Page 28 of The Baron’s Halo

“As I see ye are, lass.” Mr. Pettigrew cocked his head, his mouth pursing. “What I’m wantin’ to ken is why? Are ye here ta confess yer sins?”

“Confess…oh, no, sir. I’ve not committed any sin.” Lord, what did the man think she’d done?

“Then ye’re the first woman since the Blessed Mary herself who hasn’t.” Impatience in both the vicar’s voice and stance made Isabelle tremble from something other than cold.

“Mr. Pettigrew, I’ll thank ye no’ ta terrorize th’ woman who’s agreed at last ta be ma wife.” Sandy’s voice drifted down from the upper choir loft and Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief. She cocked her head, though. That was Sandy’s voice, but he was speaking differently. Suddenly, he sounded…Scottish.

“Who’s that up there?” The vicar craned his head.

“Ye ken good ’n well who I am.” Sandy peered over the railing.

“Aye, I ken ye now, Laird MacKay.” The vicar glanced back at Isabelle. “Why did ye no’ tell me who ye were, lass?”

At a loss for words, Isabelle simply shrugged. Her strength had started to flag. It had been a long day and it might be longer and stranger yet.

“I’m coming down.” Sandy’s voice trailed off and the muffled sound of pounding feet on a staircase followed.

“I’d had it from Lady MacKay th’ lad was ta wed in London, Miss Devereaux.” Mr. Pettigrew’s demeanor had changed from righteous indignation to more of a conciliatory mien. “But ye’er no’ married yet?”

“No, sir. We are not.” Isabelle looked around, hoping Sandy would appear before she had to say more to the vicar.

“May I ask why ye’re no’ wed?” Mr. Pettigrew sent Isabelle another sharp look.

The door banged open.

“Nae, ye may no’ ask, Angus.” Sandy hurried over to them, and Isabelle grasped his arm. Thank goodness she would not have to answer any more questions from the curious vicar. “’Tis our business alone why we came here ta marry.”

Mr. Pettigrew’s face fell, but he recovered himself and became quite business-like. “Very well, then, mi’lord. D’ye wish ta have th’ banns read startin’ this Sunday?”

For once Sandy looked sheepish. “Nae, Mr. Pettigrew. We mean ta wed this evenin’.”

“This evenin’?” The vicar looked scandalized. “Ye dinna mean ta have a grand ceremony, wi’ all o’ th’ village attendin’? I thought that might be why ye decided ta marry here.”

“Nae, it’s no’.” Sandy shifted from one foot to the other. “But it is imperative we marry now, Mr. Pettigrew. Tonight, if ye please.”

“Tonight? Ye meant it, when ye said ye needed it to be tonight?” The clergyman’s countenance changed from astonishment to suspicion. “Are ye tellin’ me yon lass is already in a family way, Laird MacKay? She’s carryin’ yer bairn?”

“No!”

“Nae!” Isabelle and Sandy spoke almost as one. They shared a look, then Sandy continued. “Miss Devereaux’s family may no’ wish for us ta marry.”

“May no’? Tha’ doesna seem ta be something ye’d be unsure o’. Either they do or they dinna.” Mr. Pettigrew had grown impatient again.

“I punched her stepfather.”

Mr. Pettigrew’s mouth dropped open. “Go on wi’ ye!”

“Sae I dinna hang about ta ask if I could still marry his daughter.”

“Well, aye, in that case, I canna blame ye, lad.” With a sigh, Mr. Pettigrew turned toward the pulpit. “I’ll get th’ prayerbook.” The vicar stopped and looked back at them. “I’ll bring Mrs. Pettigrew ta be the second witness.” He cocked his head. “But where’s yer màthair, mi’lord?”

Sandy cut his eyes toward Isabelle, then drew in a breath. “In London, still.”

Mr. Pettigrew drew himself up. “Och, an ye think I’ll marry ye and have Lady MacKay cursin’ me for tha rest o’ me life because she wasna here ta witness it?” He shook his head until his hair fell into his eyes. “Nae, Laird MacKay. I’ll no’ be a party ta any such thing.” The vicar turned on his heel, headed for the door.

“Och, for the love o’ Christ,” Sandy muttered under his breath. “Mr. Pettigrew.” He raised his voice so loud, Isabelle winced. “I have ta insist ye marry us tonight or ye’ll be ruining the reputation of an innocent lady.”

The vicar turned, brows lowered. “’Tis ye’ll be ruining the lass, mi’lord. No’ I an ye canna restrain yerself ’til yer màthair returns.”