The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

“No, he’s not,” she snapped. “And he won’t be, if I have anything to say about it.”

“For God’s sake, if you try anything now…” With impressive speed, Hamish disentangled himself from Diarmid and stood to counter any threat from Thomas. Even that small amount of jiggling had Fiona flinching on her husband’s behalf. She heard Diarmid bite back a long groan of agony.

Gently she took his head onto her lap, cradling his cheeks in her shaking hands. He was as pale as paper, and the heavy black lashes lay still on his cheeks. Despite Hamish’s reassurances, she was sick with anxiety. There was so much blood, and nothing she did seemed to stop the flow. Her gown was sticky with it.

“This is all your fault, ye troublesome bitch,” Thomas said bitterly. “Why the hell couldn’t ye stay at Bancavan and do your duty by your kin?”

Hamish saved her from answering. “What in blazes were you and Allan thinking of, shooting Diarmid? You couldn’t hope to get away with murder when I was here to report what happened.”

“Och, we had a dozen clansmen to swear that Mactavish produced his gun first. You’re the mongrel’s cousin. Nobody would believe you’re an unbiased witness.”

“You should have just taken your thousand pounds and left,” Fiona said in a broken voice, looking up at the man whose weakness had encouraged his brother’s evil to thrive. “That’s more money than any Grant has seen in twenty years.”

“A thousand?” Thomas’s voice was snide. “A Mactavish cannae buy a Grant so cheap, ye wee besom. Allan got ten thousand out of the devil, and he’d started to wish he’d asked for more.”

Ten thousand pounds? It was a mad amount of money. She wanted to give Diarmid a good shake. Or she would, if she wasn’t worried sick about him.

“You great, wonderful idiot, Diarmid,” she muttered, stroking the damp black hair back from his brow. He felt so cold beneath her touch. The weather became as large a threat as his blood loss.

She wondered if he’d drifted into unconsciousness again, but a ghost of a smile stretched his lips. “Had to. Worth it.” His voice faded. “To see ye happy.”

Oh, Diarmid…

She lifted her head to watch through tears as Sir Quentin approached them. Behind him near the trees, the Grant clansmen now stood in a disconsolate bunch under Douglas guard. “Lady Invertavey, how fares Mr. Mactavish?”

Fiona stared misty-eyed down at the man she’d married so unwillingly and now couldn’t imagine living without. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but I pray he’ll survive.”

“Let’s hope so.” After all the violence, his polite bow to Thomas struck Fiona as incongruous. “Mr. Grant, I’m Sir Quentin Avery. I own this land we’re standing on, and I’m also the local magistrate.”

“You’ll want to take me into custody for shooting that bastard, I suppose,” Hamish said in a grim tone. “I’d like it on record that Allan Grant had a second pistol. I knew if I didn’t do something, he’d finish the job of killing Diarmid after he failed with the first attempt.”

“It was cold-blooded murder, what ye did to my brother,” Thomas said. “You’ll hang for this, Douglas.”

Sir Quentin shook his head. “Not if I have anything to say about it. I already saw there was a second gun. Mr. Douglas shot Allan Grant in self-defense and to save his cousin. When we get back to Glen Lyon, I’ll take statements from you all, but I can’t see that this matter needs to proceed to any sort of charge.”

“Bloody corruption and collusion. I’ll carry this further,” Thomas snarled, his hands closing into fists at his sides. “Ye see if I don’t.”

“Your prerogative, Mr. Grant,” Sir Quentin said in a cool voice. “But any publicity about this incident is only going to tarnish what little reputation your brother has left.”

Fiona hardly cared that Thomas blustered about setting the law on them all. At last, Diarmid’s blood loss seemed to be slowing. A faint trace of color seeped into his ashen face. Perhaps there was a chance he might come through this after all.

“We expected trouble. Hamish and I were both armed,” Diarmid said in a failing voice. “Fiona warned me.”

“You’re going to have a dashed uncomfortable trip back to Lyon Castle, and the sooner, the better,” Sir Quentin said. “I’ve got one of our men bringing the Grants’ carriage over for you.”

A timorous voice spoke from the end of the bridge. “Mamma?”

“Christina?” Fiona said, turning her head in her daughter’s direction.

Her grip on Diarmid tightened, as she struggled to contain the turbulent oceans of emotion swelling inside her. Fear for her husband. Fear for her child. Relief at Allan’s death. A mother’s powerful yearning to clutch her daughter close and reassure her that the danger had passed.

“Go to Christina.” Hamish smiled at her with compassion and understanding in his blue eyes. “She’s frightened and bewildered, and we’ve left her alone too long.”

“But Diarmid…”

“Don’t worry about my cousin. I’ll look after him.” With competent hands, Hamish kneeled down and transferred Diarmid into his hold with a minimum of painful fuss. “Can you stand, old man?”

“Aye, I think so,” Diarmid said unsteadily. “But ye might need to lend me your brawny shoulder.”