Enchanted by the Highlander

by Cornwall, Lecia

  Tears streamed down her face. “Don’t talk,” she said, trying to untie the bonds that held Callum to the tree. Then John was beside her, cutting Callum free. He caught Callum as he fell forward and laid him down gently. Then John’s hands were on her shoulders, turning her to face him, his eyes scanning the bruises on her face.

  “Where are you hurt?”

  Her jaw throbbed with pain, her head swam, but John was here, and it was over. “Callum, and Davy, and—” She buried her face in John’s shoulder and sobbed, He pulled her into his arms and held her close, and she knew she was safe.

  * * *

  John saw the bruises on Gillian’s jaw, the raw marks where the gag had scraped her face, the bloody gouges on her wrists where she’d struggled to free her hands—she’d done it, too, his brave lass. She’d brought Rabbie Bain down. He glanced over her shoulder at the outlaw. He lay still under Davy’s bulk.

  Gillian was shaking in his arms.

  “It’s over, sweetheart. It’s—”

  He felt the unmistakable chill of a sword against the back of his neck.

  “Unhand my daughter, Sassenach.”

  John slowly raised his hands, Donal MacLeod’s heavy hand on his collar dragged him upright, away from Gillian. Donal was looking around the clearing, taking in the sight of Davy MacKenzie lying on the ground gulping air, the still figure of Rabbie Bain, and Callum’s battered body. He stared longest at his daughter’s bruised face, her tears, her bloodstained hands. “Take care of Gillian,” the laird commanded his clansmen.

  Then Donal turned and looked at John, his face mottled with rage. “Ye did this?” he demanded.

  “Papa, no, he—” Gillian began.

  But Donal saw the dirk in John’s hands. John heard the Fearsome MacLeod roar, saw his fist bunch, and braced for the blow. It hit him in the jaw like a battering ram. He was aware of an explosion of pain, of the force of the blow driving him backward. He tasted blood, and the breath left his lungs. Then the world went dark.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Her father dragged John away from her, and Gillian’s clansmen immediately surrounded her, their swords drawn and pointed at John. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Gillian tried to shove them aside, but they stood firm, wouldn’t listen. She saw the rage in her father’s eyes, heard the terrible accusation as he looked around the clearing, saw the injured men. She saw her father’s fist fly, and watched John fall next to Davy and lay still.

  “No!” she screamed, shoving at her immovable kinsmen. “No, Papa, please—he didn’t do this!”

  But Donal glared at her. “He’s the only one standing. He’s covered with blood, and he’s holding your dirk in one hand and you in the other. I warned ye Sassenachs couldn’t be trusted, that they’re treacherous and vicious. They have no honor, not a shred of kindness or decency.”

  “It’s not true! Papa, it isn’t true!”

  But he wasn’t listening. “The maid told me ye weren’t in your room when she took your breakfast up. I feared ye’d run off with him. I never imagined—” She saw the anger in his eyes, the fear of what might have happened.

  “He didn’t do this—” But her father turned away, his expression hard, the Fearsome Laird of Glen Iolair now, not her papa.

  “Take her home to Ada at once,” he ordered two of the clansmen. “Tell Ada we’re bringing back three injured men that need tending.”

  But there were four. “Papa,” she whispered. “John didn’t—”

  He silenced her with a terrifying glare. “You’ve tried my patience long enough, Gillian. Go home and make yourself ready—ye’ll wed Davy MacKenzie this evening.”

  The flat pronouncement stunned her, and Gillian stared at her father. “Oh, Papa, no,” she whispered, but he ignored her.

  “Tie the Sassenach dog and take him back. Tell the steward to prepare for a hanging.”

  Gillian screamed, fought the unyielding yet careful grip of her clansmen as they lifted her up onto a garron, held her there. “Papa, please! Ask Davy, ask Callum—it wasn’t John!” She pointed desperately at Rabbie’s still form, but her guards rode out, oblivious to all but their laird’s commands, and all her struggles were for nothing.

  * * *

  Donal stared at the fallen Englishman. He was covered with blood, his clothes and his hair soaked in it. Callum’s no doubt, and Davy’s—and Gillian’s—though he could hardly bear to think of that now. Davy MacKenzie was thrashing on the ground, making a terrible grating noise, and Donal knelt beside him.

  Davy gazed up at him, his eyes bloodshot, his breathing labored. Raw, red rope marks circled his throat.

  “We got him, lad. You’re safe now, and so’s Gillian,” Donal MacLeod said. Davy tried to speak, but only an ugly hiss came from his injured throat. He gripped Donal’s plaid in his shaking fist and pointed at the man sprawled next to him. Donal turned the man over. He’d not seen him before, but perhaps he was one of Davy’s ghillies, here to help the laird carry the game today in the contest.

  The contest.

  Donal looked around, but there was no evidence of even so much as a snared coney. He frowned. Davy MacKenzie hadn’t had a chance to hunt before the Sassenach caught him. He never should have let the bastard out of the dungeon. Davy shook him again, and Donal unwound himself from the MacKenzie’s grip as gently as he could.

