Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“ W hat dae ye mean she’s gone?”
James stared at Morgana with wide eyes, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. He had been sitting in the drawing room, a cup of wine in his hand, waiting for Edward to meet him so they could discuss the events of the past days since the Campbells had left the castle, when Morgana had run into the room, clutching a piece of paper in her hand.
“I mean she’s gone, James,” Morgana said, shoving the piece of paper at him. “She left. Maither threatened tae disown ye and Freya left tae stop it.”
James perused the note Freya had left, in which she told him that she would never be able to forgive herself if he was disowned because of her and that it was better for her to leave and for him to forget about her. Rage coursed through him as he crumpled the paper in his hand, his heart now leaping to his throat at the thought that she may be long gone.
I must find her
Perhaps she was going back to the Isle of Rum. Maybe if he jumped on the fastest horse he could find, then he could catch up with her and convince her to come back.
He couldn’t let her go. No matter what his mother had said, no matter how much she threatened them both, James wouldn’t let Freya go.
If this is how me maither wishes tae act, then I will act accordingly.
Rushing out of the room, James barked orders at the guards to find his mother. It was only moments later that she appeared in front of him, summoned by all the commotion, and though James was certain she knew precisely why he wanted to speak to her, she showed no signs of remorse.
“I cannae believe that ye would dae this,” James growled, desperately trying to keep his rage in check. “I cannae believe that ye would threaten us like this! All me life, ye’ve been preparing me fer the role of laird and now ye will take everything away from me because I wish tae wed the woman I love?”
“I’m nae taking anything away from ye,” said his mother calmly. “Ye’re the one who is throwing it all away for a lass. This is all yer fault.”
James shook his head. “I cannae believe this. I truly cannae believe ye.”
“And I cannae believe ye would be so foolish as to fall for the charms of that lass!” his mother shouted. “Was bedding her that good that ye would throw everything away?”
James had nothing more to say to his mother—nothing that wasn’t a terrible insult, nothing that he could ever take back. There was no point in arguing with her; she would never listen. What was more important was finding Freya.
“I’ll go find Freya,” he said in a low, dangerous tone. “And when I come back, I expect an apology, and I never want tae hear ye speak of her like that again. Dae ye understand?”
With that, he turned on his heel and left, but still, he could hear his mother calling after him.
“Ye think ye can tell me what tae dae in me own home?” she yelled. “Ye’re sorely mistaken! Ye’re nae the laird yet and if ye continue tae act like this, ye never will be!”
James ignored her entirely as he marched down the hallway to the front doors of the keep. Just as he shoved them open, though, the castle’s bell rang—once, twice, thrice, before going silent.
An attack!
The doors opened to reveal a flurry of soldiers, all of them running around the courtyard as they prepared for battle. And just as he stepped outside, a general’s voice called out, “It’s the Campbells! We’re under attack!”
“I never thought they would attack,” his mother said. A hand flew up to cover her mouth as she stared out of the window in his father’s study in shock, watching the soldiers prepare. “I never thought… I never wanted this to happen.”
“And yet ye are to blame fer this, too,” said James bitterly, shaking his head.
“The important thing is what we dae now,” said his father. “They may be in debt, they may be destabilized, but they have a strong army still.”
Next to James, Edward was already dressed for battle, with his armor on and his sword clasped around his belt. James, having rushed straight to his father’s study, hadn’t yet managed to prepare like his brother and he was anxious to get his armor on and help his men.
Freya would have to wait. As long as the clan was under attack, he couldn’t leave, but he would find her. He would do anything in his power to bring her back once they had defeated the Campbells.
“Edward and I will lead the charge,” said James. “Faither, ye must stay at the back lines. Dinnae go out there.”
“Ye’ll have me hide?”
“I’ll have ye live.”
His father was getting old; though he could still rule, he was not the warrior he had once been. Now, his place was in this study or in the safety of the keep, giving orders to others.
