Chapter 31

Nhaimeth had wondered whether folks would laugh at them, looking at him and Rowena—so short and his friends practically giants by comparison—but Rob had thought of that, both Rob and Melinda standing one step down frae where Rowena and he faced the priest. Rowena had nae actual religion that he could tell and had been content to have a Celtic priest bind them together for life. Now here she was, standing by his side, as bonny a wee gypsy as a man could wish for, and in that moment a thought pierced him that made him wonder if this was only a dream—an unfulfilled wish that would haunt him until his dotage.

Rowena reached out for his hand and what he saw in her eyes calmed him. Some might say this was love. Having nae experience, he couldnae say for certain. He remembered Rob when he returned with him frae the border country—pleased to be free yet his spirit restless, unable to settle, unlike his usual self in a way Nhaimeth had found hard to explain. Rob should have been happy from the way he’d been welcomed home, the clan relieved Euan still had an heir, but it had bothered Rob that his first adventure had cost his father and Gavyn an outrageous sum. “That’s Normans for ye,” Gavyn had said. “Naught more in their minds but lining their pockets with silver.”

Rob still hadn’t been able to settle, and Nhaimeth for one hadnae been surprised when he took off on his own, certain that all his friend needed was a little time to work on his restless soul.

He’d been gone so long Nhaimeth had decided he must have found a lass and had expected him to arrive home with one seated on his horse’s rump and announce he was married, but it hadn’t happened. Instead he had dived head first into training, into perfecting his expertise as a swordsman. “War is coming,” he had stated as if that were the be-all and end-all of his life. “We have to be prepared to stand shoulder to shoulder with our King. Ye dare not trust yon Normans.”

And yet Malcolm Canmore had trusted his friend on the other side of the wall separating the two countries. Their king had died and his son Edward with him and the country had been set alight with quarrels that the Normans had naught to do with apart frae being the cause by killing King Malcolm—a man who had sat at the centre of all the McArthur, Farquhar and Comlyn lives for as long as Nhaimeth could remember.

This time Rob had come home, if not with a lass riding at the back of him on Gun-eagal’s rump, at least travelling behind him in a gypsy’s wagon, and, on his saddle-bow, one of the bonnie wee sons he hadn’t been aware he had.

Yet none of that troubled Nhaimeth now. What did was Rowena’s pronouncement that it was his and Rowena’s task to protect those lads frae what was to come when she was well aware Rob and Melinda were big enough they could make two of them.

Aye, life was strange. He had thought Rob would be happy at last when instead he had been as restless as ever with the excuse that a homemade war would soon be on their doorstep, and suddenly everything changed and he and his wife were acting like a pair of wee cushy-doos and hardly out of one another’s sight.

Love.

That wasnae the kind of emotion he and Rowena shared, full of highs, lows, turmoil and passion. All he was sure of was that frae now on they would be together, man and wife, for their size didnae count; only what was in their hearts.

That wasnae what concerned the priest, however, as he droned on above Nhaimeth’s head while his own thoughts went hither and thither. Morag had decorated the chapel with the bluebells Rowena had been determined to see bloom afore they wed. The flowers lightened the auld grey building, unlike the sombre place they had entered on Rob’s wedding day.

Nhaimeth had stood up with Rob that day and kenned fine what to expect when the priest got to the part where they vowed to cleave only to each other nae matter what befell. He was ready for that part and hoped Rowena was too, for she kept looking over shoulder towards the chapel door and the congregation. He turned his head, thinking something was amiss. He could see naught but a young man dressed in dark green hunting attire who stood to one side at the very back. There was something familiar about him, but Nhaimeth couldn’t quite bring his name to the tip of his tongue.

Then came the moment when they made their vows, and he and his betrothed promised to cleave each to the other for good or ill, in sickness and in health. His heart was pounding as Rowena made her promises. She looked straight into his eyes in way that assured him she spoke frae the heart, as he did. Her eyes shone with unshed tears as she said, “I will,” and he placed the bonnie gold ring he’d had made in her size over her knuckle and pushed it onto her finger, never to be removed, not even in death.

His heart swelled with love and pride as the priest said they were now man and wife. He looked at Rowena and she at him. Next moment she grabbed his hand again as if she would never let go, though this time it wasnae for reassurance or even gladness that now they were man and wife. Nae the look in her eye said ‘trust me’ as she turned and pulled him with her and, in a voice tinged with fear, said, “Hurry, Nhaimeth, we have to go.”

They ran together down the stone flags of the aisle she had walked up on Guaril’s arm but a short time ago, looking so bonnie. At first he told himself it must be a gypsy tradition, so he ran with her while the guests and the congregation in the chapel gawped, mouths hanging open. He even managed to throw a smile to Jamie as if to say, “Dinnae worry, naught to fear.”

But it wasnae true, for the man in hunting green stepped out and blocked their way.

Rowena simply raised her wee hand as if she would push him away and said, “Don’t attempt to stop us. Yer future is at stake here as well as that of the McArthurs.”

Whether was it the look in Rowena’s eye or the expression on her face, the tall, dark-eyed stranger stood back and let them rush past.