  “Aye, Davy, I can see—the English bastard killed your ghillie, did he? Don’t worry, I’ll make him pay—I’m going to hang him.” Davy hissed again, and across the clearing, Callum groaned, tried to rise, and fell back. “See to Callum,” Donal ordered his men.

  He tried not to grimace as he looked at the young man’s battered face. It had been a hard beating, brutal. The lad’s jaw was likely broken, and though he was conscious, his agony was evident. His left arm hung at an awkward angle, and he groaned in pain as his fellow clansmen lifted him, carried him as gently as they could. He gripped Donal’s hand as they led him past, leaving gore and mud on his skin. He likely wanted to thank his laird for saving them all from the Sassenach, Donal thought as he clasped Callum’s hand. “I ken what you’re trying to say, lad. We’ll see ye right. Ye did your best to protect Gillian, and I’m proud of ye. Can ye ride?”

  Callum pointed to John.

  Donal nodded. “Aye, lad. I ken. He’ll pay with his life.” He looked at Callum’s bearers. “Handle him gently.”

  Callum tried to shake his head, but the pain was too much, and he passed out. Donal sighed. “Probably best if he’s not awake for the ride back.”

  His men helped Davy onto a horse, ignoring his grunting and gurgling and frantic points at the unconscious Sassenach and the sprawled ghillie as they led the Mackenzie’s horse out of the clearing.

  Donal glared down at the Englishman that Gillian loved. She’d seen for herself the kind of man he truly was now. Donal added breaking Gillian’s heart to the Sassenach’s tally of crimes. He looked at the rope dangling from the tree. It would be very easy to simply hang him now.

  “Throw him over a horse and take him back,” he said.

  * * *

  Gillian fought the clansman who held her in the saddle before him. “Please—John Erly saved us! My father’s wrong!”

  Cam MacLeod looked pained, his face red with the effort of keeping his laird’s daughter under control without hurting her any worse than she already was.

  “Sorry, Gillian. We have our orders. Ye saw your da—I’m not going to disobey him when he’s already angry.” He looked at Hew, the man who rode beside him, his sword in his hand, ready for trouble.

  “The Fearsome MacLeod is never wrong,” Hew said.

  She blinked back tears. “Will you let him kill an innocent man?”

  “He must have done something worth hanging for—he’s a Sassenach,” Cam said.

  Hew grunted agreement. “We’ll be lucky if the MacKenzies don’t kill him first. They won’t take kindly to him hanging their laird.”

  “They’ll be pleased when Gillian mar
ries their laird,” Cam said.

  “I won’t—” Gillian began, but the two warriors stiffened at the sound of hoofbeats on the track ahead. Cam tightened one arm around Gillian’s waist and drew his sword. “Don’t worry, you’re safe with us,” he murmured.

  “I was safe with John,” she snapped.

  Her sisters rode through the trees, Meggie and Aileen first, and Isobel and Aoife following. Cam and Hew lowered their swords.

  “There you are,” Meggie said to Gillian. “We thought you’d eloped. Och, you look terrible, Gilly!”

  “Does your da know you’re here?” Cam asked, striving for a stern tone.

  Meggie batted her eyelashes at him, and Cam blushed. “Of course not. We found a garron on the track. There’s a dead boar on his back. We tied him up.”

  Isobel looked at Gillian. “Gilly—you’re all bloody. Did you kill that huge boar? I wouldn’t have believed it a month ago, but—”

  Cam and Hew gaped at her.

  Gillian ignored them and gave her sisters a radiant smile. “John must have killed it. He killed it for me. For me—oh, Papa—” She twisted in Cam’s grip. “Take me back, I have to tell my father.”

  “The Sassenach killed a boar? When did he time for that—before or after he hanged the MacKenzie?” Hew asked.

  “Hanged the MacKenzie!” Aileen exclaimed.

  Gillian rolled her eyes. “John didn’t hurt anyone—”

  “Except the boar,” Aoife said.

  “Anyone could have caught it. It was probably a MacLeod,” Cam said.

  “Callum told John where to look for it,” Gillian said, glaring at her clansmen. “And while he was killing the boar, Rabbie Bain was trying to hang Davy MacKenzie, and murder Callum and me. John arrived just in time. If it hadn’t been for that Sassenach, we’d all be dead. D’you still think he should hang?”

  Hew looked sheepish.

  “Aye, you should look ashamed, Hew MacLeod! John Erly has saved me twice!” Gillian yelled. “I’ll not let anyone hang the man I love, not even my father.” She wriggled out of Cam’s grip and slid off the garron. “Help me, or get out of my way.”

  “She’s as fierce as her da,” Hew said. “I’ve never heard her yell before, or even speak above a whisper.”

  “English John is Alasdair Og Sinclair’s captain,” Meggie said, climbing off her own garron and going to Gillian’s side. “He bested Padraig Grant and Davy MacKenzie with his sword, and it appears he hunted down a boar that probably outweighs the two of you together.”

