by Mariah Stone
To their left, behind the bushes and undergrowth, there was an almost vertical drop into the river. The path before them grew more and more narrow and would soon become only a few yards wide. No one from the birlinns could see them through the bushes.
The Bruce stopped the procession, and they waited until a figure climbed down the steep slope of Ben Cruachan—the messenger from Douglas to say that he and his men were in position.
Owen rode forward to the king.
“’Tis all true,” the Bruce said when he saw him. “There’s an ambush. The road is blocked. Douglas has taken up his position. Are ye and yer men ready?”
Owen’s heart beat hard against his rib cage. Was he ready? Was he focused? Would he lead his men to victory?
He inhaled deeply, his chest rising, his shoulders straight, his head high. Amber’s face was in his mind, and her sweet voice rang in his head. But surprisingly, that didn’t feel like a distraction. She gave him strength and power.
She gave him love.
Now he knew who he wanted to fight for. He wanted to fight to come back to her. To tell her he loved her.
He only hoped he wasn’t too late.
“Aye, Your Grace,” Owen said. “I’m ready. So are the Highlanders.”
The Bruce’s eyes shone with dark determination and a fierce, unapologetic drive for victory. “Then let’s finish the bastart MacDougalls.”
“Aye,” Owen said. He would have roared, but they still needed to be quiet.
“Go. As planned.”
“I’ll see ye on the battlefield, Your Grace.”
They nodded to each other, and Owen rode back to his men. He halted and faced his troops. Some of them were on horses, too, but most of them were on foot.
“’Tis time,” he said, trying to keep his voice as low as he could. “We go. Those of ye on horses, leave them here. We go up on foot.”
They dismounted and tied the horses’ reins to the bushes and trees. The Bruce’s troops moved forward, and Owen, his father, Craig, Ian, Domhnall, and the rest of the Highlanders took the barely visible, circuitous route up the slope.
Owen crouched as he went. Small rubble and shingles crumbled from under his feet. Bushes and undergrowth were more and more rare the higher they went. He could see the Bruce and his troops down below as they moved. He could also see that the road in front of the Bruce was blocked by at least five hundred men.
Five hundred English men. He saw the red flags with golden lions. Oh, he hoped de Bourgh was somewhere down there. He hoped this would be the day the man would pay for what he’d done to Amber. He wished he could be the sword that would pierce his heart.
If the Bruce came any closer, the men hiding above would send arrows and boulders. Why was Douglas not taking action?
Then arrows flew from somewhere high in front of them, and pained cries and yelps came from the bushes. When the last arrows from Black Douglas landed and the warlike cry of his men came from above, Owen knew they were charging the MacDougalls.
It was time. His time to shine. His time to show to everyone he wasn’t just a jester and a rebel. He wasn’t just a sword. He was a leader. He deserved to be taken seriously. He could be the leader his clan needed him to be.
“Cruachan!” Owen straightened to his full height and pumped the fist with his sword in the air.
“Cruachan!” Cambel men echoed.
Somewhere behind them, other clans called their war cries, and they all mixed together in one Highland roar as they surged forward.
The time had come for the MacDougalls to pay. He’d fight for Amber. For Marjorie. For Ian.
He’d fight like the leader he should have always been.
There they were, the MacDougalls, at least a thousand of them. They were disoriented and already dealing with Douglas’s force that had crashed into them from above.
A man ran at Owen, and he swung his claymore and it clashed with the man’s ax. More men collided, and the ring of metal against metal pierced the air. Shouts and cries of pain came from below. Owen’s opponent deflected his sword and slammed a shield in his face. Owen ducked, but the shield caught him and cut the skin on his cheekbone. He slashed his sword across the man’s head, and the enemy fell, blood spraying everywhere.
Owen moved to another man, then another, fighting his way through the forces. Battle rage roared in his blood, hot and burning.
