The two of them along with Gavin and Mary Lang signed the wedding register, as did Prior Lang, and then they signed everything again on a small, printed paper. After she put her name down, Niall took the pen from Amelia-Rose and set it back in its stand. “I reckon I’ll kiss my bride now,” he murmured.
She lifted on her toes, putting her arms around his shoulders, and kissed him. Hope, relief, elation—it all mingled together in a heady joy that made her feel as if her feet weren’t even touching the floor. It had been so simple, and somehow that made it more real. She didn’t have to dream about a fairy tale any longer. She had better than a fairy tale.
Niall lifted his head. “I love ye, Amy Hyacinth MacTaggert. So much it scares me a bit. Ye name anything, any dragon, any quest, and I’ll slay it for ye.”
“The only request I have is that you don’t leave me behind,” she whispered back. “I love you, too, Niall Douglas MacTaggert.”
“Och, my bread,” Mary exclaimed, and left the room. And that seemed to be the end of the ceremony. Carefully folding their certificate, Niall stuck it into an inner coat pocket and motioned Gavin to precede them out the door.
Not until Niall paused just short of the doorway, waiting for Gavin to leave first, did she realize he’d sent out the groom to make certain they wouldn’t be attacked by anyone. The fact that Lionel had ventured this far from London during the Season surprised her no end. The idea that he’d done so in such a hurry and had very nearly provoked a fight with Niall made her wonder just how badly he’d needed the ten thousand pounds her parents had promised him in exchange for her.
“All’s well,” Gavin reported, leaning into the doorway again.
In fact, nothing on the narrow street looked unusual at all, other than the large coach stopped outside the blacksmith’s. None of the residents passing by seemed to notice the vehicle, either, which made sense if eloping couples arrived here as often as had been rumored. “Where are they?” Amelia-Rose asked.
Niall let her hand go, hopped up onto the wheel of the coach, then clambered onto its roof. Standing, he did a quick circle, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. Up there like that, in his kilt and boots, he looked once more like a warrior—but then he was a warrior. Her warrior.
He jumped down again. “This way,” he said, retrieving her hand and heading up the street toward a stand of trees and a quaint-looking stream.
As they topped a short rise, she spied five horses at the edge of the water, one of them unmistakably Lord Glendarril’s huge black Friesian, Nuckelavee. Men came into sight, two of them in kilts matching Niall’s, and then three more men who appeared to be tied to trees. Amelia-Rose stopped short. “Niall, this will cause trouble.”
“An English marquis trying to stop a Highlands wedding? Aye, I’d call that trouble,” he returned, tugging her forward again. Abruptly he stopped, as well. “If ye dunnae want to see him, I’ll send Gavin back to the village with ye.”
Did she want to see Lord Hurst again? Not really, but at the same time the marquis needed to understand that she was no longer available, and had never been interested. Not since she’d met Niall, anyway. “I wouldn’t mind a word with him,” she returned.
He sent her a sideways glance, then started forward again. “Lads,” he said, stopping between the two big men.
“Niall,” Coll rumbled. “Are ye wed?”
“Aye.”
“Can ye prove it?”
Niall patted his pocket. “Aye.”
Moving with surprising speed for such a large man, Coll lunged forward, grabbed Niall, and hugged him. “I’m happy for ye, bràthair.”
Niall grunted. “Put me down, ye ogre.”
The viscount did so, then turned to her. His gaze on her face, he reached down for her hand, lifted it, and kissed her knuckle. “Welcome to the family, Amelia-Rose MacTaggert.”
“It’s Amy, now,” Niall countered.
Glendarril cocked his head. “That suits ye better. ‘Amelia-Rose’ is a bit pretentious.”
Aden elbowed his older brother out of the way. He did hug her, but with a care that said he worried she might break. “I apologize again for letting that toad in the smithy. He looks boneless, but he’s got a quick trot.”
Niall stepped between her and his brother, accepting another hug. “Did ye know he was following us?”
“Nae till this morning. We passed ye last night, decided to get here first and take a look about.” He angled a thumb at Hurst, and Amelia-Rose noticed they’d put a gag over the marquis’s mouth. “Good thing we did.”
“Did ye have someaught ye wanted to say to Lord Hurst, Mrs. MacTaggert?” Niall asked her.
Previously she might have hesitated. The price she would likely pay for speaking her mind would be too dear. But these three men, these brothers, were part of a clan. Niall had spoken about how when trouble befell one clansman, the others stepped forward to help. And she was a MacTaggert now, as well. She wasn’t alone any longer. “Yes, I would,” she said.
“Ye wanted him silent, or yapping?” Coll asked.
“Remove the gag, if you please.”
The viscount complied, and Lionel spat onto the ground. “You are dead men,” he hissed. “I am looking at dead men. You cannot put your hands on me twice. I will see you all transported or hanged.”
“Lionel,” she said, interrupting the tail end of his rant, “I’m sorry you fell into the middle of this. I know my mother promised you a fortune for my hand, and I understand that this blinded you to any questions over whether I wanted to marry you or not. I did not. I—”
“There is a signed agreement, Miss Baxter.”
“You sketch lugubrious saints, you consider women with dark hair to be more solemn than those with blond hair, and you dislike the idea of reading. While I don’t have a great deal of knowledge about saints, except to know that Saint Andrew is the patron saint of Scotland, I don’t have dark hair, and I very much enjoy reading. In addition, I find you to be dull to the point of ridiculousness, and while you do have a pretty face, I would consider that to be your only virtue.”
His mouth gaped open, his face turning purple. He didn’t look so very soulful anymore. Now he more closely resembled a toddler whose toy had been taken away. “You stu—”
“I’ve two things to add,” Niall said, moving up beside her. “She’s a married woman, and ye’re nae in England. So ye think hard before ye finish that sentence, Hurst. Yer future may rest on it.”
As good-humored as Niall generally was, she heard the steel in those words, the utter calm in his level gaze. Hurst heard it, too, because the marquis snapped his mouth shut, the remainder of his sentence unspoken.
“A word, Niall?” Aden asked, moving away from their three prisoners.
She wasn’t certain if she was to be included, but Niall took her hand in his callused one again to follow his brother. “Aye?”
“We’ve a bit of a dilemma,” Aden said, lowering his voice.
“Keep ’em here till sunset,” Niall returned flatly. “They’ll nae be able to follow us north, even if there was a reason for ’em to do so.”
“Francesca wants ye back in London. The sooner the better.”
Niall frowned. “We’re nae going back to London. Even you two ken what’s changed for us there. And I’ll nae have Amy facing her parents unless or until she wants to.”
Coll joined them, shaking his head. “Nae. Francesca’s done someaught. Wouldnae tell us what, but she said the longer ye’re gone, the harder repairing the damage will be. She said ye need to trust her.”
“And what do the two of ye think of that?”
Aden grimaced. “When it comes to London, I reckon she’s the expert,” he said slowly.
“Amy?” Niall asked, facing her. “This affects ye far more than it does me.”