  “And he did it alone,” Aoife said, joining her sisters.

  Isobel held up her hands two feet apart. “That boar has tusks this long.”

  Cam frowned.

  “Hew, take the garron with the boar home. Cam, you’ll escort us back to where you left Papa. We need to speak with him before it’s too late,” Aileen commanded, since she was the eldest.

  Hew shook his head. “I’d rather hang than disobey my laird.”

  Meggie tilted her head. “Papa might hang you. But I can do worse than that, Hew MacLeod. One word to Katie, and—”

  He blanched. “Ye wouldn’t, Meggie.”

  “I would. Or I can tell her how brave you are, how you helped save an innocent man.”

  “But if what ye say about the Sassenach is true, why didn’t Callum tell the laird?” Hew tried.

  “Or Davy MacKenzie might have spoken up,” Cam added.

  Everyone looked at Gillian. “Callum is in no condition to talk, and the rope damaged Davy’s voice.” She looked at her sisters. “Papa is insisting I wed Davy tonight.”

  Her sisters frowned and glared at their clansmen. “Aoife and Isobel will show you where the boar is, Hew,” Aileen said. “Go. Cam, you’ll come with Gillian, Meggie and me to find Papa and save John.”

  The clansmen realized they were outnumbered and out of arguments.

  There was nothing left but to do exactly as the fearsome lasses wished.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Donal rode into the bailey and began barking orders. “Fetch Ada to see to Callum and Laird MacKenzie. Prepare for a wedding tonight, and a feast to follow it.” He glared at John’s unconscious body, lying face down over a garron. “And there’ll be a hanging to follow that. Take him back to the dungeon for now.”

  He waited while his men dragged the Sassenach off the garron and carried him away before he turned to his steward. “Now about the wedding—”

  “Papa!” Donal turned to find Fia coming through the gate with her husband and children and an escort of Sinclairs. Fia handed the babe in her arms to a nursemaid and climbed off the garron, her eyes bright. “Did I hear you say wedding? How wonderful! When John said he was coming, and Dair told me why, I feared you’d hang him, or worse. But now—”

  Donal pulled away. “Ye knew? Ye knew he was coming here, and ye didn’t stop him? I am going to hang him.”

  Fia blanched. “You can’t!” She caught her father’s sleeve. “It’s very important we speak to John at once.”

  “He tried to kill three men—and Gillian!”

  “John? English John? John Erly?” Fia turned to Dair.

  Dair frowned. “John is my friend. I’d know more about what’s happened here.”

  The babe was fussing in the nurse’s arms, and Donal crossed to take his new granddaughter. The child had russet hair and golden-green eyes like her mother—and Gillian. He looked at up at her parents. “Come inside, and I’ll tell ye the whole ugly tale.”

  But a voice rang out across the bailey. “A word if ye please, Laird MacLeod.” Donal looked up to see Padraig Grant and Cormag Robertson striding toward him.

  “Ye promised us a fair contest,” Padraig said.

  “And yet we hear Gillian is to marry Davy MacKenzie this very day,” Cormag said.

  “No one’s been declared the winner as far as we’ve heard,” Padraig said. “And if someone’s won, it surely wasn’t Davy MacKenzie.”

  “I have my reasons,” Donal said stubbornly. “The wedding will take place in my hall, at supper.”

  “If that’s so, your hall will no’ be standing by then,” Cormag said. “We want a hearing, a clear winner of the contests determined before anyone weds Gillian.”

  Donal handed his granddaughter back to her mother and glowered at them. “I’ve made my decision. The MacKenzie has won, and he’ll wed my daughter tonight. You’re welcome to stay for the wedding or take your leave as ye please.”

  Padraig looked at Cormag. “So be it,” he said, and the two lairds turned on their heels and strode away.

  * * *

  Gillian returned to the clearing, but her father had gone.

  She saw the horror in her sisters’ eyes as they looked around at the blood and the rope and the trampled grass.

  Gillian turned to go. “We’ve got to catch up with Papa.”

  They’d nearly reached Glen Iolair when a dozen men rode up, half of them Grants, and the other half Robertsons. They pointed their swords at Cam.

  “Ye’ll forgive us, mistress, but we were sent to fetch ye,” one of the Robertsons said to Gillian. “You’re to be our prisoner—”

  “And ours,” a Grant added.

  “Until a fair decision has been made as to who you’ll wed,” the Robertson continued. “We’ve got our pride, mistress. We’ll not let ye throw over our laird to wed Davy MacKenzie unless he won the contest right and proper.”

  “Which he didn’t,” the Grant said. “Our laird won.” He looked at the Robertson. “Should we tie her up?”

  The Robertson squared his shoulders. “She’s going to be the next lady of Drumellin. I will not tie her.”

  “She’ll be the lady of Gilmossie,” the Grant replied, and both clans glared at each other.

  Another Grant indicated a fallen log and gallantly laid a plaid over it. “If you’d please be seated, mistress—we’ll just have a wee wait while our lairds arrange things.”

  * * *

  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.”