“Edward, let us go,” said James and the two of them left the room. Their paths diverged as Edward headed to the courtyard while James headed to the barracks to prepare, donning his armor and grabbing his sword.
By the time he made it outside, the battle was already raging around him. The air was filled with the grunts and dying breaths of men, the scent of blood, the heat of the battle. The afternoon sun was obscured by thick, steel-gray clouds, like the blades that clashed under its faint glow. James grasped his sword tightly in his hand and threw himself into the fight without hesitation, his eyes searching for the one man he wanted to find the most.
Alastair.
The first man who blocked James’ path was young and broad-shouldered, wielding his sword with skill. Their blades clashed with a clang, the force of the blow reverberating up his arm and through his bones, and James gritted his teeth as he delivered attack after attack, forcing the other man to defend himself. He gave him no moment of respite; he knew that the sooner he ended this, the sooner he could go to his next target, the next Campbell, the next threat.
Just as the man found a chance to counterattack, James feinted to the left and brought his sword down, cutting down the man. Blood fountained from the wound as the man dropped to his knees, eyes wide and stunned, his hand clutching at his side uselessly. James could spare him no second glance as he sidestepped him, looking for his next target. He cut down soldier after soldier, moving fast and efficiently, wasting no time in his search for Alastair.
And then, he found him. He was only a few paces away, fighting his own battle with one of the MacGregor soldiers, who was no match for him. Before James could interfere, Alastair struck the man down and shoved him off his sword, his eyes wild as he looked around for the next threat.
“Laird Campbell!” James shouted. Alastair’s head whipped to the side and when his gaze found James, he grinned as though he was happy to see him—as though he wanted to be the one to kill him, just like James wanted to be the one to kill Alastair.
“There ye are,” Alastair said, marching over to James. “Ye fool… ye could have had everything! And now ye’ll lose it all simply because of a lass.”
“If ye think ye can defeat our armies, then ye’re sorely mistaken,” James spat out.
“It will be enough if I kill ye,” said Alastair. “Ye’ve been a thorn in me side this whole time.”
With a deafening battle cry, Alastair charged at James, his sword held high and ready. James met him halfway, roaring wildly at the man as their blades touched, everything else around them melting away.
There was nothing but him and Alastair in that moment—nothing but James’ unbridled rage, the heartbreak that coursed through his veins, his fear for Freya’s life. If only he managed to kill Alastair, if only he managed to put an early end to this battle, then he could run after Freya and bring her back.
James’ muscles were already aching with the effort it had taken to fight the Campbell men. He had struck them all dead, but the fights had taken much out of him, leaving him exhausted and soaked in sweat. His undershirt clung to his back with it. His hair stuck to his forehead and the handle of his sword threatened to slide out of his grip. His chest heaved with every breath he took, the air burning his lungs.
And yet he persevered. He would not rest until either he or Alastair was dead.
Though Alastair was an older man, he was a skilled fighter—someone who had seen his fair share of battle and who had emerged from them all victorious. Each of his movements was calculated. Each step he took was perfectly balanced, perfectly suited to his next attack. When James feinted to the right, Alastair was there to block him. When he raised his sword to attack, his blade was there to block it.
The two of them fought furiously, neither man giving the other any respite. They were like two rabid dogs intent on killing each other, crazed by the battle and by the rage and hatred they held for one another. In his next attack, James managed to slice him over the shoulder, drawing a hiss of pain out of the man, but before he could jump out of reach, Alastair retaliated, catching James over the side.
It was a shallow wound, one that stung but didn’t slow him down. Still, it was never a good idea to fight wounded, since it was bound to tire a warrior faster and slow his reflexes—but what other choice did he have? He had already made up his mind that he was the one who had to kill Alastair. No other man could take that from him.
With a wince, James took a few steps back and the two men circled each other. James’ boots sank in the soft earth where the blood had seeped into the soil, his feet dragging through it. He could feel his own blood seep out of the wound over his ribs, sticking to his undershirt much like the sweat did. Compared to other injuries he had sustained in battle, however, this was barely a scratch.
