His mouth fell in a grim line. Jeannie’s father, the Chief of Grant, had betrayed them, retreating at the first cannonade, taking the entire left position with him, and irretrievably crippling the vanguard from the start.
Had Jeannie known what her father intended? Throughout the long day, the question—or more specifically, the answer he knew—haunted him.
When the smoke from the latest barrage cleared he looked around for the earl. This time his damned cousin would bloody well listen to him: Argyll needed to retreat. It was too dangerous this close to the line, and it had become too difficult to protect him. Their numerical advantage was gone. The men who’d eagerly answered the call, hoping for spoils, had second thoughts at the first sign of difficulty. They had about two hundred fifty mounted men and perhaps a thousand foot soldiers to Huntly’s fifteen hundred cavalry, though those who remained with them were mostly trained warriors. But hagbuts and swords, even in the hands of trained soldiers, could not defeat cannon. All that had prevented the center vanguard from collapsing was their superior position upon the hill and the fact that the sun was behind them.
He turned his mount around from where he’d ridden ahead to try to warn the men, and then scanned the line behind him, relieved to see Argyll at his father’s side.
His cousin could shoot a musket well enough, but in close combat, skill with a sword was preferable—a man could be skewered before he had a chance to reload. Duncan’s father wielded a sword with enough skill for them both.
As had occurred all day, a force of Huntly’s men had charged forward after the cannon fire, taking advantage of the gaps in the line created by the explosions. But right away, Duncan could see that this time something was different. There were more men, more horses, and more guns—all aimed directly at his father and Argyll.
He shouted a warning, but it was swallowed up in the clash and clatter of the battle. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the reins and clapped his heels to urge his horse to a gallop, but the distance to close was too great. His pulse raced. He wasn’t going to make it.
Dread rose up inside him.
Through the smoke, through the tangle of moving limbs and mail of fighting soldiers, Duncan saw the barrel of the gun pointed right at Argyll.
Time suspended. It felt like he had one foot dangling over the edge of a cliff, tottering as he fought to pull back. Duncan knew what was going to happen. He could almost see the bullet strike his cousin, and every instinct, every fiber of his being, rushed up to try to prevent it. But time wouldn’t stop long enough for him to catch up.
The Gordon soldier pulled the trigger.
He saw the spark. Felt the delay. Heard the blast.
He must have shouted again because his father looked up, caught sight of him barreling toward them, and quickly discerned the reason why. With his sword raised, he threw his body into Archie’s with enough force to knock them both from their horses. Stumbling to the ground, his father managed to strike a blow, splaying open the man who’d just fired the gun.
With a fierce battle cry, Duncan arrived at full gallop, cutting down two more. His father’s guardsmen rallied behind him, and with a burst of renewed ferocity, fought back the charge.
When it was done, and the Gordons had retreated to prepare for the next volley, Duncan jumped off his horse and plowed through the circle of men who’d surrounded his father and Argyll.
His path was blocked by his cousin. His relief at seeing Archie alive was replaced by anger. Now maybe he would listen. “Damn it, Archie, you need to move back. You could have been killed.”
“Duncan, I’m sorry…” Archie’s expression filled Duncan’s veins with ice.
He held his cousin’s stare for a long heartbeat and then pushed passed him, knowing what he would see.
No.His chest clamped down so tightly that he couldn’t breathe.
His father lay prone on the ground. One of his guardsmen knelt beside him, holding a cloth to staunch the blood gushing from his side. The ball had avoided the plate mail, instead finding a narrow gap of unprotected flesh.
“Father.” Duncan fell to his knees.
“I’m fine,” his father said, his voice clenched as if even breathing added too much pain.
Duncan’s throat tightened. They both knew he lied.
Another cannonball exploded nearby, sending a spray of dirt, rock, and smoke in all directions. He needed to do something before they were all killed. He wanted to go with his father and see him to safety, but as long as men were fighting his duty lay on the battlefield.
“We need to get you back to the castle.” He stood and quickly issued instructions to a few nearby men.
“Colin?” his father gasped.
The heir.Something twisted in his chest.
“Safe,” Duncan assured him, ignoring the hurt. “I sent him back to get more ammunition. I’ll send him to you when he returns.”
“Watch…over…will…need…you.”
Duncan wanted to argue against the implication, refusing to accept that his father was dying, but nodded instead. His father needed all his strength to battle his injury.