Two men came at Owen from either side. One swung an ax, the other a sword. Owen deflected the sword with a grunt and barely ducked the ax as it swooshed by his head. The swordsman raised his sword to slash Owen’s side, but before he could lower his blade, a spear cut through his chest. He froze and fell, lifeless. A few feet away, Angus Mackenzie stood and nodded to Owen.
The man with the ax stared at the corpse for a moment, his eyes wide. Raghnall Mackenzie appeared behind the man and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned, and Raghnall punched him in the face, sending his head jerking backward.
He roared and launched at Raghnall, hammering at him with the ax as though he were a log. Raghnall deflected the ax, but the man turned his weapon slightly and hooked Raghnall’s claymore between the ax’s crescent blade and handle. He jerked Raghnall’s claymore from his hands and lifted the ax for a lethal blow. Owen surged forward and thrust his claymore into the man’s side. He grunted and fell, clenching the gaping wound.
Owen leaned down, picked up Raghnall’s sword, and threw it to him.
Raghnall caught it and grinned. “My thanks.”
More enemies came at them, and the battle continued. At some point, Owen was aware that Ian, Craig, and his father all fought by his side, too. He didn’t know how much time passed, it all flashed in a blur of metal, blood, and distorted faces.
The fighting slowly came down the mountainside as the MacDougalls were losing, caught in the Bruce’s vise from two sides. And then there he was. With dark, cold eyes, and wearing English armor.
De Bourgh.
A low growl escaped Owen’s throat. Oh, the man was his.
Owen half slid and half walked down the slope, his lungs burning, his muscles ringing with exhaustion.
It didn’t matter. The man would pay for everything he’d done to Amber. Not to mention what he’d no doubt done to Muireach.
De Bourgh had just pierced the neck of one of the Bruce’s knights when he saw Owen coming towards him. When Owen reached even ground, the man’s eyes widened in recognition. He wore good, expensive armor. Owen had but his leine croich—a long, quilted coat—chain mail coif, and his helmet. But de Bourgh wouldn’t leave this battlefield alive.
They came at each other, each with a roar and their swords clashing. De Bourgh was smaller, but quicker than Owen. He struck at Owen from above and the side. Owen deflected his blade, but the impact resonated in his bone marrow. Another blow came from the other side, and Owen barely had time to meet the blade.
He needed to go on the offensive. He slashed his sword at de Bourgh’s face, but the man deflected and smashed the hilt of his sword into Owen’s face in a bone-crushing thrust. Owen heard the crack of bone and his head burst in white, blinding pain, sparkles flashing in his eyes. He staggered back for a moment, his arms searching for support.
De Bourgh grabbed Owen’s coif and hauled him forward. He rammed his helmet into Owen’s face, but Owen ducked, and thrust his sword into the man’s stomach. De Bourgh jumped to the side, but Owen got him. The chain mail prevented the blade from running de Bourgh through, but he was wounded, and he yelled and staggered.
Roaring with rage, de Bourgh slashed low and opened Owen’s thigh. Red-hot pain burned through Owen’s leg and he sank to one knee. De Bourgh raised his sword to serve the final blow, and Owen’s life flashed before his eyes as he stared at the unyielding blade. He realized how useless his romantic conquests had been. How silly he’d been to rebel against his father to prove a point and draw attention. How much time he’d wasted arguing and joking around, when he could have been enjoying precious moments with his br
others and his father.
Most of all, he realized how last night with Amber had been the best night of his life. How just that night was worth every mistake, every doubt, every quarrel, because they’d led him to her.
The love of his life.
And as the sword was about to reach his head, he closed his eyes, his last thought of Amber and how he loved her.
Chapter 31
Amber ran, the sword in her hand a useless, heavy toy she had no idea how to use. As she evaded men fighting with swords and axes, she looked for Owen and wished she had a gun. Owen had never showed her any sword-fighting techniques, and she was out of place here.
The battle was in full swing. The iron tang of blood was rich in the air, and the sound of metal clashing rang in her ears. Men fought, wounded one another, and died. All around her were spilled guts, open gashes, and cries of pain.
War was war, even in a different century.
