Chapter 13 #2
Some essential light in his expression shutters. “Because of Donag,” he says slowly. He pauses. “And she meant to summon Janet.” Then, softer, “As for me, I’m not what you think.”
I wait. But when he doesn’t elaborate, I press, “What does that mean?”
“Donag’s fury isnae my own.” He picks up a discarded scrap of metal with his tongs and dips it into the fire, considering his words. “She’s my clan, true enough. Her battles are mine. But not her grudges.”
Maybe it’s the sound of his voice, the way his lulling accent rides on a low rasp, but I become mesmerized.
I watch as he works that small piece of metal, twisting and turning it, until it’s a glowing, molten-red blob.
Snap out of it.
“Okay, cool. No grudges. Then we can start working on a plan?”
“A plan?”
“To get me out of here.”
“Ah. That.” His mouth quirks. “Aye, I’ve been doing some thinking. There are places—ancient places—said to run thick with magic. Holy isles, crannogs, standing stones. Places where it’s said folk have been lost to the low road and nae seen again.”
I grin. “Awesome. Let’s find one of those.”
He half smiles, half frowns at my enthusiasm. “’Tisn’t so easy as that. Those places are far. It will take much preparation. We’d require provisions—food, blankets, and suchlike—as well as preparations for the other.”
“The other…meaning?”
I know what he means. I just need him to say it. Otherwise, it’s too surreal.
“Meaning, in order for you to walk the low road, we’ll need to ken what to say, and when. I’ve been listening with one ear to Donag’s spell-making all my life. I reckon I could conjure a way. But ’twill take time.”
I imagine a seventeenth-century road trip with Callum. Planning, preparing, and then…the moment I step through the portal.
Will it feel different from before? Will it hurt?
Callum goes distant, lost to me as he dips the metal in the oil, pulls it out, frowns, then starts all over again. Heating, twisting, dipping.
“Is this what you do all day?” I ask suddenly. “Did you ever go to school?”
“I work all day,” he says, guarded. “With the horses. Or at the big house. Here and there. As it serves the Campbells’ fancy.”
He surprises me when he adds, voice subdued, “I might’ve been tutored, had things turned out different. My family was once great. We were the ones with the hired lads to work the horses. But then this clan war happened. That other life is no more.”
I lean in. “What clan war?” Why didn’t I pay more attention in history class?
He sighs, weighing his thoughts. “Campbell—all Campbells—they’ve the trick of dissembling. Of bowing to whichever ruler best suits their ambition. And make no mistake, their ambition has a cold heart and a hungry belly. They crave land, power, wealth. Mostly, they crave folk to serve them.”
He gestures to himself and sweeps a half-bow, his smirk sharp as a blade. “But the MacGregor clan stood in their way. They had the nerve to rise up and fight back. That clan war.”
“And? What happened to them?”
“To the MacGregors?” His jaw tightens. “They didnae fare so well. Those who weren’t killed, fled. Those who fled were hunted. Those who were found…” He glances at me. “You seem a bright lass. You can guess.”
Callum returns to his metalwork with an intensity the tiny scrap doesn’t seem to merit.
“Can’t they rise again? Surely the Campbells have other enemies.” I’ve been to modern-day Scotland. People still have issues with them. “The MacGregors could find allies. Fight back.”
“A pretty notion were it not now outlawed to be a MacGregor.”
“Oh.”
He says it so flatly—so finally—that I can’t help feeling as low as he looks. If the Campbells are powerful enough to erase an entire clan, what could they do to me?
I shift. “What about your family? Clan Black?”
“Black?” He gives me the strangest look—amused and sad at the same time. Then his expression brightens, and it’s almost too bright. A brittle sort of upbeat. “We’re trifling, we are. Few, but wily. Perhaps we’ll rise someday to the fight.” With a shake of his head, he says, “Enough of that.”
He pulls his scrap of metal from the oil and holds it out. “A rose for Rosie.”
I gasp.
The tiny bit of iron has become a delicate flower. All his twisting and twirling stretched it into ribbons, creating layered petals—a half-opened bud, shimmering and raw.
“It’s beautiful.”
I look up at him. The gray of his eyes is silver in the morning light. The moment holds for so long, it feels like I’ve time-traveled again.
I break it. “You made that for me?” I reach for it.
“Ah! Too hot yet.” He pulls it back, looking away.
The flush from the hot forge has spread, darkening his cheeks into a color that has nothing to do with heat.
Is he blushing?
“Heating up the lassies, are ye?”
I jump.
A new voice. Mocking.
I whirl just as an arm drapes over my shoulders. A stranger, smirking at Callum. “Who’s this you’ve been hiding?”
I angle away, sizing the man up.
He’s cute, in a stocky lacrosse-bro way. Sandy blond hair. Eyes almost too pale a blue. Older than me, but his cheeks still have that young, fleshy look. Mid-twenties, max.
Callum is weighing a reply, but his teeth seem too gritted to speak.
The new guy laughs. “I believe the stable boy thought he could keep you for himself. But you can’t hide from me, lass.” He winks.
I know his type. The guys with rich dads, early admission to Princeton, and BMWs for graduation. The thought spikes defiance through my veins. I didn’t cave to them then, and I won’t now.
“I’m not hiding.” I slip out from under his arm. “Just working.”
“Mmm-hm.” He watches me like a cat eyeing a sparrow. “My father told me about you. Said you were a firebrand. I had to see for myself.”
He reaches for me again, fingertips brushing my shoulder. “Hot to the touch?”
I edge away, and he laughs. “My Da also calls you a wee fool. Are you then?”
