Campbell laughs. “Forgive me, pretty lady. Is it chivalry you crave? I’ll beat the stable boy however you prefer. My blade is the pride of Campbell.” He gives me a showy grin. “Stay and watch, so you might tell how you saw the braw Hamish teach a striving upstart what a proper swordsman looks like.”
His mouth keeps moving, but the words fade into static.
Because suddenly, I’m seeing that mausoleum.
That angel. Those skulls.
YoungHamish, Braw lad. Here he Lyes. Hamish, Pride of Campbell.
Isthishow he dies? AtCallum’shand?
Callum, who would be blamed? Callum, who could be executed?
“Fine.” My voice comes out flat, distant. “Have your fight. I don’t care.”
I turn and walk away with measured steps. But I’m lying. I do care.
More than I should.
Chapter
Fourteen
Ikeep walking, trying to ignore the sounds of clashing swords behind me.
Dread sloshes in my stomach as I race-walk to the castle. I’ve gotten distracted. Now I’m late.
I circle the keep until I find the back entrance Donag described—a servant’s door just off the kitchen garden. Herbs and vegetables spill from their beds in a lush, tangled mess, and the familiar sight reassures me.
I love gardening. I love cooking. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
But then I step inside. The servants freeze and several pairs of angry eyes snap to me. It’s like I walked into a medieval tableau: knives held aloft, hands submerged in water, root vegetables dangling midair. A picture of women busily working.
Work I should have been helping with.
I aim a weak smile. “Sorry I’m late.”
Glances bounce between them. Then, one by one, they recede into the shadows.
All except one.
The angriest-looking woman of all.
She’s so pale that for a second, I think she’s a ghost. A real one this time. Her hair is neither blond nor gray, less like she’s aging, more like she’s fading into oblivion.
She steps closer, saying something, but her words blur together, thick and slurred.
My pulse thuds in my neck. “Uh…excuse me?”
Her eyes harden. More slurring.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
She shouts now, the words jumbling together.
I frown, shaking my head, panic creeping in. I want to shout back. Or cry.
“My Gaelic’s not that great.”
