by Gill, Tamara
It was a week before the O’Cains arrived, late as usual. They set up across the river from each other, both armies within view and ready for what was to come.
"Donald Mor and his men will be here by tomorrow. You have my word." Boyd nodded at Douglas's words, digesting how many men the O’Cains had. He didn't want to unnerve his men, but there were more than he'd thought there would be. He stupidly hoped the estimates had been wrong. Even with Mor and his men's help, when they battled against such numbers, the outcome would not be one he wanted to imagine.
"I have underestimated Dougall O’Cain. What are your approximates of how many he has at his side?"
"At least five hundred we have approximated. Three hundred more than us, including Mor's men."
Damn it all to hell. Boyd rolled his shoulders, the weight of his men's lives like a ring of iron about his body, pushing him down, uncomfortable, painful even. He had led them here, and now many of them could be dead in a day or so.
"We will fight, and we will win," Douglas stated, his words sure, but what did it matter? His oldest friend's eyes held a doubt neither one of them wanted to voice. The battle would be brutal, hard, unforgiving, and they were three hundred men short.
They were doomed.
"Aye," he replied, crossing his arms, watching the O’Cains light fires, preparing for the night. "We shall."
Boyd did not sleep that night, and as notified the day before, on the sunrise, Donald Mor and his men, who would make up the last of his army, anchored boats at the head of Loch Poolteil. The men had fought previously together at other clan battles, both on Skye and the Scottish mainland. Their alliance went back hundreds of years, each clan willing to fight for the other, no matter the cost.
Boyd pulled Donald Mor aside, needing him to know the truth of what was to come. "We are three hundred men short, Donald. ’Tis to be a bloody day on the morrow." He rubbed a hand over his jaw, hating that the night would end all too soon, and come morning, he sent his men to certain death.
Himself included unless a miracle occurred.
Mor scoffed, drinking down his goblet of beer. "Nay, doona think that way, lad. We've fought harder battles than this, and won, need I remind you. The O’Cains may be an army of many men, but we're an army of skill and stamina. They doona hold power over me or my men, and you shall not allow their numbers to sullen your mind."
Mor was right. The thought of battle, or dying and leaving Maya alone and defenseless, was making him weak. He loved the lass more than anything in the world, and he didn't want to leave her. The idea of them, of a future, was all he wanted now. The damn O’Cain could burn in hell for eternity for wanting to fight. He'd had enough of warfare. After living for so long, partaking in hundreds of battles, his old bones were weary, tired, and he was ready to settle down, rest, and enjoy his life with his new bride.
"You are right. We shall win. To think otherwise is tempting fate." Boyd clapped him on the back, leading him back to his tent. "Shall we finish our drinks, toast our women and our menfolk? Our wives who keep the home fires burning for us?"
An amused light entered Mor's eyes at Boyd's words. "Aye, lad, I heard you married a fine English lass. Is she as bonny as they say?"
"You have heard of Maya?" Boyd asked, surprised that news of his nuptials reached mainland Scotland. They had been married days only. Such news would be impossible.
Mor chuckled. "Nay, lad, I was told upon arrival here this morn, but I did hear you were smitten with the outlander." He drank down his beer, holding it up to a servant to fill it again. "Some said the Laird Macleod would never marry again. You have heard the rumors of your immortality, have you not?"
"Aye, I've heard the rumors." And they had been true, right up to the night he told Maya he loved her. His fate had changed after that declaration, and for the better, he would add.
"While I doona believe all that hogwash that you were cursed, I will admit to being a little curious as to how your hair is so vera reddish brown now. In all the years that I've known you, your hair has always been as white as the clouds. Nor have you aged a day, but," he shrugged, gulping his beer yet again, "as I said, I doona believe in that magic stuff, but it does make interesting debate when there are no wenches around to distract us men."
Boyd laughed, reaching down to his leg and pulling out his sgian dubh, running it atop his finger until it bled. "I am blood and bone just like the rest of you, and on the morrow, should a sword find its mark, I too shall fall. There is no magic here," he stated, never truer words said.
