Taming the Highland Beauty (Guardians of the Isles #7)

Chapter Nineteen

G ille and Callum stepped into the front courtyard to see chaos unfold before their eyes. English soldiers, their red coats gleaming in the evening light, clashed swords with the MacLeod clan, their kilts stained with blood. Without a thought for his own safety while his clan was in trouble, Alastair drew his sword and stepped into the fray.

Callum turned to Gille. Anguish reflected in his gaze, mirroring her own. He drew a sharp breath. “I must help them.”

“I know.” She nodded jerkily as pain tightened her chest. “If only my magic and I could.” She dropped her gaze to the earth at her feet as a tear slid down her cheek. Would their path ever be free of obstacles?

“You must proceed with singing the song. Nothing can stop you from that course.” He brought her gaze back to his with a finger beneath her chin.

Gille stared at the man before her. A breeze ruffled his hair, and the evening sun cast him in a pale gold light. Her breath caught as a sense of quiet wonder replaced her sadness. He was so handsome. His eyes were not just brown, as she had always thought. They were the colour of the earth after a rain, in that moment between storm and calm. And just like nature, he was always changing, never the same. Evolving. Obstacles were just that—a moment where new challenges arose for them to conquer. He would fight the battle in the courtyard while she would fight to break her curse.

She reached up and brushed a lock of hair back from his eyes. Her fingers strayed to the strong, straight line of his cheekbone and followed it in a single brushing stroke. Words, dozens of them, pushed through her mind, but none of them came to her mouth. What could she say to the man who had rescued her from the forest and given her hope for a better tomorrow? He had given her back her laughter and made her smile when all she had wanted was to bury herself in her cloak and hide. She owed him so much.

“It is time,” she said, feeling brave once more. Time to confront the English and time to step into their future, whatever that might be. Callum started to turn away, but she pulled him back towards her. She pressed a kiss to his lips, lingering there for only a heartbeat before she pulled away. “I love you,” she whispered against his cheek. “I expect no words in return, but I wanted you to know before you go into battle what is in my heart.”

He pulled her tightly against his chest. “There will be plenty of time to speak of such things when we are through.” He released her. “Until then.” His brown eyes filled with promise.

Gille swallowed back the sudden lump that came to her throat. Aye, there would be plenty of time after she broke her curse. She hurried towards the castle. She had to call Lady Janet to the water’s edge. She made it no farther than the sea gate when Lady Janet appeared.

Were you successful? Lady Janet asked, floating beside Gille along the pathway as they turned back towards the water.

“Aye,” Gille replied, clutching the parchment with the song’s lyrics and Pearl’s translation. “We are ready to proceed.”

Could we wait for my children? Lady Janet asked, her voice tinged with despair. I’d like to say goodbye.

Gille understood the sentiment but pointed out the fighting in the front courtyard. “With the English attacking, ’tis impossible for your sons, Aria, or Isolde to join us. And Gwendolyn, Fiona, Rowena, and Rosalyn are caring for the wounded.”

Regret crossed Lady Janet’s not-fully human features. Then we should proceed, and I shall hope I have time before I pass to the afterlife to tell them I love them one last time.

At the water’s edge once more, Gille called, “Minerva.”

The waters of the loch stayed silent for a moment before the green-blue water rippled, and a sleek, dark shape emerged from its depths. Minerva, her seal form glistening with beads of water, hauled herself to the edge of the surf. Her large, expressive eyes filled with caution as she scanned the surrounding area. “We heard unusual sounds and sensed another ship in the distance that is not the Cliodna . What dangers have you brought back from your mission with you?”

“An English warship followed us home,” Gille confessed as the ship in question suddenly sailed into view, just off the harbour where the Cliodna was anchored.

Minerva’s eyes flashed with anger. “The English and their cannonballs threaten my people as well as yours.”

She turned her gaze towards the sky. It would be an hour or more until sunset. Even so, to Gille it appeared as if the world around her held its breath, waiting for her to sing the song that would free her, Minerva, and Lady Janet. “The song—”

“Must wait until we are safe,” Minerva snapped.

“What can we do?” Gille asked, tamping back her disappointment. Would she ever be free of the curse?

“Help me call the other seals. We must get them out of harm’s way before those two ships start firing cannonballs at each other and hitting my pod instead.”

*

The evening took on a surreal quality as Callum clutched the sword in his right hand, then drew his dagger from his belt with his left and raced towards the battle. He blocked out the words Gille had just uttered. He could not let anything distract him from his immediate purpose. Once the battle was over, if he survived, he could explore the warmth that had filled his chest and the emotions that lay in his own heart.