It would be yet another scar he would bear on his body, yet another reminder of the fights he had won.
With a chest-rumbling roar, Alastair headed towards him once more. He made for a fierce sight, the men he had killed and maimed leaving their marks on him. He was covered from head to toe in blood, his clothes soaked in it, his skin painted crimson. James was certain he was in no better state. He, too, could feel the blood of those he had hurt all over him, tacky on his skin, the stench of it permeating everything around him.
James couldn’t help but wonder where Edward was. He couldn’t help but wonder if his brother was safe, if his sister and his parents were safe. Even after everything his parents had done—especially his mother—he still cared about them. He didn’t want them to die in the hands of the enemy, or to suffer their torture methods.
And he couldn’t help but wonder where Freya was. A part of him was glad that she had managed to escape all this before the fight erupted. Had she been in the keep, Alastair would have certainly tried his best to get to her and kill her. Perhaps that was what he was trying to do even now, not knowing that she had fled under his mother’s threats. But even if he tore the whole castle apart, there would be no sight of her. Wherever she was, she was safe.
In the chaos of the battle, another soldier fell into James, knocking him off his balance. He took a moment to steady himself, and that was all Alastair needed to attack once more, just when James was most vulnerable. With a grunt, James fell to the ground to avoid Alastair’s blade, raising his own to guard himself from the blow that followed. When Alastair attacked again and again, James scrambled backwards, trying to get far away enough from him to push himself back up onto his feet.
The soil was slippery, his fingers sinking into it. Alastair attacked with raging strength, putting all of his efforts into his blows. James’ arm ached from the repeated impacts, the force of each hit pushing his blade farther and farther down.
He couldn’t hold Alastair off for too long. The man had the upper hand and he knew it—and he would do anything to keep it that way.
Sweat dripped from James’ brow. His heart beat fast, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Around him, the shouts of his men and those of Clan Campbell echoed loudly in his ears, a cacophony of sound that only seemed to rise higher and higher as more soldiers fell to their deaths. In his lifetime, James had seen plenty of death; he had come close to it several times before himself, but he had never felt the sharp pang of terror as he did now.
He had never wanted to die, but he had always considered it a part of life; a possibility in all the battles he had fought. But now he had something for which he desperately wanted to live; he had Freya’s love, and he couldn’t meet his end now that he had only just gotten a taste of it.
Gathering all of his strength, James decided it was time to fight back, even from a disadvantageous position. Instead of fleeing, he remained where he was, planting his feet into the earth and raising his sword to attack just as Alastair came to loom over him. The other man was quick to parry the blow, forcing James’ blade to the side, but James was also quick to attack again, swinging his sword to cut him through the stomach.
He missed. Just for a fraction of an inch, he missed, his blade rushing past Alastair without dealing any damage.
And then, just as he tried to scoot farther back, an unbearable, stinging pain erupted over his shoulder as Alastair dealt a deep cut. James’ breath was cut short, all the air leaving his lungs from the searing pain, and he watched as Alastair prepared to attack once more and deal the killing blow.
With any strength that remained to him, James raised his sword. He observed and waited for the right moment, allowing Alastair to come close; too close.
And then, just as Alastair was about to strike, he pierced him through the stomach, stopping him dead in his tracks.
Above him, Alastair looked at James with wide eyes. Then, he glanced at his stomach, from which blood fountained around the wound. He took one ragged breath, then another, and then collapsed on top of James, the life drained out of him.
James let go of his sword. He let go of everything, too exhausted and too dizzy to care. He had lost a lot of blood—he could tell from the way the world was spinning around him, the way his eyes refused to stay open. Every sound was now distant, as though his ears had been muffled with cotton. All he could see was the steel gray sky, stretching high above him.
He was not going to get what he wanted, after all. He had tried so hard, but in the end, Alastair had won, even if he had died for his victory.
Perhaps that was always me fate.
That was James’ final thought before the darkness claimed him.