Davy was still writing as mayhem erupted. Padraig Grant was calling for a search party to be organized at once. The Robertson warriors were blaming the Grants for losing Gillian, and the brawl started all over again. Donal was questioning Meggie and Aileen, fearing the worst, wondering if he’d find that Gillian had eloped or was dead at the Sassenach’s hand.

But the door opened once more, and Gillian entered the hall with John Erly by her side, her hair tangled with leaves, her bruises shocking, her gown stained and rumpled, and her eyes as bright as stars. Everyone in the hall fell silent.

Donal wondered if his daughter had ever looked lovelier. His heart climbed into his throat, and he felt tears of relief in his eyes at the sight of her. She looked at the Englishman with a smile of such love and confidence that even Donal MacLeod heard the chime of the bells that signaled true love.

The Sassenach lowered a body to the floor. He’d killed another man. Donal was on his feet in an instant, reaching for his claymore.

But the MacKenzies began to roar and point, and Davy MacKenzie was on his feet, too, and the pot of ink before him spilled across the table like black blood, and he was pointing at the Englishman, limping toward him.

“Now, Davy, we’ll not shed blood in this hall before my daughters,” Donal said, but Davy had already reached John Erly. He gathered the Englishman in a warm embrace.

“Thank ye,” he mouthed. “Thank ye.”

* * *

Gillian stood by John’s side and looked at her father. “John brought me back, Papa. He didn’t hang Davy, Rabbie Bain did.” She looked at the unconscious man at her feet. “Rabbie is one of the outlaws who attacked us on the road to Edinburgh. You can ask the MacKenzies if you don’t believe me.”

Her father stared at her. “And ye captured him again?”

She ignored that. “If not for John, Davy would be dead, Papa. So would Callum, and I—” She turned to look at the Englishman. Davy stood beside him now. Callum struggled out of his chair and crossed to regard John silently. He took a place next to the Englishman as well, and looked at Donal.

Her father regarded John. John looked steadily back at him. “Ye could have escaped, eloped, taken her away,” Donal said. “Why didn’t ye?”

“You love her, and she loves you. I want your permission, Laird, because I love her as well.”

“And what if I said no?” her father demanded.

* * *

There had to be a trial, John had known that.

Donal MacLeod wouldn’t—couldn’t—give in so easily. Not with Cormag and Padraig still clamoring for a fair decision. Everyone wanted to hear the full story—all of it—in detail.

From across the hall, Dair grinned at him, and John nodded.

“I’ll have order, if you please,” Donal said. “We’re here to decide who won the contests and has the right to claim Gillian as his bride.

“Papa!” Gillian said again, but he held up his hand.

“Since the MacKenzie cannot speak, he has written down his testimony,” Fia said, taking the parchment to her father. He read it and looked up at Davy in surprise. “It says here that it was the outlaw Rabbie Bain who tried to hang him, who beat Callum MacLeod, and my daughter. Am I reading it aright, Davy?”

Davy blinked.

“And it also says that the Englishman severed the rope that hanged ye with an arrow shot that saved your life.”

A murmur went through the hall. Donal looked at John in surprise, and John held his gaze, keeping his expression flat.

Donal turned back to the letter, then glanced at Davy MacKenzie. “Laird MacKenzie also writes that he is withdrawing his proposal of marriage.”

Another ripple went through the hall, and people gaped at John. He felt his chest tighten. Gillian stood silently beside him, waiting.

Donal looked at Cormag and Padraig. John noted that the two lairds were staring at him, their mouths wide with grudging admiration. “Will ye also withdraw your proposals?” Donal asked them.

Padraig sighed loudly. He swiped his bonnet off his head. “I withdraw my proposal,” he said. “In favor of the Sass—” He paused “In favor of John Erly of Carraig Brigh.”

Donal frowned. “Who my daughter weds is up to me. What about ye, Cormag?”

Cormag looked at Gillian. “Nay. I still wish to wed the lass. If the Englishman has won the hunting competition, and I have won the Gillie Callum, and the results of the other contests remain—murky—then we’re tied.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Which one of us will wed your daughter, Laird MacLeod? Me or the Sassenach?”

The hall fell silent as Donal considered. “Will ye speak?” he asked John. “Tell me why I should allow ye to wed my daughter. You’ve no fortune, no kin, and . . . ye’re not a Scot.”