Callum dived into the battle as the clangour of steel against steel sounded above the shouts and cries of men and horses. Callum fought alongside Alastair, the two of them making their way towards where Orrick, Tormod, and Isolde fought.

Before Callum could make his way to the three of them, a dark-haired Englishman stepped before him and lunged.

Callum parried and spun to the right, but the redcoat brought his sword around in a sideways sweep. Callum was ready. His blade arced up and back, stopping the slice. As the swords collided, Callum kicked, catching his opponent in the stomach and sending him staggering backwards.

The Englishman kept his feet. “Good.” He grinned at Callum. “A worthy opponent at last.”

Callum dashed a hand across his brow to keep the sweat from rolling into his eyes. He kept his body low as he watched the Englishman’s body for the next attack and cleared his mind of all else except survival. In a heartbeat, the dark-haired man charged with the force of a raging bull.

Callum blocked the strike. At the blow, the sharp ringing of steel filled the air, and it took Callum a moment to recover his momentum to strike again. His sword arm was aching, his body bruised, cut. He was more used to playing his mandolin than wielding a sword, but despite his lack of practice and the pain radiating through him, he pressed the attack. His sword clashed against the Englishman’s once, twice.

The man’s eyes filled with rage, and he lunged forward.

Callum blocked the strike, then slashed again and again as the air grew choked with dust. His breathing was ragged as he paused just long enough for the Englishman’s blade to sweep in an arc across Callum’s shoulders, severing the tail of his tartan. Callum lurched back just in time to spare his body, then spun out of the way.

It took a moment for Callum to regain his footing, but when he did, he brought his sword up and sliced through the man’s sword arm, exposing muscle and bone. The man dropped to the ground, crying out in agony.

Callum had no time to mourn the fallen man or offer aid as another Englishman entered the fray. Duty compelled him to fight his way through the courtyard. Men who charged him fell like leaves before a gale. Yet, as one fell, another took his place, then another, and another. But Callum prevailed, his movements growing increasingly confident.

In the distance, near the open gate, Callum spotted Lieutenant Gilbert. Their eyes met across the chaos of the battle. Again, driven by duty, Callum strode forward to confront a man he had hoped would not become his enemy.

Callum stood face-to-face with the lieutenant and his jaw clenched with anger. The English officer had dared to invade Dunvegan Castle, the sacred home of the MacLeods. “Why are you here when we had reached an agreement?”

“We were simply following orders,” he replied.

Callum scoffed. “Orders from a king who knows nothing of our traditions, our way of life.”

Gilbert smirked. “Perhaps, but that was before you revealed your true nature, MacLeod. You and your men have been attacking our troops from along the shoreline. That was confirmed this morning when I watched you sail out of the harbour on your brother-in-law’s ship.”

Alastair’s scouts had reported that the English were close. Now Callum knew just how close they had been. “Was there any such attack while we were gone?” Callum asked, keeping his sword at the ready.

“No,” the lieutenant replied, lowering into a fighting stance.

“Then how can you accuse us of something for which you have no proof?” Callum raised his sword in a salute.

Lieutenant Gilbert offered him a sneer in response. “Why else would you be out there if not for no good?”

Callum shook his head. “Any peace between the English and the Scots is doomed to failure if you do not rely on facts.”

The lieutenant narrowed his gaze as both men circled each other. “What facts?”

“You knew that Marcus just arrived back at Dunvegan. You were there when he returned. And you also had to suspect his ship was somewhere close by, has been close by since his return. If you were spying on the MacLeods, you would know this.”

The lieutenant’s blade arched towards Callum in a disembowelling sweep, the blood grooves on the weapon whistling their deadly melody. “What does all that have to do with anything?”

Callum dropped back and let the blade swing through the empty space where his body had just been. “Did any attacks occur in the last few days?”

“Yes,” the lieutenant said as his weapon swung wide. “Last night there was an attack on the forty-first regiment near Portree.”

Callum jumped inside to open space and drove his elbow into the Englishman’s face. With a half turn, the razor edge of his sword cut across the lieutenant’s sleeve, laying open a swathe of the red uniform and exposing the arm beneath. “How do you suppose we sailed all the way there and back to leave shortly after sunrise today?”

Lieutenant Gilbert’s sword slashed again, aiming for Callum’s thigh.

“The fact is that it cannot be done.” Callum, spun and came around, kicking the lieutenant from behind, forcing him to the ground on both knees. The Englishman’s sword thumped against the earth and rolled an arm’s length away. His opponent knew his head was within the reach of Callum’s sword.

The lieutenant’s face paled.

“If that is why you are here, fighting the MacLeods tonight, I suggest you call off your men. And work on gathering better information before your men suffer any further injuries.”

The Englishman nodded. He knew now he had made a grave mistake coming after the MacLeods.

