I take in a deep breath and remember what Maeve said.
All I have to do is say, “I do.”
But as I walk toward Keenan, the foreboding I felt earlier returns. I look to my left and to my right. I’m surrounded by armed, stern soldiers, ready to protect me, ready to lay down their lives if necessary. Then why do I feel a sense of dread in my stomach? I force myself to look at Keenan. He stands under the trellis, the early morning sun casting its light before him, and I’m reminded of the time I thought him a fallen angel. Do fallen angels get a chance at redemption? Even recovering from his injuries, he’s so handsome waiting for me. Sebastian’s doctored him up well.
I’m paces away from him, nearing the men who stand by Keenan: Cormac and Lachlan and Seamus. Everything’s quiet, everything’s still, when Lachlan suddenly starts. He jerks his head up and stares beyond. Lachlan suddenly tackles me, shoving me into Keenan. I scream.
“Sniper!” Lachlan shouts.
It all happens so fast, it’s a blur of screams and confusion. I’m thrown to the ground, the damp grass in front of me saturating the lovely dress. Keenan’s full body’s over me. Gunshots ring out. Footsteps sound, and then more. Keenan’s issuing orders, but I can hardly hear for the ringing in my ears.
“Fucking sniper!”
“Someone get him!”
“The boy’s after him, fast as a shot.”
“I don’t think I got him.”
“Go see if there’s more!”
There’s a tumult of voices and sounds, and then I’m dragged to my feet beside Keenan. He’s shaking me, grasping my arms. “Y’alright? Are you, lass? Christ, woman, tell me you’re alright.” Keenan is kneeling in front of me, holding me to him, his eyes roving my body for any signs of injury. “Are you?”
“I’m fine,” I whisper, but he rubs his finger on my cheek and it comes back red.
I raise my hand to my face, my heart pounding. Was I shot? I don’t feel anything at all. I look, and even Keenan isn’t shot. He pulls me to him as if to shield me from more bullets, to keep me from further danger, when a loud wail goes up. I look with horror to see Maeve, on her knees, holding Seamus to her. My body grows stiff, my pulse cold. His bright white shirt is stained with blood. Seamus was shot.
Keenan stills, but he won’t let me go. He looks to his mother, and I tell him to go to her, that it’s okay, but he shakes his head.
Sebastian’s kneeling beside her and issuing commands. “Call an ambulance,” he shouts, and Cormac pulls his phone out with trembling hands. “He’s still alive!”
“Keenan,” Maeve says through tears, her gaze as fierce as I’ve ever seen it. “Do it. He would want you to. Do it.” She’s crying freely now. “No more bloodshed, son. Take her as your wife.”
Keenan takes my hand and turns to Father Finn. The priest is white as a sheet, the book he holds shaking in his trembling hands, but I know. We have to do this. We have to take our vows now. We have to prevent any more injuries, any more violence.
We utter our vows in whispers, repeating what Father says. We take our rings, and place them on our fingers, as an ambulance drives up the path. It’s surreal and painful and beautiful, the way the men stand and watch their leader taken onto a stretcher.
“He still may live,” Sebastian says to Maeve, as she climbs into the ambulance.
She turns to Keenan. “I’ll tell him,” she says. “You did the right thing.”
There is no party, no celebration. Keenan holds my hand up and faces everyone. It’s then that I notice people with cameras. He’s invited reporters here. They’ve seen everything. They heard us take our vows.
“Welcome Caitlin McCarthy,” he says, his voice loud with victory and twinged with pain. “The newest member of The Clan.”Chapter Twenty-FourKeenanWe pace the hospital waiting room, still dressed in our wedding garments. We make quite a sight, grass-stained and bloodied. I get as much intel as I can, from where I am.
Lachlan’s quick eye and speed paid off. He caught our sniper, hauled him in for questioning. I’ve left Boner and Tully to deal with him, as Cormac’s with me.
The news of our wedding made headlines. We’ve an in with the reporters, and made it abundantly clear my father being shot at the wedding was not to make the headlines. The pictures show my wife, lovely as a lark. Mrs. Keenan McCarthy.
There’s no mention of the bloodshed, no mention of the war between The Clans. Just my beautiful bride. My wife.
She sits beside me in the waiting room, holding my hand.
“Shit luck for a honeymoon,” I quip, smiling at her. Christ, but I’m glad to have her. My father was shot near his heart, and he might make it through surgery.