He finished his beer, staring into the fire as they fell into companionable silence. Not even to see Maya again would he wish to be immortal once more. To have seen her face light up, come alive at his words, no pleasure was as great. To be mortal meant to be complete, whole once more after a hundred years. He would not wish that empty, meaningless life on anyone, not even himself.
Not ever again.
The morning mist had not yet lifted from the grass, but still the sound of his men marching into battle echoed like a drum in the valley.
Boyd stood at the front of his men, ready to die for their cause, to protect the ones they loved, their land and livelihood.
The fog lifted and thinned, and in the mist, he recognized the O’Cain clan, and yet their laird, Dougall, was nowhere to be seen. Was the bastard standing at the back, letting others battle first, to die in his place, so that he could try to take what did not belong to him?
The bastard would die today. No other outcome was acceptable.
A drum started to thump somewhere behind Boyd, and he knew it was time. Time to fight. Time to die. Time to do what he must.
His battle cry rent out loud and strong in the air. His men joined him, pulling their swords free, the sound of metal scraping metal music to Boyd's battle-hardened ears.
And then they were running, swords at the ready, as they crashed into the O’Cain clan, their men too running toward war, not away from it. Bodies hit bodies, men dropped around him, both his own and O’Cain. Boyd swung out, slicing, cutting down men as they came for him, all the while he kept watch, looking for the O’Cain laird and his chance to take the bastard to his grave.
Several O’Cain men fought well and long. He blocked several attempts for his head to be dislodged before stabbing one through the throat. The other his stomach, turning to battle his next foe as the man's guts spilled onto Scottish soil.
Sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes. His mouth tasted of blood, not his own, but others that he had spilled. The scent of death swamped his nostrils. He looked about, searching, always hunting for O’Cain, still, he could not see him. The sight of his men falling, being maimed, slaughtered by the O’Cains at an alarming rate spiked fear up his spine.
Nay, they could not lose.
He roared, fighting with renewed vigor, slicing blindly toward anyone who came within a yard of him. Everyone fell at his hand, and then he spied Dougall O’Cain, surrounded by his men and watching Boyd with malice.
Boyd strode toward him, taking down two more men who ran at him, never once taking his eye off the man who killed so many of his clan.
O’Cain's own private army parted, allowed Boyd to face their laird. "So many men have fought and died today under your command. Yet, it should have been a battle between us. But I know why you dinna choose such a fight." A muscle worked in O’Cain's jaw, not relishing being called the scared leader of a rabble pack.
"A war between our clans or a swordfight between us will end the same way, Macleod. With you dead and your home, your lands finally under O’Cain control." Dougall strode around Boyd, and he turned, watching, waiting for the bastard to strike. "I hope you made your goodbyes worthy of eternity. For you shall not see your precious Sassenach again." O’Cain laughed, and several of his men joined in. "Mayhap I shall take her to be my wife. Tell me, Macleod, are her lips as tight about your cock as her cunny?"
A red haze descended over Boyd's eyes, and he lunged, swinging his sword at O’
Cain's head. He would not stop until he saw it severed from his evil corpse.
O’Cain blocked his hit, stumbled back, but righted himself soon enough. Boyd wouldn't kill him unless he was standing. He never killed a man who wasn't wielding a weapon and in control of his destiny. No one would ever accuse a Macleod of being anything but noble in battle.
Their combat went on, both wielding their swords and delivering blows intended to be life-ending. Boyd would not lose this fight. To do so would mean all that he ever loved would be lost. He could not have that.
Boyd noticed some of his men were fighting the guards around O’Cain and himself, gaining the upper hand. He moved fast, swinging his sword, trying to learn his foe's moves and counteract them. It didn't take Boyd long to know O’Cain wasn't the best when it came to fighting, but he was a strong man, his every thrust jarring Boyd's arm with its power.
