Chapter 7
Lachlan knew he was alive before he blinked open his eyes.
Dead men could not feel this much. Pain ricocheted through his entire body.
Deep and unrelenting. Settling into bone and muscle in a way that felt permanent.
His shoulder burned. His leg throbbed. Even breathing felt like a negotiation he was not winning.
With a trembling exhale, he opened his eyes and forced himself to sit up, faltering and catching himself on his elbows as nausea racked him and the world tilted dangerously. Still, he pushed himself. He would sooner be dead than be laid low like this.
“Mo chreach, sit up, ye damn fool,” he muttered to himself.
Braced on his hands at his side, his swimming vision finally focusing, Lachlan cut a glance around the room. Robert the Bruce strode toward him. Either the man had a sense he was awake, or Lachlan, by some invisible tether, had awoken from hearing his leader’s approach.
“Ye’re awake,” Robert the Bruce stated the obvious with a tone no less than impressed.
Lachlan gave a short nod, jaw tight against the pain and reached out a hand. “Help me up, friend.”
The Bruce moved quickly, steadying Lachlan as he shifted upright, careful of the bandage at his shoulder where the arrow had struck.
“Good to see ye’ve’ not buried me yet.” Despite his current condition, Lachlan attempted a bit of mirth.
The Bruce’s expression darkened, serious. “Many of us live because of ye, Wolf,” he said.
Lachlan stilled and nodded slowly. “I only do my duty.”
The Bruce nodded in turn. “I’ve news for ye.”
Lachlan cocked his head, pushing the pain aside so that he could focus on what his leader was saying to him.
“I need ye to return to Skye.”
Lachlan blinked, his expression unchanging.
He must have misheard him. There was no time or place on this earth in which Robert the Bruce would ask him to leave the campaign.
Such a request would be… shameful. And he’d just said that Lachlan had saved many.
But the way the Bruce was shifting on his feet, his hard eyes staring endlessly at Lachlan’s forehead confirmed he had indeed heard him correctly.
“Nay, my lord. I’ll be fit to ride and lead the men again within a day.” His declaration came out strong, even if his body wanted to collapse. Though he didn’t want to admit it, there was no chance in hell he’d be well enough in a day. My gods, but he felt as though he’d been, well, run through.
The Bruce’s mouth curved, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Aye. Ye will.”
Lachlan frowned. Even through the haze of his fever, he was pretty certain it had been too easy to convince the Bruce. Lachlan’s brain was turning too slowly, not quite connecting the orders that his commander was giving. “And ye will ride to Skye.”
The order landed harder the second time, and Lachlan had to force himself to remain sitting upright.
“Your wounds are too severe.” There was a heaviness to the Bruce’s words, and the set of his shoulders, as if he hated to even say it. “To ask ye to return to battle…” He shook his head. “Ye know what that means.”
Lachlan gritted his teeth. He did know what that meant—when a man’s wounds were grave enough that he might end up with others at risk by putting himself into battle.
He wasn’t willing to cause his men harm deliberately. That was a decision only an addled-minded person would make. The same decision that someone else had already made when they undermined the cavalry. But to leave the campaign altogether—
Nay. He could help from the sidelines. Lachlan curled his fists at his sides. Around the great hall, men were starting to rise from their pallets. Sun was streaming through the few narrow windows, but the slim openings did not filter out the smoke from the hearth.
In a matter of weeks he would be back on his feet. There was a good chance that no other battles would ensue for a fortnight at least as each side worked to recover from their injuries and replenish their supplies.
He’d never been pulled from a battle before and he didn’t like the idea of starting now.
“My place is here,” Lachlan said. “If ye dinna want me on the battlefield until I’m fully recovered, I can accept that, in fact, I agree. But I can still lead. Advise. I’ll no’ sit idle.”
The Bruce regarded him for a long moment, and then his face grew cloudy as he met Lachlan’s gaze. “Your place is wherever I command.”
That startled Lachlan, the harsh edict striking harder than the spear he’d taken to the leg.
The Bruce had never spoken to him so plainly, normally giving him latitude as the Wolf of Skye to make decisions for his forces.
Understanding that there was no leeway this time around, Lachlan lifted his chin and bit his tongue.
There was no use arguing further, not right now anyway.
“There is another matter,” the Bruce continued.
Lachlan gave a curt nod, indicating he was willing to listen, though he was too furious to find the words. What he wouldn’t give to have the ability to storm out of the great hall and deeply breathe in the Highland air.
“Ye will escort my niece, Lady Isabel, to Skye.”
For the first time since waking, Lachlan forgot the pain and he laughed.
And then he stopped abruptly, a fleeting memory of what he’d thought was a dream crashing into his consciousness.
A woman, leaning over him, her hand firmly on his chest, her voice low and insistent.
Telling him he was supposed to be her protector, but it would be she in fact protecting him.
But, if what he was hearing now was not a dream, then neither had the angel’s visit been.
The smell of the room dragged him back into the present. Stale sweat, crushed herbs packed into wounds, alcohol, blood. All of it clung to the air, thick enough to taste.
Lachlan attempted to swing his legs over the side of the table, weaker than he expected. When he was fully facing his leader, he said, “I’m a warrior, no’ a nursemaid.”
The Bruce nodded slowly. “Aye. But ye are the only man I trust with her safety.”
