Page 38 of Sweet Hellion

Chapter Twelve

Emma leaned against the window in the upstairs room of Blackstone Abbey’s chapel. The day seemed so long ago that she’d tried to shoot Rhys.

At the patter of footsteps behind her, she glanced over to see Kyla, Ewan’s wife, pause in the doorway, a bouquet of dried roses in hand. “Come, Emma. It is time.”

Emma shivered. Time to say her vows.

“Are you ready?” Molly popped her head over Kyla’s shoulder.

Emma smiled and nodded. “Aye.”

“You are so beautiful.” Kyla’s brown eyes sparkled as she pressed the bouquet into Emma’s hands.

Gingerly, Emma accepted them. They matched the pink rosettes on her white muslin gown. “They are so bonny. Thank you, Kyla.”

Kyla squeezed her arm. “Rhys is so fortunate to have found you.”

“Perhaps,” Emma said.

They walked in companionable silence down the abbey’s arched halls toward the chapel, but at the sound of voices in the courtyard, they paused.

“Unexpected guests?” Kyla asked.

They detoured to the courtyard to see Rhys and the Frasier brothers standing in the courtyard, watching a horseman clatter under the abbey gates. Emma’s heart skipped a beat. Rhys looked so handsome in his captain’s coat, his shoulders so broad and his waist so lean. Rhys caught her gaze and exchanged with her a knowing look, then faced the approaching horseman…the major general, she realized.

“Major General,” Rhys’s deep baritone rang across the courtyard in greeting, as the major general stopped his horse in front of Rhys.

He dismounted. “Forgive me for arriving unannounced, Captain Macleod.”

“I am honored.” Rhys gave a slight bow. “You are more than welcome to attend.”

“I thank you.” His keen eyes took on a decided gleam. “Pray, forgive me for bringing another guest unannounced.”

Emma scanned the empty courtyard behind the major general.

A gust of wind blew a dry leaf across the stones.

Rhys frowned. “Pardon, sir?”

The man chuckled, then turned toward the gate and called out, “Please, join us.”

The impressive muzzle of a massive gray showed his nose first, and on its back, sat a crag-faced mountain of a man with grizzled gray hair, wearing the same green weave of kilt Emma had seen on Rhys so many times before.

Rhys stood rigid, in shock. Slowly, the man guided his mountain horse forward and in silence, dismounted. No one spoke as he walked straight to Rhys. They stood, two towering beasts of men.

At last, the older man said, “Forgive me, my son. Come home.”

Rhys embraced his father and wept.