The thought of Maya kept him going, pushed him forward, toward life, not death.
O’Cain stumbled back, both their breathing labored. Sweat poured down Boyd's face. His hand ached with the weight of the sword. He just needed an opening, an opportunity to shove his sword into the man's gullet, and all of this would be over.
The sound of men fighting around him was deafening, drove him, and then he saw her. The Fae Queen walked up to them as if there wasn't a war going on about them. As if she were merely taking in the Scottish land and enjoying what she saw.
Boyd stilled as both he and O’Cain took in the woman's presence. O’Cain's pleasure at seeing the queen was evident, and Boyd knew that today would be Boyd’s last.
Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty Three
Boyd observed what was happening around him, both the O’Cain and Macleod clansmen oblivious to Titania the Fae Queen who had walked among them. Boyd cringed as his friend and ally Donald Mor was sliced across the chest, falling dead at an O’Cain clansman's feet.
He turned back to Titania and narrowed his eyes on the fickle faery as she came to stand beside Dougall O’Cain.
She grinned, her eyes alight with pleasure. "And so the day arrives, finally," she said, her voice light and sweet. So sweet that it grated on Boyd's last nerve. He'd had enough of this ominous wench.
The queen leaned up, kissing Dougall O’Cain, and realization struck Boyd. They were not here to battle honorably, this was a slaughter, and he'd led his men to the O’Cains like lambs to a pack of wolves.
"What day would that be?" Boyd asked, better to know what was to occur than not.
She chuckled, and Dougall smirked. "They day you die," she replied matter-of-factly. "The day I finally rid the world of you, never to return, and never to see your precious Maya again."
Boyd swallowed and fought not to react. There had to be a way out of this. He may die, but at least he would take one of them out first. Preferably Titania if she didn't disappear into the ether.
She flicked her hand in his direction, and Boyd wrenched back. He gasped as the sensation of a blade sliced through him, within his organs, and out again with force.
He stared down at his gut, his mind unable to comprehend what had happened. He looked back to O’Cain, even he a little unnerved by the underhanded way he would win the battle. No highlander, no Scotsman wanted to be known to win a clan battle because of a woman.
Not even a woman. But a faery.
He pressed against the wound, warm blood oozing over his fingers, unstoppable. "You let a woman win for you, O’Cain. History will remember your cowardice."
Titania laughed. "No, they will not remember, for there will be no mention of my hand in this." She turned to O’Cain. "I shall return. Do not touch Macleod until you see me again."
She disappeared into thin air, and Boyd dropped to his knees, blackness swamping him, his last thought that of his lass. Maya flashed before his eyes, and he welcomed the vision. No matter what Titania said, he would see his lady again. Mayhap not in this world, but the next. The soul would travel space and time, just as Maya had to find its true love.
He could not believe it would be any different for himself.
Maya stood looking out over the ocean. Word had reached them last evening that the battle was to take place from daybreak, some hours ago now. She had not slept, nor would she again until Boyd was back home, safe and, more importantly, alive. Her stomach churned with the fear of the unknown. Was he living? Had they won? She didn't know anything, no further updates had come in, and now it was almost eight in the morning.
Surely there should be some news by now.
"Maya lass, how good to see you again."
She gasped, turned to watch as the Fae Queen floated toward her, her robes no longer white or gray as she'd seen them last, but almost ebony black as the night. It could only mean one thing. The woman had turned to darkness, her heart cruel instead of kind.
"I wish I could say the same about you, but I see you'll be joining the Unseelie Court instead of the Seelie from this day forward. How far you have fallen from grace."
The queen's eyes flashed, their silver color almost looking as if a storm were brewing within them, churning and twisting like a snake. "I have a proposition for you. One that I think will please you."
Nothing would please Maya unless this woman were dead. Removed from her and Boyd's life so they may never have to deal with her again. "What is it?" she asked anyway. Knowing that the queen would tell her in any case.
The queen reached out her hand. "Boyd needs you, and I can take you to him."