“Deeds speak louder than words, Papa,” Meggie said but John kept his eyes on Donal.

“I love Gillian,” he said simply. He turned to her and dropped to one knee.

“If your father gives his permission, I promise to love you all the days of our life together, to do everything in my power to make you happy, and to protect you and care for you. Will you marry me?”

Gillian blushed with pleasure. “Yes, John. I’ll marry you” She bit her lip and looked at her father. “Oh, Papa, please say yes. I want your blessing, but I belong with John. I will marry him with or without your approval.”

“What will ye live on?” Donal asked. “He’s penniless.”

Dair cleared his throat. “He’s not penniless at all.”

He turned to John. “If ye’d been just an hour later tearing out of Carraig Brigh to come here, ye could have received your visitor yourself. He came all the way from England to find ye. He rode in just after ye rode out.”

John frowned. “My father?”

Dair shook his head. “A man named Scarsden. Do ye know him?”

John’s brows rose. “He was a secretary of the Company of Adventurers. He was at York Factory when I left.”

“You never told us about your time in the New World. Mr. Scarsden had some grand tales to tell us about you, John,” Fia said. “Fine tales. I wish I’d known.”

Dair grinned. “It seems he’s been looking for ye for some time. Ye see, I stopped by your father’s estates on my way home from my last voyage to ask a few questions—” He held up his hand when John frowned. “I wasn’t prying. I was trying to help, to reconcile ye with your family, to at least let them know where ye were, and what ye’d done for me. That’s why I was late getting home—your father’s been ill these past years, a recluse, in mourning for his sons. He believes you’re as dead as your brother, John. The earl has good days, and bad days. I was advised to wait, see him when he was better. Your father’s secretary informed me that if you were alive, you should be told you are still his lordship’s heir. As his only surviving legitimate son, you cannot legally be cut out of the succession. The secretary asked where he might find you when the time comes. I told him to send word to Carraig Brigh, John. I didn’t get the chance to see your father.”

John frowned, and Gillian squeezed his hand.

“Does that mean my grandsons will be English earls?” Donal Macleod asked.

Dair grinned ruefully. “And as Clive, John will rank higher in the peerage than a Scottish earl. He’ll outrank me.”

“But Scarsden—why did he come?” John asked.

“It seems he’s been holding your share of the profits from your last voyage in trust for ye. Ye left the ship without claiming them.”

“My share?” John said.

Dair grinned again. “It appears you’re a wealthy man, John. Very wealthy. So wealthy, I may just start investing in the fur trade myself, build another ship or two for the new venture. Of course, I’d need a partner, a man who understood the business.”

“Will you sail?” Fia asked. “I gather you’re not really afraid to—and Gilly loves the sea.”

John looked at his hands. “My brother died on the sea, is buried under it. I am reminded of that every time I look at the water. To me it became his grave.”

Gillian took his hand. “From what you told me, he wouldn’t want you to feel that way. He didn’t blame you.”

He scanned her face. “He wanted me to be happy. I didn’t think I’d ever find what he had. I didn’t think I deserved it.”

She smiled at him. “And now?”

“I have you,” he said. He looked at Donal. “Do I?”

Donal MacLeod rose from his chair and left the room. Gillian’s smile faded, and she turned to John with tears in her eyes. “Oh no.”

But Donal returned, holding the quaich in his hands. He poured it full of whisky and crossed to John. “Ye said ye wanted to wait for a welcome, or a wedding,” he said. “It seems I’ve underestimated ye. Sassenach earl or no, you’re a fine man, and a brave one. Ye have my blessing to marry my daughter.”

He turned and looked at Davy and Cormag and Padraig. “The wedding is tomorrow. Any objections?”

Davy managed a crooked smile, and Padraig wiped a tear from his eye. Cormag frowned. “I cannot say I’m not disappointed, but I withdraw my proposal to ye, Mistress Gillian, and wish ye happy with John Erly.”

He called for his own quaich and filled it for a toast. “It appears our warrior maid has met her match, and the best man won her heart. May they have many adventures and much happiness always.”

And everyone drank, and every Highlander surrounded the happy couple and cheered the perfect match of English John and his brave, bonny Highland bride.