Owen raised his sword, to hold the man at a distance. “I daenae think so. I daenae ken who ye are, but ye’re English and that’s reason enough to go nay place with ye.”
“You can’t fight all of us, Mr. McCulloch,” the man replied evenly, and though he was right, Owen was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.
Slicing his broadsword in a sweeping circle, Owen bit back the pain that rebounded through his chest and arm as the metal clashed with parries and blocks from the blades of the English. He spun and he spun, but with every rotation, the circle of soldiers grew more suffocating, until Owen could no longer extend his arm at all.
So, dropping his broadsword altogether, Owen snatched his dirk from his shoe and settled in for closer combat. He lunged with the smaller blade, hoping to cause some damage to the enemy, but he could barely make out their faces, much less the shape of their bodies beneath long cloaks. Once or twice, he heard the tear of material, or heard a hiss of pain, but he did not know what use it would be, in the end.
“What do ye want with me, eh?” Owen raged: his dirk-wielding hand now pretty much forced to his stomach.
The English leader sighed. “We have our orders, that is all we know.”
As Owen braced to strike at that man, sensing it might be his only choice, something collided with the side of his head. With his eye swollen shut, he had not seen the blow coming. Still, he felt it, sure enough. Sparks of pain erupted in his skull and though he was still on his feet, he no longer had any control over his limbs. His legs staggered and his torso swayed, his good eye blinking furiously to try and disperse cloudy black dots that blotted out what sight he had left.
“I’ll be… avenged… for this,” Owen hissed, just as his knees buckled and he fell forward, hitting the mud with an almighty splash. Even with all the willpower in the world, he could not rise up again, for oblivion had well and truly claimed him.
2
Owen stirred blearily to the scent of woodsmoke and male voices mumbling and grumbling in the near distance, while another sound, like a great beast trying to take flight, throbbed in his ears.
“He’s awake,” someone said, in those clipped, English tones that Owen abhorred.
That “he,” Owen assumed, was him. Though where he had awoken and why were still unknown.
A shadow stretched over Owen and an unfamiliar face appeared. Damp blond hair plastered on a forehead, wrinkled in concern, which curved down to a proud, bulbous nose and a small, pursed mouth. Ruddy cheeks, peppered with fair stubble, matched reddened eyes that glistened with barely contained tears. The eyes might have been blue, but Owen’s sight had not yet cleared enough to be sure.
“Mr. McCulloch?” the man belonging to the face whispered, in a voice that reeked of desperation.
Owen groaned, struggling for breath as the full weight of his injured ribs threatened to stop all air from getting into his chest. “It’s… Laird Dunn to ye,” he managed to spit, as he lurched into a sitting position.
After a few deep, restorative breaths and some measured blinks, he could see well enough to take in his surroundings. He was inside a large, rectangular tent with a peaked roof. A fire crackled in the center, sending billows of grayish smoke up through a funneled hole in that roof, though the raindrops that snuck back down made the flames hiss. The flapping sound, he realized, came from the front of the tent, where the stormy winds battled against the limply tied canvas.
“Apologies. I am Elias Spencer, and I am in dire need of your assistance, Laird Dunn.” The blond man cleared his throat. “I realize that we are neither allies nor friends, and your side has suffered a great defeat, but… you are the only one I can trust. The healers among my army are sawbones and quacks, but your talents are famed.”
“Aye, and they’re nae for the likes of ye, for the reasons ye’ve just so plainly noted,” Owen shot back, searching the tent for any sign of Sawyer.
Moreover, Owen knewpreciselywho Elias Spencer was—the Earl of Gallagher, and one of the highest-ranking commanders of Cromwell’s army. Perhaps, the very last person on Earth,barring Cromwell himself, who Owen would feel inclined to help in any way.
“I had no choice, Laird Dunn. Truly, I did not.” Elias gestured toward another cot, on the opposite side of the tent, where a limp figure lay beneath bloodied blankets. “My son, my darling son, will die if you do not help him. Heal him and you may leave, with your man-at-arms. I shall pay you handsomely, in addition, but youmustdo this. I beg of you, not as an English enemy, but as a father who cannot bear the thought of losing his only son.”
There was something about the plea that struck a chord in Owen’s chest. A moment ago, he would rather have spit in his own eye than help this man, but it was hard to look at Elias as an enemy when he appeared so woefully pitiful.
“How handsomely?” Owen muttered.
Two choices lay before him, and neither were particularly pleasant. On the one hand, he could remain stubborn to the already defeated Scottish cause and risk his death and that of Sawyer, with little hope of seeing home again. On the other, he could do as Elias asked, gain a reward, and be on his journey back to Dunn Castle within a few days, with Sawyer intact. In truth, it did not seem like much of a choice at all.
“Would this suffice?” Elias took out a heavy coin pouch and placed it in Owen’s hand for a moment, presumably to let him feel the weight. Of course, he removed it quickly, so Owen would not have the chance to snatch it.
Sighing, Owen ran a hand through his thick, fiery red hair. It felt rough with dried mud and dirty from weeks of marching without so much as a stream to bathe in. In his mind’s eye, he imagined a steaming bathtub, placed before the fireplace in his chambers at Dunn Castle. He could almost smell the fragrant oils and feel his tight muscles loosening at the pleasurable sensation of being submerged in warmth.
“I suppose it’s goin’ to have to.” Owen nodded toward the wounded man. “What happened to him?”
“William?” Elias clasped his hands together in a strange, praying motion. “I cannot be certain, but he has several injuries and has been struggling to breathe. I am sure you will be able to understand his wounds better if you look at him yourself? I must leave to speak with my officers. Please, do all you can; I beg of you. Jenkins here will fetch anything you require.” He gestured to another man in the tent, before departing in a rush, likely so Owen could not refuse.
For two seemingly endless days and nights, Owen toiled with barely a snatched hour of rest here and there. The small vessel that sat beneath the hollow reed, which Owen had inserted into William’s side, needed to be checked frequently in case the color changed. Moreover, the wounds, though sewn up, needed to have their bandages replaced every few hours.
For those two days and nights, William had drifted in and out of consciousness, groaning and muttering and speaking in feveredtongues. Something Owen had witnessed countless times in soldiers who were suffering as William was.
“Am… I dead?” William croaked, taking Owen by surprise on the eve of the third night.