What? Boyd needed her? Did that mean he was injured? Or had they won against the O’Cains? She closed her eyes, praying it was the latter. They could not lose. She could not lose him. They had only just begun.
Maya reached out, taking her hand and gripping it until the queen winced. Good, she hoped she hurt her, even in this small way. The Fae needed to know that no matter what power she had over them, there were always repercussions that could be dealt out in return. Maybe not by her, Boyd, or the Macleod clan. Perhaps not today or for a hundred years, but one day the queen would cross someone she should not, and then she would pay for her sins.
"Take me to him," she said, lifting her chin in defiance. Not willing to cower before this being.
The queen nodded. "Of course."
Maya barely had time to blink before she found herself on a field, men battling about her, the metallic scent of blood making her eyes water. She looked down and gasped. Boyd lay only a few feet from her, clasping his stomach. O’Cain stood over him, a smile on his lips.
Maya ran to him, pushing O’Cain away from him. The man's eyes widened but then filled with interest.
"Do not touch him," she warned, pushing her hand onto Boyd's stomach, the blood seeping through his fingers spilling onto hers.
Boyd moaned, and her eyes pricked with tears. He was dying, she could see from the pallor of his skin, an awful gray color, his skin cold as if already he were gone.
"Boyd," she begged. "Boyd, darling, look at me." He did, and she sobbed, reaching for him, holding him. The weight of one of his hands reached around her shoulders, holding her. "I love you, Maya lass."
No, this wasn't happening. This wasn't supposed to befall any of them.
"There is a way to save him, Maya. I may allow one last gift from my kind."
The word no whispered past Boyd's lips, but Maya was already looking to the Fae Queen. She couldn't be trusted, that she knew, but she also couldn't let Boyd die. If only he were alive, he stood a chance of winning against the O’Cains. Against this faery who had turned dark.
"How?" she asked, her vision of the queen blurred through her haze of tears.
"I shall grant him life. A mortal one, of course, if you return to your time. You do not belong here. You are out of time and out of place. A mistake in time’s woven tapestry. You need to return home, to your former life."
"What do you mean to return the lass to her time? She's from England," the O’Cain stated, crossing his arms and staring at the faery as if she had a sc
rew loose.
Of course, the O’Cains did not know Maya wasn't from their time. They were foolish to trust the Fae Queen as they so obviously had. Had she helped the O’Cains gain the upper hand? From the looks of the war that fought about them, they had.
Bastards.
"There is much you do not know, O’Cain, and I'm not patient enough to explain it to you. Just know that the lass is out of time, quite literally." She gestured to Boyd, who lay still as death.
His eyes fluttered open, and Maya leaned down, kissing his lips. "I cannot let you die, Boyd. No matter where I am, the time that separates us, know that I cannot live knowing you were gone. I need to know that you lived. That you had a life, even if it is one without me."
"No." He fought to get up, and she pushed him back down. His wound started to hemorrhage, and she ripped off some of her kirtle, trying to stem the blood. There was too much of it.
"I will go," she stated, taking in every feature of Boyd's beautiful, handsome, sweet face. His straight nose, his cutting jaw, his long eyelashes and lips that were too perfect to be a man's. Her heart ached. Her mind screamed at the unfairness of it all. She leaned down, clasping him tightly. "I love you so much," she whispered for only Boyd to hear. "When you are healed, rid the earth of them both."
She kissed him, pulled back, and read the panic in his eyes, not over what was to come once she was gone, but because she was going. "I wish we had more time."
"Maya," he gasped, his voice barely there, just as his life was barely hanging on.
"Send me back," she said, not taking her eyes off Boyd, wanting every last moment to be of him. Nothing else. Just him.
"As you wish," the queen said, and just as before, within a moment, she was gone.
Maya blinked, and she was in a different place. She was back at Druiminn Castle, except it wasn't the sixteenth-century castle she had grown to love. It was the twenty-first one.
