Page 69

SUTHERLAND’S DESTRIER STOOD over him, its head low, as if protecting its rider. It was an incongruous, if tender, scene, especially between such a ferocious warhorse and its indomitable owner.

Only, Malcolm Sutherland didn’t look invincible now.

Most injured warriors would at least attempt to get up, yet he didn’t. Instead, he lay prone, while his armored chest rose, sharp and shallow.

Reaching him, Brodie knelt on one knee, his gaze traveling to where blood pumped down the warrior’s side. Gripping hold of Sutherland’s arm, he lifted it slightly to see that the pike thrust had been violent.

Sutherland was bleeding out all over the ground, and there was little anyone could do to stop it.

“The devil’s turds,” Sutherland rasped. “I can’t believe the last face I’m going to see is yers .”

Brodie grimaced. The irony wasn’t lost on him either. “The battle’s nearly over,” he replied gruffly. “I’ll fetch the surgeon.”

“No point,” Sutherland grunted. “I’m done for … we both know it.”

Brodie stilled. Aye, he did. He’d seen a man gored like that before, by a boar. He’d died shortly afterward.

“I’ll get one of yer warriors then … is there someone ye wish to see?”

“No,” Sutherland rasped. His face was bloodless now, his breathing labored. “The only person I want is my wife … and she’s not here.”

A chill swept over Brodie, his heart kicking hard.

Christ’s teeth, Sutherland cared for Greer.

Brodie had thought he’d married her in the end to spite him, yet grief flickered in his rival’s pale eyes now.

The whoreson loved her.

Brodie’s first instinct was to draw his dirk and slit Sutherland across the throat, for blind jealousy speared him. Yet reason prevailed.

If Sutherland indeed loved Greer, he would hopefully have treated her well. Aye, he hated the thought of Sutherland loving her, yet he wanted Greer to be safe more.

Silence fell between the two men then, while around them, the noise of battle slowly dimmed. The last of the Black Douglases were being killed or captured. The whoops of the victors carried down the valley, but Brodie didn’t pay them any mind.

Instead, his gaze remained on Sutherland’s face.

No man should die alone, with only his regrets for company.

To his surprise, Sutherland’s gloved hand came up, fastening around Brodie’s arm with iron strength. His blue-grey eyes then speared him. “I know she still loves ye,” he rasped, his face twisting. “And I know she always will. I wed her … I made her body mine … but her heart is yers, mongrel.”

Brodie’s heart started to pound, even as he held Sutherland’s stare. He didn’t know what to say to that—his tongue wouldn’t move.

Fortunately for him though, Sutherland had the urgency of a dying man. His grip tightened, bruising now.

“Greer can’t stay at Dunrobin,” he gasped, each word a struggle. “My kin will turn on her … and she’s dead to her own clan … so she can’t go back to Druminnor.” Pain and desperation flickered over Sutherland’s face. “Look … after … her.”

Brodie swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. “I will, Malcolm,” he said roughly. “Till I draw my last breath.”

God, of course, he would—if she still wanted him.

Sutherland clutched once more at him, pain flaring in his eyes. “The bairn,” he croaked. “It’s yers.”

Brodie’s breathing hitched, his lips parting in shock. “What?” He leaned forward, staring down at Sutherland. “Greer is expecting?”

But it was too late. Sutherland’s body went rigid against him, his hand clenching one last time around Brodie’s arm. And then he went limp, the light draining from his eyes, his face slackening.

Brodie merely looked down at him, absorbing his last words.

“Brodie!”

A rough shout made him glance up, his gaze traveling across the battlefield, which was now strewn with the corpses of dead and dying men and horses.

Around ten yards away stood a big man with grey-threaded dark hair, his chain mail wet with blood.

Colin Campbell’s face was grim, as if they hadn’t just won against the Black Douglases.

“Iver’s hurt,” Campbell called. “I need yer help!”

In an instant, Brodie was on his feet. Leaving Sutherland where he lay, he scrambled and wove his way across to Campbell, who’d turned and was now kneeling beside a prone figure.

A sob clutched at Brodie’s throat, yet he swallowed it down.

No. Not Iver.

He sank to his knees opposite Campbell, his gaze traveling up Iver’s body. His brother’s boiled leather and breastplate had been split open, and blood oozed out, dribbling down his right flank.

Brodie hissed a curse. “How bad is it?”

“Bad,” Campbell ground out. “We need to get him to a surgeon.”

“I’m not dead yet, Campbell,” Iver said, his voice weak and gravelly. “Stop talking as if I’m a doomed man.”

Campbell snorted. “Aye, well, ye soon will be if we don’t stop that bleeding.” The Lord of Glenorchy heaved himself to his feet. “Brodie, ye find something to staunch the wound with … and I’ll be back soon.”

An instant later, Campbell was gone, leaving the brothers alone.

Brodie got to his feet, grabbed a fallen banner, and ripped it lengthwise. He then returned to Iver’s side and carefully bound his torso. Around him, the cries of the injured and dying echoed over the battlefield.

Iver muttered a curse as he pulled the makeshift bandage tight.

“Sorry about this,” Brodie muttered. “But I don’t want ye bleeding to death out here.”

“I can’t believe he got me,” Iver wheezed, falling back against the muddied ground and trampled grass. Sweat now coated his brother’s proud face. “I didn’t see him until it was too late.”

“Getting slow in yer dotage, eh?” Brodie teased, even as dread pulled at his guts. He hadn’t taken too close a look at that wound as he bound it, yet what he had seen chilled him to the marrow. Unlike Sutherland’s wound, blood hadn’t gushed from Iver’s side. Nonetheless, it was dangerous.

