“Aye,” Andrew swallowed hard. “A fool I may be, but I willnae allow ye to use me against me own sister.”
“Andrew… I cannae…” Her voice began to break as Eleanor felt her chest and throat constrict.
“Ye can, and ye will,” Andrew said in a strained voice, wincing at the pressure of the knee in his back.
“Enough of this!” Donald hissed and removed his knee, yanking Andrew up by the hair.
Gasping with pain, Andrew got to his feet and almost raised his hands to his head, but stopped when Donald once again pressed the blade to his throat. “Ye can kill me, but I willnae have ye usin’ me against Eleanor… Or the Laird…” His words hung in the air with stifling uncertainty that seemed to reach Donald.
Wavering just for a second, Donald lowered his grip, relaxing the tension in his arm.
Eleanor noticed it too, the subtle shift in the atmosphere as Bran adjusted his stance, his eyes locked on Donald’s arm.
It was then that Callum chose to speak. “Ye see, Stewart,” he used the name that Donald had taken from his father. “Andrew is a braver man than ye,” he spoke in a soft, steady voice that seemed to rattle the man even further.
“Callum!” A sudden shout rang out from the trees, drawing Donald’s attention to the side.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion as Eleanor heard a yelp of pain. After looking at the line of trees, she turned back to see Bran with Donald’s arm in his mouth. His sharp teeth dug through the fabric of the coat, drawing blood as the man attempted to fight him off.
Lying nearby, Andrew groaned in pain as he clutched at his neck.
Just what had happened in the split second that Eleanor had decided to turn her head? Had the blade sliced through his neck, or had he managed to get away in time?
Nay.
Eleanor sobbed as she ran toward him. Callum had already gone to Bran’s aid by the time that Eleanor fell to her knees at her brother’s side. Hot tears stung her cheeks as she gently lifted his head onto her lap. “Let me see,” she spoke softly as she tried to remove his hands. “Lay as still as ye can.”
Andrew stopped moving as he shut his eyes and did as she said.
Crimson blood marred her view as he lay motionless in her arms. Every cell in her body wanted to scream, but she needed to know if he would make it or not.
Tearing off a piece of her dress, Eleanor worked with shaking hands, dabbing away at the blood until she could see the faint cuts across his throat. “Ye have to be all right,” she whispered, saying a silent prayer.
Relief flooded her body when she realized that the wounds were nothing more than superficial. By some miracle, Bran must have taken Donald down without allowing the blade to pierce his throat too deeply.
“Ye are goin’ to be all right,” she whimpered softly above him, using the shredded fabric of her dress to compress the bleeding.
Andrew stirred on her lap, but her attention was quickly drawn to the side as she realized that Donald and Callum were still wrestling in the mud. Her breath caught in her throat when a flash of steel flickered between the men as they both suddenly ceased to move.
“Callum!” Her wail filled the air until her throat felt hoarse.
Nay, nay, nay!
Eleanor lost her voice, feeling as if her world were beginning to crumble around her.
It cannae be…
Both men still lay deathly still in the mud as a large pool began to spread between them.
Nay.
The very breath in her chest felt as if it had stilled as the world around her ceased to exist. It did not seem possible that Callum had been killed. Her body felt numb, almost impossibly so as her legs refused to work. Rain pelted the earth harder as she shut her eyes and fought against the lump in her throat.
He cannae be dead.
A sudden groan made her open her eyes again as she noticed the subtle movements of Callum’s shoulders. Relief flooded her body as she let out a heavy breath.
Pushing himself up, Callum groaned in pain.
