“She is a criminal, a fugitive from the Crown’s justice, and I have orders to bring her back to England where she will be hanged for the murder of her husband, the Duke of Endsmere.”
If this was indeed Kenna’s sister—and he believed the lass—Kenna would not appreciate him handing her over to certain death.
“Call off the dogs,” he said when the woman had made it to his shoulders in her effort to get away from the snapping jaws.
A Scot wearing MacDonald colors moved his horse closer and called the hounds back.
“I am afraid ye have the wrong woman,” Cam said with a look of disgust. “This canna be the wife of the late Duke of Endsmere, because she’s my own wife, Mary.” He wrapped an arm around the woman and set her on the ground next to him. She gripped his hand and hid behind him. “Isn’t that right, love?” He squeezed her hand, silently telling her to comply.
The woman nodded emphatically. “Aye. This be my husband,” she said in a Scottish brogue that would do her clan proud.
The English twit snorted and shook his head. “Trust me, friend, you do not wish to be caught up with the likes of her.”
“I’m afraid I’m already caught up, friend. You’ll not be taking my wife from me.”
The Englishman let out a huff and turned to the Scot for help.
“You say this is your wife?” the Scot asked.
“Aye. She’s my wife. And I am the war chief of Clan MacKinlay. You have no right to take her off clan lands without an order from King Charles and permission from our laird.”
The Scot nodded once and turned to the other man.
“Whether or not she was his wife a moment ago, I assure ye they are now wed. They stood before witnesses with hands bound and declared themselves married. Under Scottish law they are hand-fasted, and it is a binding marriage.”
Cam glanced down at the woman’s hand in his, her fingers clenched as tight as her small hand could grasp his larger one. A tattered piece of her dress had been tangled around their wrists as she’d scrambled up his body. She was holding on to him now as if preparing to be bodily pulled away.
He played through the past moments and realized what the MacDonald arse had said was entirely true.
“This MacKinlay has the right of it,” the MacDonald man continued. “You may not take her without retaliation from the clan. You will need an order from the crown to get the laird to give up one of his clan without a battle. A battle I’m not willing to walk into, especially with just you at my back.”
“This is ridiculous. What kind of barbaric land allows people to wed in such casual fashion?”
Cam assumed the man didn’t need an answer to his question. Besides, he was too stunned to speak at the moment. He and this woman, whose name he didn’t even know, had declared they were wed while holding hands in front of witnesses.
She was, indeed, his wife.
Bloody hell. Cam swallowed and picked up his sword from the cart behind him with the hand that was not being clutched by his new bride. Whether he’d planned or wanted this didn’t matter. She belonged to him and his clan now, and he protected what was his.
“If you wish to try to take her, let’s get on with it. If not, be off with you.”
The Englishman puffed and slapped his leg, scowling down at them. “I will be back with an order from the king himself if I have to, and she will be returned to England to stand trial for her actions. No Scottish witch kills a peer of the realm and gets away with it.”
With that, he spun around and took off. The Scot held for a moment with a smug grin on his face.
“Congratulations on your wedding. I hope she doesna kill you as she killed her last husband.” He laughed and followed after the other man, the dogs trailing behind.
Cam turned to face his wife.
Chapter Two
When the danger was gone, the large MacKinlay man let out a breath. Marian slipped her hand from his, shaking loose from a part of her dress that had become twisted around their wrists. Surely this man didn’t plan to allow handfasting law to shackle him to a woman he’d never even met.
A woman who, admittedly, may have launched herself at him indecently to get away from a pack of savage dogs.
Her cheeks burned as she looked up…and up. He was as large as a tree. He’d seemed sturdy under her physical onslaught. Clearly no dandy, as her previous husband had been.
But the last thing she wanted was another husband. Especially one as large and imposing as the giant beside her. He’d said he was a war chief, which meant he was bred for violence and destruction.
She could never be married to someone like that. Despite his warm brown eyes—the color of aged whisky—that seemingly held kindness and patience.
He’d saved her life. She owed him her gratitude, but nothing more.
“Thank you, truly.” She offered him a curtsy, which seemed rather foolish considering her breasts had been in his face earlier and they were now possibly wed. Her cheeks heated again at the memory.
“Did you kill the duke?” His voice rumbled as he watched her. He probably thought he’d be able to spot a lie. He would be wrong. After five years of living with a monster, she’d become adept at hiding all emotion behind a blank expression.
She swallowed, trying to block the images and memories of that night or the weeks since. It had been a trying journey as she’d made her way from London to her sister’s home.
She’d traveled at night so as not to be seen. When she had the opportunity, she’d stolen a horse, which she’d later left at an inn so it could be returned to its owner. She might be a murderer, but