“Insolent whelp,” Iver grunted back, his mouth curving, even as pain rippled over his face.

“If the likes of Colin Campbell can hold his own in battle, so can I.” Iver was over ten years Brodie’s elder, and before their relationship soured, before Brodie disgraced himself, he’d often teased Iver about his age.

His elder brother always responded to it well, and he did even now.

Suddenly, all the tension between them disappeared. Aye, they’d mended things a little a couple of nights earlier, yet their relationship hadn’t returned to how it had been before.

But none of the old resentments and anger mattered anymore.

Iver’s eyes flickered shut then, grimacing in pain. “Christ’s blood … it hurts.”

Brodie grasped hold of Iver’s hand, squeezing firmly. “Stay with me, brother.”

Morven started wailing when Malcolm’s body was carried into the pavilion. Her heart-rending sobs cut like darning needles into Greer’s ears as she watched the men lower the litter onto the floor of the tent.

Her husband lay there, cold and pale, his hands folded over his torso, clasping the hilt of his sword.

Greer stared at him, stunned.

She couldn’t believe that Malcolm, the fiercest of men, had fallen in battle. When he’d ridden off just two days earlier, she’d never doubted she’d see him again.

But here he was, nothing more than a corpse.

Morven started keening then, lowering herself to her knees before the litter. The sound was disturbing, and the two warriors who’d set their laird’s body down exchanged awkward glances.

Greer nodded to them, indicating that they were free to leave.

Meanwhile, Greer’s attention remained on Morven’s prostrate form.

And then, suddenly, realization dawned.

It all made sense. Morven’s cold looks. Her stinging comments. Her thinly veiled disdain.

Jealousy.

Had Morven secretly pined for the man she’d served? Her reaction made it seem so.

Reaching up, Greer rubbed at her breastbone. Her gaze settled then upon Malcolm’s face. He looked as if he were sleeping, his face softer in death than in life.

He’d been a complicated man: capable of violence and callousness, but also unexpected kindness. She hadn’t wanted to marry him, yet he’d taken care of her and would have continued to do so.

Sadness tightened Greer’s throat, tears pricking the back of her eyes.

Poor Malcolm.

She wished to sit with him for a while, just the two of them, yet Morven had glued herself to his side. The woman’s wailing went on, and irritation bubbled up inside Greer.

Nonetheless, it seemed unfeeling to interrupt her.

With a lingering glance at Malcolm’s ashen face, Greer turned and left the pavilion.

Outside, the camp had filled up. There was laughter and singing, and the strains of a Highland pipe drifted over the makeshift settlement.

Victory was theirs. Before Malcolm’s men arrived with his body, Greer had learned that the Black Douglases had been utterly defeated. Of the three Douglas brothers who’d fought against the crown, one had died in battle, another had been captured, while the third had fled.

Greer inhaled deeply as she attempted to compose herself, breathing in the scents of woodsmoke and roasting meat. There would no doubt be feasting, drinking, and celebrating long into the night.

However, Greer didn’t feel in a festive mood.

Her sadness about Malcolm’s death aside, she also had to face the truth of matters.

Without his protection, she was in trouble.

Malcolm’s family hated her. After learning what had happened at Druminnor, Robert Sutherland and his wife were displeased that their son had rashly married Greer before bringing her home. They’d even begged him to have the marriage annulled.

But Malcolm had refused.

And Greer’s own kin had severed all contact with her. The family she’d wanted to escape so badly last summer had now turned its back on her.

Swallowing, she reached down and placed a trembling hand over her stomach. She had to find a haven for her bairn. But where?

Her gaze shifted right to where a Campbell banner flapped in the breeze in the distance, and then her pulse quickened, a sickly sensation washing over her.

Could she ask the Campbells for help?

Sheena had been surprisingly tolerant toward her of late. Greer had expected to receive a frosty welcome, yet she hadn’t. Perhaps the Lord of Glenorchy would take Greer in at Kilchurn.

The nausea intensified, and Greer swallowed hard.

It would take everything she had to make such a bold request. Even though Sheena appeared to have softened, the woman still intimidated her.

She didn’t want to vex her or be a burden to anyone, but she had to try.

The bairn she carried had to have a future.

Picking up her skirts, even as nerves twisted her stomach up in knots, Greer made her way from the Sutherland enclosure to the adjoining Campbell one.

She found Colin and Sheena Campbell at the heart of it, embracing like a newlywed lad and lass.

The Lord of Glenorchy had clearly just arrived, for he was covered in grime and blood, yet Sheena didn’t appear to care.

Drawing back from her husband, she favored him with a soft smile, her dark-blue eyes gleaming.

Greer’s step slowed. Although she drew close, they hadn’t yet seen her. Suddenly, it didn’t seem the right time or place to ask if they could take her in.

She halted, her heart thumping hard now.

What are ye doing?

She was intruding. Malcolm was barely cold for goodness’ sake. Panic had made her imprudent. She could wait a day.

After embracing Sheena, Campbell stared down at his wife’s face, his rugged features tense, his heavy brow creased. Neither of them had seen Greer yet—she should turn and leave.

Sheena arched an eyebrow. “Och, Colin,” she murmured. “Ye have a grim face for a man who has just tasted victory.”

“I bring ill tidings, mo ghràdh,” Colin rumbled, taking Sheena gently by the shoulders. “Iver has been gravely injured.”