"Diarmot and I were handfasted a year ago."
"Handfasted? Is that all? Such marriages are set aside easily enough."
Ilsa stared at the woman, torn between an urge to gape and one to slap her pretty face. What was truly surprising was how little reaction the woman revealed to the possibility that her betrothed had deceived her, that she had almost been dragged into a false, bigamous union. Where was the anger, the righteous sense of insult? There was not even the glimmer of pain in the woman's pale blue eyes. Either Diarmot's pretty little bride had no depth of feeling for him or she was an idiot.
"It cannae be done so easily, Margaret," Diarmot said.
"It cannae be done at all," snapped Ilsa.
She unwrapped the blanket around Finlay. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gay quickly open the blanket wrapped around Cearnach. It shocked Ilsa a little to see that Gay looked as furious as she herself felt. For the moment, outrage had apparently dimmed Gay's fears.
"Your sons, Finlay and Cearnach." Ilsa nodded toward each child as she introduced them. "They are three months old. These lads give me the right to claim ye as my husband. They also, by your own vow, compel ye to make me your wife before God and kinsmen, before a priest."
"Nay, they are not my get," said Diarmot.
Ilsa felt Sigimor take a step closer to Diarmot and heard him growl. There was an echo of the ferocious noise from behind her, her seven other brothers clearly sharing Sigimor's fury. Although she was feeling violently angry herself, she was pleased that the men had left their weapons outside the church as custom demanded.
"Nay, Sigimor," she said as she wrapped her son back up in his blanket.
"He insults ye," snapped Sigimor. "He insults us."
"Aye, true enough, and, although there is a part of me which would like to see him stomped into a smear upon the floor, I still say nay. Ye were the one who pressed me to seek him out, to make him honor his obligations. I cannae do that if ye break him into wee, bloodied pieces, can I. It wouldnae be good for the lads to see their uncles slaughter their father, either."
"How can I be their father?" demanded Diarmot. "I dinnae e'en ken who ye are, woman."
Diarmot fought the urge to take a step away from the outrage and fury directed at him by the woman and her companions. This was impossible. Someone was trying to deceive him. He could not believe he would forget having a wife no matter how severe his injuries had been. A wife with copper-colored hair and ivy-green eyes was surely something a man would recall. He looked to Connor for help only to find his brother and the priest carefully examining the papers.
When both men glanced at him, Diarmot felt panic stir in his blood. The look they gave him told him he would find little help from them.
"Is this your signature upon these papers?" the priest asked Diarmot.
"Aye, but--"
"Nay, no arguments, please. These papers say ye are bound to this woman," the priest glanced down at the papers, "this Ilsa Cameron." He cast a pointed look at the twins before returning his gaze to Diarmot. "Ye have proved verra compatible indeed, thus she is the woman I will be marrying ye to."
Before Diarmot could say another word, a unified roar of fury rose up from the Campbells. He looked for Margaret, although he was not sure of what he could say or do, only to see her standing next to the altar. She still looked sweet and calm, but there was a hint of gleeful anticipation in her eyes. Before he could wonder at that, he caught sight of a large fist headed his way, and ducked. A heartbeat later, he found himself caught up in a melee of fists and bellowed threats of retaliation.
Ilsa quickly backed up toward the far side of the church. She felt a trembling Gay keeping pace with her. When they were pressed up against the wall, Gay tucked herself up close to Ilsa's side. As she turned to speak with Gay, Ilsa saw a pretty, obviously pregnant woman with faintly mismatched eyes standing on the other side of Gay.
"I am Gillyanne MacEnroy," the woman said. "Wife to Connor, the big mon who stood at Diarmot's side."
"I am Ilsa and this is Gay." Ilsa watched as the woman inspected the twins.
"They are Diarmot's sons."
"Aye, I ken it. They have his eyes, as weel." Gillyanne lightly stroked Gay's arm. "Be at ease, child. These men will ne'er hurt ye. Big and loud though they are now, the MacEnroys and the Camerons would ne'er harm a lass."
"Most of me kens it, m'lady," said Gay, then she frowned. "Ye didnae include the Campbells, the bride's kinsmen."
"Nay, I am unsure of them." She ruffled the thick red curls on Cearnach's head. "Lovely."
"I had hoped they would have Diarmot's hair," Ilsa murmured, noticing that Gillyanne's words, perhaps her very presence, had calmed Gay.