Callum picked up the lieutenant’s sword before helping him to his feet.

The lieutenant signalled to his flagbearer to call off the attack. The call went out. At the sight of the lieutenant standing beside Callum, with his weapon in the Highlander’s hand, the other Englishmen ceased their fighting.

Callum released a ragged breath and looked around him. There were no holes in the castle wall, no damage to the gate. “How did you get into the castle?”

The lieutenant shrugged. “Your own people opened the gates for us.”

“Nay. Our people are loyal.” Callum’s eyes narrowed.

“One of them was more than happy to take the gold I offered.”

“Describe them,” Callum demanded, his voice low and menacing.

The lieutenant remained silent until Callum lifted his sword, threatening to strike. “Long white hair, blue eyes. An odd-looking man, wearing a green tunic with leaves embroidered around the edges.” He frowned. “Or were they real leaves? Hard to tell. It all happened so fast. Said he wanted to do whatever he could to stop Gille from her task.”

Callum’s blood ran cold. Oberon. That traitor. The fairy king had meddled in MacLeod affairs for the last time. He would pay for his crimes. But even as he vowed revenge, Callum could not help but feel a sense of despair. Would the fairy realm never stop meddling in the lives of the MacLeods? Callum tried to rekindle the hatred he once had for the fae, but the feelings remained out of reach.

His anger at the English lessened as his thoughts shifted to Gille. Oberon had done this to stop her from succeeding. And every moment he spent here, with this Englishman, meant the fairy king was that much closer to his goal.

“If you have no objection, I will gather my men and depart,” the lieutenant said, stepping away from Callum.

“Not so quickly. Your duties here are far from over,” Callum replied. “A British warship will soon be approaching our coast. You must convince them to withdraw.”

The lieutenant’s eyes widened. “Me? How?”

Callum shrugged. “With your life on the line, I trust you will devise a plan, and swiftly.” Without waiting for a response, Callum led the lieutenant across the courtyard to where Alastair was speaking with Graeme.

“Ensure the English retreat,” Alastair instructed. “If necessary, follow them to their horses. Afterwards, we must tend to the wounded and the fallen.”

“It will be done,” Graeme replied, his face hardening with determination. He hurried past Callum and the lieutenant to attend to the task.

Alastair’s gaze, filled with anger, fixed on the lieutenant. “I trusted you.”

“Your trust was misplaced,” the lieutenant replied, straightening. “We are, and always will be, enemies until your country acknowledges King George as the rightful sovereign.”

“Politics belongs in the courts,” Alastair retorted. “Right now, my people’s well-being takes precedence. The ones you attacked.” His gaze narrowed. “How did you breach these walls?”

“It was Oberon,” Callum explained. “He allowed the English to pass through the gates.”

Alastair’s anger intensified, tightening his jaw. “We will first deal with the English, then it is time to end Oberon’s meddling in our lives.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the air was torn asunder by a thunderous roar. The earth trembled beneath their feet. On the opposite side of the castle, a cloud of dust and debris soared into the sky.

“The English warship is attacking from the coastline,” Alastair said, his face suddenly pale.

“You might have stopped me and my men, but there are thirteen other regiments in Scotland at present and more arriving every day.” Lieutenant Gilbert gave Alastair a smug smile. “Unfortunately, the MacLeods have also caught the attention of the British navy.”

The thunderous boom of another cannonball striking the curtain wall was followed by a deafening silence, broken only by the frantic beating of Callum’s heart. He turned to Alastair. “What should we do?”

Alastair drew a ragged breath as the castle doors flung open and a torrent of terrified people poured into the courtyard seeking safety. The air was thick with smoke and dust as cries of distress mixed with panicked shouts. Some ran towards the nearest hiding places, while others fled past the English soldiers and out the open gates, hoping to escape the wrath of the English invaders at the coastline.

Alastair motioned for Tormod. When his brother came to his side, he said, “Take this man to the loch and see if there is anything he can do to prevent further damage to the castle and our people.”

“I have no power over the captain of that ship,” Lieutenant Gilbert said. “We will only end up blowing ourselves up along with your castle.”

Tormod reached for his dagger and pressed it against the lieutenant’s back. “You had better start thinking of a way to intervene.” When Alastair turned back towards the castle, Tormod asked, “Where are you going?”

Alastair paused and turned back. “To do something I never wanted to do.” His features were taut, pained. “Our sanctuary is no longer safe. If I do not stop that warship, there will be nothing left of Dunvegan or our clan.”

Callum nodded, feeling a sudden sympathy towards his brother. He could no longer play the role of diplomat. And while Alastair was forced to solve the situation with the English as only a laird could, Callum would go to Gille. He had to reach her before either the English or Oberon did.