“No!” James cried.
The young Campbell’s sword clattered to the ground, and he looked at his waist, momentarily confused.
“Oh no, lad.” James quickly resheathed his sword and caught the adolescent as he fell. “Oh, lad, I begged you.”
James knew at once the wound was fatal, and painful as well.
“You’re a braw fighter.” James held him tightly, as if he could staunch the wound with his grip alone. “A braw fighter. You’ve brought great honor to—”
A long, wheezy exhale deflated the boy’s body. “Forgive me.” Tears spilled down James’s cheeks. “Oh lad, forgive me.”
By the time he returned to Sibbald, the old colonel also lay dead, spilt flask clenched in his hand, the snow around it stained deep amber.
He dropped to sit, looking around at the echoes of a battle run its course. They’d had a commanding victory. Royalists filled the Covenanter camp now, turning bodies, gathering stray weapons, or just standing dazedly, waiting for their minds to make sense of things and assure their pounding hearts that the threat was well and truly over.
James merely put his head in his hand and allowed himself to weep.
Campbell glowered from the deck of his galley, standing despite the agony in his injured shoulder. The vessel was a stout seagoingbirlinn, twelve-oars strong with a single sail. He rode at the bow and absentmindedly stroked the honey-colored wood. He’d always treasured the boat, such an obvious emblem of his wealth, but he’d thought he’d be using it to parade his triumph along the Highland waterway, not be subjected to this despicable flight.
The boat bobbed unevenly, and agony shot up his arm. Campbell fisted his hands, digging nails into his palms to take his mind off the pain. The Cameron had come at him like a bull, and he’d heard the bone snap like a dried branch. One look at the mayhem outside his tent and Campbell had backtracked to his craft, docked just where Loch Eil fed into Loch Linnhe. Then, when he’d caught sight of the Royalists cavorting along the hillside and rummaging through his tents, he’d taken to the water.
If the Cameron had been a bull, then the Marquis of Montrose had been a lion, clawing and gutting Clan Campbell of its men, killing sons enough to have repercussions for generations to come. Campbell’s power was decimated, whole families wiped out, not to mention almost half his forces killed.
He looked to his oarsmen, rowing two men short. Those who remained pulled frantically, powered by their fear, as the triumphant whoops and cries of Royalist soldiers echoed along Loch Linnhe to sound the Covenanters’ escape.
Lips twitching, he studied the Campbell crest and motto stitched onto his sail. A boar’s head, and the wordsNe Obliviscaris.Do Not Forget.
Chapter 32
Magda dashed to the room she shared with James. She’d just received word of his return, and news that he’d sustained some sort of injury. The healer passed her on his way out, and his grave nod sent a shiver up her spine.
She’d been sleeping so long apart from him, lying awake through long, cold nights, and wishing so hard for his return, yet she hadn’t imagined it would happen in this way.
Once she’d even tried Gormshuil’s henbane, in search of anything that would grant her rest and a blank mind. But though it seemed to lessen the ache in her wrist, the green concoction only gave her a fitful sleep, sweaty and filled with strange nightmares.
Fear blanched her skin a bloodless white against the dark blue and black plaid of the arisaid that seemed unable to warm her. All she knew was that even the most minor wounds could fester, threatening limb or life.
He sat on the bed, propped up against a half-dozen pillows that appeared ready to slide under his slumped weight. Foul herbal smells assaulted her, infusing the sharp stink of alcohol that hung in the room.
“James?” she said, voice quivering.
“Aye?” His eyelids fluttered open. His cheeks were flushed and eyes bright, and Magda wondered if he wasn’t already fighting a fever. “My Magda,” he said with a wan smile, his voice weak. “You’d rouse any man to life.”
She raced to his bedside, but stood uncertainly, afraid to stir him.
“Come,” he whispered hoarsely. “Give me your ear, hen.” He coughed weakly. “I’d tell you one last thing.”
She leaned toward him on the bed. All her buried anxieties spewed forth to light as she wondered, Was this it? Did her arrival spare James from one fate only to serve him another equally dire? Her heart an ache in her throat, Magda gently touched his cheek with her fingertips.
“Closer,” he rasped.
She leaned closer still, fear for him making her tremble.
James grabbed her suddenly, pulling Magda roughly on top of him, and kissed her hard.
She kissed him back eagerly, inhaling his breath deeply into her own lungs, savoring again the smell of his skin, relief unspooling her muscles in one great shudder. Abruptly, she pulled away and began smoothing her hands over his chest and arms.
“But you’re injured?”
