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.”

But before Hew could obey, the door opened again, and Cormag Robertson and Padraig Grant returned. “Laird MacLeod, since ye can’t see your way clear to making a fair decision, we’ve taken matters into our own hands,” Padraig said.

“Gillian is our prisoner—” Cormag began.

“More like our guest,” Padraig corrected him, and Cormag pushed his bonnet back on his forehead and glowered at him.

“Mistress Gillian is in our care until the matter of who won the contest—”

“—And who has the right to wed the lass—” Padraig interrupted.

“—Has been determined,” Cormag finished.

Donal rose. “Ye’ve kidnapped my daughter?”

Cormag folded his arms over his chest and looked smug. “Now will ye give us a proper hearing?”

Alasdair Og Sinclair rose to his feet as well from where he’d been listening quietly as Donal’s careful plans dissolved into chaos. “And John deserves a chance to speak as well.”

Cormag and Padraig frowned at Alasdair Og, and at each other, then shrugged. “We’re not opposed to that,” Cormag said.

Donal knew he had no choice. “Fetch Davy MacKenzie and Callum MacLeod from their sickbeds, then.” He glared at the other two lairds. “And bring Gillian.”

Padraig pushed his bonnet back on his forehead. “We’ll produce the lass when the hearing’s done and not before.”

“What about John?” Isobel asked.

“And what about the boar, Papa?” Aoife asked.

Donal felt his face reddening, and a headache starting behind his eyes. He frowned at her. “Cook it.”