Her gaze bounced off the faces, looking for Owen’s handsome features, his blond hair, his chiseled cheekbones, and short beard.
At least she hadn’t seen him among the fallen.
Good. Good.
Earlier this morning, she’d watched the army march off north, and everything inside her had gone nuts. Her gut had burned, her breath ragged and erratic.
She’d known then that she had to join the battle. Not to fight for the Bruce, but to protect Owen. She just had this feeling, this dark, cold premonition. She had to go.
She’d run to Amy and asked for a sword and a horse. And then she galloped after the army. It hadn’t been difficult to follow their trail. She was just afraid she was too late.
Suddenly, someone grabbed her braid from behind and yanked her back. Pain shot through her scalp. Someone wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders, blocking her arms.
“Why do you have a sword, woman?” the man said.
He turned her to face him, and she saw he was a young man of about twenty years old, blond, and square-jawed. Surprise and lust spread on his face as he eyed her up and down.
“Do Scots have dark-skinned women now?” With another hand, he pressed the blade of a bloody ax against her throat, and the cold metal chilled her skin. “You’re not going to fight me, are you?”
Fear gripping her limbs in its cold claws, Amber wriggled and thrashed.
And then she saw Owen.
And de Bourgh.
They were fighting, their swords flashing.
Oh, thank God, he was alive. Now she just needed to get to him. To help.
“Go to hell, you jerk!” she cried, raised her leg, and stomped on the man’s foot with all the strength she had. He yelled and let her go, but he grabbed her by the arm again. Fighting this guy would delay her from getting to Owen.
Then a familiar face appeared next to the man. He was tall and had black hair and battle scars on his face.
“Hamish…” she whispered.
Ragged sprays of blood stained his face and his coif, and cold battle rage flashed in his eyes, as though death looked at her. Last time she’d seen him, he’d helped them and saved Owen’s life. Whose side was he on now?
“Here, Hamish, help me deal with her,” the blond man said.
Hamish’s eye twitched, his nostrils flared. He shoved Amber away from the blond man and slashed his sword at him. The man deflected the blow, astonishment on his face.
“Go, Amber!” Hamish barked. “Now!”
Amber turned and ran towards Owen. De Bourgh had just raised his sword over his head and was about to kill Owen.
“No!” she yelled, her screech enough to distract the man.
With all her might, she stabbed her sword at de Bourgh, but the blade only jumped off the iron armor without penetrating it. At least she’d stopped the blow aimed for Owen’s head. De Bourgh staggered forward and looked at her, surprise and annoyance distorting his face.
Owen stared at her with wide eyes.
Damn, that gash on his thigh didn’t look good at all. “You won’t take him from me,” she growled at de Bourgh and threw the sword aside. The thing was useless in her hands.
Amber launched herself at him. When she’d almost reached him, she rotated and kicked him in the chest. The kick was powerful enough that he fell on his back.
The heavy armor made standing up a struggle, and she stood over him, her foot on his neck.
“I can crush your throat with one good stomp,” she said. “Your airway will swell, and you won’t be able to breathe. It’s a bad death.”
“You won’t do it,” he mused, seemingly unaffected by her threats. “You’re way too noble to kill a man without giving him a chance to fight back.”
“She is,” Owen said as he came to stand on the other side of de Bourgh. “But I’m nae.” He put the tip of his claymore next to Amber’s foot on the man’s neck.
He briefly met Amber’s eyes, and for the first time, she was a little afraid of him. It was a lethal stare.
“This is for Amber,” he grumbled and pressed his sword down.
De Bourgh made a gurgling sound, and his eyes bulged with fear as he died.
Amber closed her own eyes briefly, until she felt Owen collapse by de Bourgh’s side.
“Owen!” she cried and rushed to him.
He was ashen. How had she not noticed that at first? He was losing too much blood.
“Ye came…” he whispered. “Why did ye come, lass? Ye should be far away from here.”