Again, fury laced through Lachlan’s limbs, and he gripped the wool of his plaid draped over his lap, the fabric scratching against his palms. The damned Sassenachs. This was their fault.
If not for their bloody king, he wouldn’t be in this situation. He’d be ramping up for another campaign, leading his men, swords in hand. Driving back Longshanks before he could claim another stronghold or start another battle.
“I know what I ask is no small thing,” Robert the Bruce said, “but the English have the advantage now. They will press on.”
Which was exactly why Lachlan’s place was here. He gritted his teeth, swallowing a growl of frustration. He had heard as much while he was lying here convalescing—that the English had been victorious, he’d known it from the moment he’d been pinned to the ground.
He’d asked about the casualties. There were a few from his own clan and several from Callum’s clan.
But the majority had been from other clans, numbering in the thousands. Rows of bodies laid out in the cold, awaiting burial.
“What happened?” Lachlan asked.
The Bruce did not answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the wall, as though he were seeing the battlefield behind the stacked stone and mortar. “We were betrayed,” he said finally. “And I do no’ know by whom.”
A chill settled in Lachlan’s chest, recalling how he’d waited for the cavalry, how even until the end he’d prayed they’d come. “Let me find out who.”
The Bruce’s gaze returned to Lachlan, glancing down at where the plaid covered the worst of his injuries.
“Once ye heal, aye. I would like ye to unearth our enemies. Ye and Ewan and Callum. My Guardians of the Highlands. I trust the three of ye to root out whoever is behind this, whoever cost Scotland the lives of many men.”
Guardian of Scotland. The title settled like a mantle of iron across Lachlan’s shoulders. Until now that was a title that belonged to William Wallace. Now, Lachlan would share it, and the responsibility of such a designation—
“’Twill be my honor, my lord.”
A beat passed, but Lachlan needed more. “And the lass?” he asked.
“My niece. She requires protection. And I trust no one else with it save for the three of ye, my guardians. And ye are the only one who will no’ be riding into battle until ye recover. As soon as it is safe, I will send for her, and ye can return.”
Lachlan drew in a breath, steadier than before.
He wasn’t happy about the Bruce’s decision, nor his current situation, but what other choice did he have?
He wasn’t going to put his men at risk by forcing the issue, and if this was what Robert the Bruce wanted, then he needed to comply.
Having been given the title of Guardian of Scotland did soften the blow.
The Bruce had barely stepped away before the space he’d occupied was filled.
Lady Isabel.
She was more beautiful than he remembered from his dreams—more real too.
Close enough that he could see the faint flush beneath her skin, the loose tendrils of her hair that had escaped from the long blonde plait down her back.
Her gaze was steady, assessing, the set of her jaw stubborn.
Her lips soft.... In a flash, he recalled pressing his lips clumsily to hers.
Please, by the saints, let that at least be a dream.
For he was quickly coming to realize most of the things he thought he’d hallucinated were in fact true.
“Ye’re the one who threatened to let me die,” he said with a grin.
“And ye were the one who refused to cooperate.” She scanned his body, settling her gaze on the plaid, and he had the distinct impression she wanted to lift it to look, but he was naked underneath.
There was a slight twitch to her lips. “Lie back. Let me take a look.”
Lachlan smirked, wanting to tease her about what exactly she planned to look at, but reining in his impulse.
“Ye’ve a fierce tongue, my lady,” he said instead.
“All the better to keep ye in line.” She smiled sweet as honey, even though her words stung like a bee.
He laid back, and she lifted the plaid off his thigh, keeping his groin covered as she poked and prodded, then gave a perfunctory nod.
“So,” he said, studying her. “I am to be your nursemaid.”
There was a flash of irritation on her lovely features, which only made her lovelier. She pulled his plaid back over his thigh and gave him a look that said she was tolerating him more than anything else. And there from her bodice popped the head of a ferret, which startled him.
“I see ye’ve already got a bodyguard.”
“Ye are to be my protector.” Lady Isabel folded her arms, the ferret chirped, and he thought he heard the distinct sound of Isabel’s foot tapping a rhythm on the stone floor.
“Though I suspect I shall be the one protecting ye. In your current state, ye’re scarcely fit for anything other than being an invalid. ”
Her words stung, but they were true. He wasn’t sure he could bear weight when he stood, let alone fend off some bastard intent on maiming her.
“Ye’ll find, my lady, that I killed many men even with that spear in my leg. Without it, and just a wee bandage wrapped around this muscle, I’d be more than willing to kill any man who tried to harm ye.”
Something flickered in her gaze. Amusement perhaps? But it was hard to tell if she was laughing at him or impressed.
“We shall see.” She chuckled, stroking the head of her ferret whose gaze hadn’t left his face since popping from the lady’s bosom.
Och, so the lass was laughing at him then.
Mo chreach, but the woman was infuriating.
Lachlan had never had to prove himself as hard as it appeared he was doing at this moment.
Most women softened at his presence, fluttering their lashes, and blushed, just waiting for him to bestow a compliment.
Lady Isabel appeared to think him weak and ridiculous.
And yet he was completely intrigued by her. He had never been spoken to in the way she was speaking to him. There was something about Isabel Bruce that set his blood to boiling—and it could go either way: anger or desire. Her words rang out like a challenge tossed out. We shall see.
“Aye… I suspect we will.”