae expect this, though, and I reckon I like the idea of it.”
Amelia-Rose nodded. “As do I.” The idea that she might gain London again, be able to visit every so often, didn’t mean as much as it once would have, but having the freedom to go if she chose to do so—that appealed to her.
“And that’s our next dilemma,” Aden put in. “Hurst. Back in England. Heading for London, I imagine, on the same road we’ll be taking.”
Niall rubbed his chin. “Wait here, lass.”
She grabbed his arm as he turned away. “You are not going to murder him. That will follow you wherever you go.”
“I’m nae that cold-blooded,” he returned. “I’d at least make it a fair fight.”
“N—”
“Come and listen, then,” he interrupted. “I’ll nae have ye worried that ye’ve married a lunatic.”
Without waiting for her, he walked back to Hurst’s tree and stopped in front of it. Amelia-Rose hurried after him, lifting her skirts over the long grass. Lionel didn’t look any happier, but his face had returned to its usual shade of pale.
“Hurst,” Niall said, his hands on his hips, “I’m feeling generous today. Mrs. Baxter offered ye ten thousand to take her daughter. I’ll give ye five thousand to keep yer mouth shut about ye getting yer coach borrowed, this chase up to Scotland, ye getting tied to a tree, and my brothers wanting to cut yer balls off for insulting my lass.”
“I—”
“If ye see any way this story would make ye look the better, I’d like to hear it, because all I see for ye is being laughed at and nae having any blunt to make up for it.”
The marquis frowned, his eyes narrowed. He glanced at the two men who’d accompanied him, neither of whom would meet his gaze. Whatever the MacTaggerts had said to them, they wouldn’t be talking about anything.
“I don’t seem to have much choice, do I?” he finally snapped.
“I’d agree with that. Ye stay here for another day, then head back to London. Say ye had business somewhere. We’ll see it all sorted, and ye’ll nae have to do a thing but nae have any idea why that engagement announcement appeared in the newspaper.”
“And the money?”
“Will be at yer door within a day of ye returning to London. Do we have an agreement?”
“How do I know you’ll abide by it, you heathen?”
“Because if I wanted to do someaught permanent to ye, I reckon people go missing up here all the time. Like Amy said, ye got pulled into this. So at the end ye’ll be a bachelor with an extra five thousand pounds ye wouldnae have had a fortnight ago. I ask ye again, do we have an agreement?”
Hurst took a breath, wincing as the ropes tightened around his chest. “Yes. We have an agreement.”
Niall pulled the knife from his boot. With a swift cut he sliced the ropes, then walked over to do the same for the other two men. “The blue inn there, The Copper, has a fine kitchen. They’ll put ye up for the night, as well.”
“Don’t expect me to thank you, MacTaggert.”
“I dunnae. Just go.”
When he turned his back, Amelia-Rose joined him, wrapping her hands around his arm. “You are a very good man,” she whispered.
“I’m a man who doesnae want blood spilled on my wedding day,” he returned, lowering his cheek to her hair. “Ye heard me, aye?” he asked his brothers.
Aden nodded. “Ye’re assuming Francesca will hand that rat over five thousand quid, though. And that he’ll nae ask for more later.”
“Once our mother
does whatever she’s promising, I’ll deal with him again if I have to. He’ll nae like it as much, though.”
“I wanted to eat at The Copper,” Coll stated, scowling.
“Come along, lads,” Niall said, heading them back toward the village well behind Hurst and his men. “I reckon I know a place where we can get some fresh bread. It may cost us a fortune, though.”
So this was her married life. Amelia-Rose sighed as she walked beside her tall, handsome husband. Her Highlander. She’d expected to find marriage to be a dull duty. Judging by her first hour of being married to Niall MacTaggert, she was in for a grand adventure. She looked forward to every moment of it—even if they returned to London only to have to leave again. Because she would be with Niall. She would be a MacTaggert.
Chapter Eighteen
Francesca rose early. Her son—all her sons—should arrive in Gretna Green sometime today, and at any time now Niall would be married. She did see the irony of it; he’d done as she’d ordered all those years ago when he’d been a very independent seven-year-old and she’d wanted a way to keep her boys in her life; he had, or he would shortly, marry an Englishwoman. His choice and his methods, though, had effectively removed them both from England. From her.
Hannah arrived at her bedchamber, and while she always dressed carefully, this morning Francesca chose a silver-and-blue ensemble, something a bit too fancy for a day she meant to spend in Oswell House. She and Eloise had spent the past three days at home, in fact, not receiving visitors and declining the invitation she’d already accepted to a small soiree honoring a friend’s birthday.
“The pearls, or the onyx?” Hannah asked, the maid holding up the two necklaces.
“The pearls. The onyx is more formidable, but I couldn’t wear it before sunset without looking overdressed.”
When they’d finished, Francesca stood to eye herself in the dressing mirror. The last time she’d dressed this carefully had been the day Coll, Aden, and Niall had arrived in London. That had been a battle that for a short time she hadn’t been certain she would win. She still wasn’t certain she could call it a victory, though all three had now referred to her as their mother. From Aden and Niall, at least, she’d begun to sense a grudging respect and even a smattering of affection. That meant everything, and gave her enough hope to keep pressing the far more jaded and caustic Coll.
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