“What honor does Lord Dalrigh have sending his sister to do his dirty work?”
“He doesnae ken that I am here, nor does that matter. Do ye want thetonto think ye took advantage of a young lass?”
“My honor is my own to deal with. And none of your concern. I did not compromise your sister. In fact, this truly has nothing to do with me. I care not for what others think.”
“The gossips believe what they want,” Isla retorted, her voice still rising. “And they want to believe ye disgraced a young woman. They want to believe me sister is a ruined lass. All because of a malicious lie!”
Before he could respond, a figure rounded the corner, panting and out of breath.
“Isla! What inAuld Nickare ye doin’ here?”
Isla watched the man bound down the alley, nearly soaring with hurry.
Callum.
He looked at her, then at the Duke, his hands balled into fists at his sides as he shook his head furiously.
“I told ye to stay at Aunt Honoria’s! Bloody hell, Isla!”
“Callum, mind yer tongue in front of His Grace! And please, ye daenae have to do this,” she said, stepping toward him, her hands outstretched in a plea.
“Wait a minute, is that me coat?”
“Ye daenae have to paint your hands with blood,” Isla pressed. “I came here to put an end to this madness.”
“Did ye come pretendin’ to be me?”
“I had to do somethin’ to keep the bloody peace! Ye think I enjoy this?”
“His Gracehas insulted Eilidh’s honor!” he yelled, his voice echoing in the narrow space as the sun began to rise slowly in the distance. “Highland pride demands satisfaction. I will nae be swayed by yer pleas, Isla!”
“Pride is a useless, stubborn thing if ye are not around to yield it!” she countered, her voice laced with desperation. “Think, Callum, think! Eilidh would rather have ye alive than her honor satisfied with a bullet!”
“Your sister is right, Lord Dalrigh,” the Duke interjected finally, his tone steady. “There is no need for violence. I only came here to discuss the matter and to find a way to avoid it. I had no intention of going through with this mindless duel.”
“Ye think ye can shoot me down, is that it?” Callum said as his jaw tightened into a thin line. “Ye think you can play the civilized Duke and then kill me in cold blood as I walk away? I ken yer type! Ye think yer money and yer fancy title put ye above others?—”
“That is not what I am saying at all, Lord Dalrigh,” the Duke interjected. “If you would kindly allow me to speak?—”
“I willnae have it!” Callum bellowed, his face red and eyes burning. “Ye will either marry me sister or face me, Yer Grace. Take yer pick.”
Isla’s stomach dropped as she wrung her hands together nervously.
“Nae!” she cried. “Callum, ye cannae make such a demand from His Grace!”
“I will not be bullied into marriage by baseless gossip,” the Duke stated plainly.
“Then you shall answer to me weapon,” Callum spat.
Without another word, Callum pulled a pistol from his coat pocket and pointed it at the Duke.
Bile rose in Isla’s throat as she watched the cold metal glinting in the faint light. The Duke, with a sigh that seemed to hold all the weariness of the world, pulled out his own and pointed it at Callum. Before her brain could register what her body was doing, Isla threw herself between them.
“Ye will have to shoot me first,” she cried, her voice shaking but her stance firm.
She held her arms outstretched in between them, the scars that etched her arms now exposed to the cold.
“Get out of the way, Isla!” Callum yelled. “This doesnae concern ye! Ye have done enough!”