I look to Callum. “What’s he talking about?”
Callum stands stiff as steel, his face blank. But his eyes burn.
“His father,” Callum says tightly, “the laird. He thinks you’re daft.”
His gaze locks onto mine, heavy with warning. Take this seriously.
His father is the Campbell laird? I fight the urge to recoil, but I push through it, shooting this guy my best glare. He only explodes into laughter.
“You’re a tonic,” he says, looking genuinely amused. Between the good looks and fine clothes, I bet serving girls usually fawn over him.
His hand darts out again for my shoulder, and I sidestep him. “Touch me one more time, and I’ll break your fingers.”
Callum hisses at me, “Have a care, girl. Did you nae understand? He’s the Campbell’s son.”
“Yeah, I got that the first time.”
Rage bubbles from deep inside. I am so done with this historical sexist crap. And why is Callum scolding me instead of backing me up?
“I don’t care whose kid he is,” I snap. “And don’t girl me.”
Meanwhile, the Campbell kid looks positively tickled.
“She’s a tetchy one,” he muses, studying me like I’m some exotic new specimen of female. Which, I guess, I am.
“Sorry to disappoint.” I cross my arms, locking them like armor over my chest. “Some of us don’t enjoy being pawed by strangers.”
“Pawed, is it?” He curls his lips into what he probably thinks is a sexy pout. “Mayhap you’ve not been pawed by the right stranger.”
Ew.
Finally—finally—Callum speaks up. His voice might be muted, but it’s got a sharp edge. “I think the lass is done for now, Campbell.”
The shift is instant.
Like a predator catching scent, Campbell’s amusement vanishes, his gaze strafing from me to Callum and back again. Calculating.
“One might ask why this is any of the stable lad’s concern,” he muses.
Bait.
Callum doesn’t bite. He just stands there, solid and unmoving, letting Campbell’s scrutiny wash over him.
And that’s when I see the critical difference between these two. Callum might be a servant, but whatever hard labor he’s been forced to do has only carved him into a man. He’s been tested every day of his life.
Not Campbell Junior. Rich boy probably doesn’t get many chances to prove himself.
All humor bleeds from the guy’s face. His gaze flicks to Callum’s hand. “What have you got there?”
He saunters closer, peering at the metal rose. “Is this what we keep you for? Wasting your time on trinkets?”
Callum says nothing. He simply uses his tongs to drop the rose into the fire.
A pained gasp escapes me before I can stop it. “Why did you do that?” I demand. I’m not even sure who I’m asking.
The young Campbell’s gaze cuts to me, his expression going even colder. “Why indeed?”
Callum speaks before I can. “Your sword is finished. Done sharpened.”
The other guy blinks, momentarily thrown. Then he gives a sharp, pride-restoring nod. “Ah, my steel. Give it here.”
Callum turns to fetch it, and I am not prepared for the view.
Bare, sculpted muscle framed between the leather collar above and thick belt below. Taut shoulders, slick with sweat, shift and flex with every movement.
If modern men only knew, they’d take up blacksmithing immediately.
My trance shatters as Callum turns around. That’s when I realize Campbell Junior was watching me that whole time.
A pause hangs between us. Callum studies Campbell. Campbell studies me.
Then, without warning—
“Catch.” Callum tosses the blade at him.
The guy scrambles, just managing to snatch it in time.
I hide my smile. Ballsy.
The young Campbell hefts the sword, giving it a few practice swings. Then his eyes glint. “I’d like to put it to the test.” He looks straight at Callum. “Now.”
Callum’s face is blank. “I’ve only my practice sword. ’Tis wood.”
Oh no.
Callum’s going to get himself beaten again? I really need to stop getting this guy pummeled.
“All the better to see how sharp you’ve tempered my blade.” An evil smile spreads across his face. “Or are you afraid?”
“Not afraid,” Callum says evenly. “Only wanting to make sure I understand.”
He disappears into the barn. When he reemerges, his apron is gone, and he’s holding a wooden sword.
“Till first blood is drawn?” Callum asks.
I’m not even ogling anymore. I can barely focus over the roaring in my ears.
First blood? Callum’s sword is wood. It won’t draw anything but splinters.
Meanwhile, young Campbell’s blade is—well, a sword. Long, glinting, and freshly sharpened.
Callum strides toward an empty paddock and leaps the fence. Campbell Junior tips his weapon, admiring the light as it flashes along the steel.
Callum calls to him, “I thought ye’d like it pretty.”
Two points, Mister Black.
Campbell’s eyes narrow. He bounds into the paddock striding straight for Callum.
I run to the fence, breathless. “Stop!”
Callum ignores me.
The Campbell kid smiles. He wants to put on a show. He lifts his sword, pointing it like an arrow straight at Callum’s chin. “I do believe it’s time to muck up that face a bit more than it already is.”
“Think you can?” Callum bursts into motion. A crouch, a lunge—and suddenly he’s behind Campbell, smacking his thighs with the flat of his wooden sword.
Fear flickers across Campbell’s face before hardening into rage. He spins, stabbing wildly, and Callum barely ducks away.
That’s when his eyes find mine.
I realize I let out a whimper. I clamp my mouth shut.
Callum starts to reassure me. “Dinnae fash yourself—”
Young Campbell sees his chance and strikes. Callum jerks sideways with a sharp hiss.
I slam my hands onto the fence, already stepping onto the lowest rung. “That’s not fair!”
Callum gives me a hard, silent shake of his head. Stay put.
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.
Young Hamish, Braw lad. Here he Lyes. Hamish, Pride of Campbell.
Is this how he dies? At Callum’s hand?
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.