“Shut up.” She took a dagger from his belt and cut several long pieces of cloth from her cloak. The material was far from sterile, but it would have to do. “I needed to stop the bleeding or you’ll—”
She didn’t finish. She couldn’t allow herself to even think about it. He hadn’t said he loved her. But she loved him. That’s why she’d come. She loved him, and she couldn’t stand the idea that he could die. She had to protect him.
It looked like she’d come exactly at the right time.
She pressed the cloth firmly against the wound, but it soaked through quickly. To elevate the gash, she bent his knee and propped his leg against the ground. She pushed more of the pieces of her cloak against the cut, but he was still bleeding. Oh no! The only way to stop it was to find the femoral artery pressure point. She tied a long piece of cloth around his thigh to keep pressure on the wound as much as possible, then she pushed her fingers against the artery in his groin and watched the cloth under her fingers like a hawk.
Owen chuckled. “Lass, I want ye, too, but shall we wait until we’re alone?” His voice was weak and slow, as though he were drunk. She would’ve appreciated the joke if she wasn’t rigid and cold from fear for him.
She kept watching the compress. “Don’t you dare die on me, do you hear?”
“Why would I die? I’d hate to go when I’ve only just found the woman I love.”
“What?”
“I’d hate to go—”
“Not that.” Her heart stopped beating and then launched into a gallop. “You love me?”
He smiled weakly and lifted his hand to touch her face. Around them, the chaos continued, but everything slowed down and blurred, as though an invisible, protective dome had landed over them.
“Aye.” His eyes were ablaze, a deep green, the color of the ocean. “I love ye.”
Amber’s vision blurred, her eyes burning. “You idiot. Couldn’t you tell me earlier?”
“Ye didna ken?”
“Of course not. I was afraid you were just using me for sex. That I was a conquest. That you were pretending to care about me.”
“Can ye please kiss me? I’m having a little trouble moving.”
“I can’t move, or you’ll start bleeding again.”
She stared in his eyes, so handsome and so dear. The dearest set of eyes in the whole world.
“I love ye more than life itself,” Owen rasped. “I need ye, lass, more than my next breath. Staying away from ye all this time was like pulling teeth. I hated it. But I needed to keep my head cool for thi
s to work.” He gestured to the battle with a nod of his head.
Amber shook her head, tears of happiness springing free. “And it worked. Look. The MacDougalls are running in all directions.”
Owen looked around and frowned when his eyes fixed on something. “Is that Ian and John MacDougall?”
Owen held his breath, watching as his giant red-haired cousin grappled with the treacherous MacDougall fifty feet or so away from them. Ian was huge, the tallest of all Cambels, but MacDougall was no small man, either.
The MacDougall was in iron armor, while Ian, like many Highlanders, wore only a leine croich, and a chain mail coif around his head, neck, and shoulders.
The two exchanged blows, the MacDougall coming at Ian with heavy downward strikes like a blacksmith. Backing up, Ian took shelter from the storm of iron under his sword. His bone marrow must have been reverberating from the impact of those strikes.
“Come on, brother,” Owen muttered.
He wasn’t his brother, of course not, but it felt like Ian was. And this was the chance for Ian to get his revenge for what the MacDougalls had done to him. Owen had sworn he’d avenge Amber, and it felt right having just done so. He wished that for Ian, too.
One of MacDougall’s arms was obviously weaker than the other, and Owen remembered how he’d looked wounded in Stirling. MacDougall lowered his sword for a moment, and Ian used that pause to thrust his claymore into the man’s shoulder, but MacDougall deflected it. Ian struck again from the side, but MacDougall deflected that, too.
Ian was getting angry now. Owen had seen his cousin fight in the battle at MacFilib farm, and he could be an animal. A lethal predator. He turned like that now. He roared like a bear that had been poked too many times. He grabbed MacDougall by his breastplate and yanked him forward.
MacDougall’s helm fell from the motion, and Ian slammed his fist into the man’s jaw, and John fell. Ian grabbed an ax that lay nearby, and with a giant swing of his arm, he brought the ax down on the MacDougall’s arm at the elbow, between two mail plates.
