Page 3 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

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A listair's shoulder burned like the devil.

A blade cutting through the fabric of his shirt into the thick muscle of his upper arm was nothing compared to what he'd done to his opponent. Battle was brutal, ugly, and necessary. One was either victorious or dead. And truthfully, for him, there wasn't a victory for anyone when it came to battle and death. Only survivors and the dead.

'Twas rare that he was injured in battle, but no warrior ever went unscathed. He wore his scars like badges of honor. The marks on his skin were proof he was alive.

"Ye'll need to get that stitched up." Duncan, his cousin and a warrior in his army, eyed the gash before spitting on the ground. "Bloody bastards."

"Taking a hit is the least I could do for the lad before I ended his life. Though he was a bastard, he died with honor. Unless you consider which side he was fighting on, in which case, we may have to parse out details."

Alistair wiped at the sweat on his brow, then stared down at the oozing wound on his arm. The battle had been intense, and he did not particularly want to relive it, even if only to discuss their shared victory.

Of course, this was not something he'd ever share with anyone. He was Alistair Bloody Sinclair, Chief of his clan, Baron Roslin, Master of Dunbais Castle. One of three sons born on the same night, brother of Noah, the Earl of Caithness, and Ian, the Earl of Orkney. Elder brother of ladies Matilda and Illiana. Border guardian for Robert the Bruce himself. In other words, Alistair was a force to be reckoned with.

He'd built up a name for himself as one of Scotland's most feared warriors. English army, beware. And he wasn't about to let that reputation be destroyed by something so trivial as his true feelings. What strong man had feelings, anyway?

But his feelings and understanding of war, survival, and protecting his clan also meant he'd never have a wife or a family. How many times had he used a man's loved ones against him? Why the hell would he put his own wife and child through such?

Never.

"How many wounded?" he asked Duncan, forcing himself back to the tasks at hand.

"Only a few. None dead on our side."

Alistair nodded, tearing off his sleeve and tying it around his wounded arm. "Good, because I'd bloody kill them if they were." He laughed if only to lighten the mood and then dismounted from his horse to wash his hands and face in the narrow burn that trickled beside the battlefield. He followed along the edge until he came to a spot that wasn't soaked in blood in order to wash himself off.

"Och, but ye need to have that looked at." This time it was Broderick standing beside him, eyeing the bleeding gash in his shoulder as Alistair loosened the tie. "What's the point of washing your hands when blood's just dripping down your arm to get it wet again?"

"I'm no' washing away my own blood." Alistair splashed water on his face, giving a good scrub, and then stood, letting out a loud and annoyed groan at the ache in his muscles and the burning in his shoulder. The sound came out more a bellow, causing a few of the vultures who'd come to peck at the dead to scatter.

"I'll get the whisky, my laird." Duncan's words almost made Alistair smile, as though he were resigned to his leader’s typical resistance.

Broderick nodded. "I'll get the sewing kit."

Alistair chuckled when they walked away, lucky to have two loyal mates in his charge.

While some of his men worked to clean up the battle—making piles of the bodies to be collected by their loved ones, taking a few good weapons owed to them for the task, lighting fires for a meal, setting up camp—Alistair allowed his wound to be tended by one of his men. Rare was it that he allowed a healer to touch him. Call it superstitious, or maybe it was due to a love affair he’d had with a healer when he was barely twenty.

To say that Alistair had trust issues would be an understatement. Aye, he trusted his men and his brothers, but he always examined anyone else with a critical eye.

"How long are we to wait, Chief?" Broderick threaded the needle and started his mission to close Alistair's wound.

"We wait until we're certain there are no other bands poised to strike." Two times out of three, they were just biding their time. He wasn't going to let anyone get the best of him and his men.

This particular border raid had been by the English, and they were a damned nuisance. From what they'd learned over the last several months was that the bloody Sassenachs had developed a strategy to come in waves in hopes that the Scots warriors would have either left the area or be too tired to defend the border.

And unfortunately, Alistair and his men had suffered both. Even now, they were tired, but a warrior's duties never ebbed, and so they rested and waited for the next inevitable wave.

Just like the vultures that circled overhead, waiting their turn for the bodies, the damned Sassenachs circled, waiting to peck away at the Scots. Longshanks and his blasted tactics were relentless. Without strong men like Alistair and his army, or a leader like Robert the Bruce, there would have been no telling what might have happened. They'd been fighting this war for as long as Alistair could remember and even further back. Generation after generation had a story to tell.

"I think we should just head them off at the pass," Duncan murmured as he cleaned off his sword. "Why wait like sitting ducks?"

"Because to cross the border would be reckless. It would be seen as Scottish aggression if we ran into the wrong Englishman. We're no' invading another country without the Bruce's explicit orders. We protect from here." However, if Alistair could sneak across the border and put this bloody war to an end, he would.

Duncan frowned but nodded. They had already had this conversation many times before and Alistair was in agreement about them being sitting ducks here with a pile of dead Sassenachs on the field, but what could he do? Alistair had to follow orders. Aye, on his own lands he was Chief, but when it came to fighting for the Bruce, the man they wanted to seat on the Scottish throne, Alistair had to follow those orders first. Robert the Bruce would be their king, and before Alistair drew his last breath, they'd see Longshanks and his devil army off Scottish soil for good.

"Trust me, if we've no' seen anyone by sunup we will depart," Alistair said.

"This isn't even our holding," Duncan grumbled under his breath.

"Aye, and our clan will be compensated for providing the swords needed to protect it."

The holding in question was often fought over between the Scots and the English. A fortress to be reckoned with, whoever seized it held the border. The previous baron who kept it safe had perished not a week before, and the man who was his next of kin lived so far north in the Highlands that it would be at least another week or two before he arrived to take his place.

In the meantime, Alistair and his army were here to make sure the English bastards didn't put their flag up on the battlements. Over his dead body.

"I'm no' a caretaker," Alistair said, "but I think we can all agree the extra coin for the good deed of protecting this fortress will do well for our clan. Besides, if we left, the bloody English would cross, and then they'd be on our doorstep. We're here to mitigate the risk. Protect this border in order to protect our own."

The men all nodded in unison. Everyone knew why they were here, even if they were annoyed by the fact. But this was their rotation, and despite being a formidable chief of his own lands, Alistair was also a loyal subject and a supporter of Robert the Bruce. The oath he'd taken was one he'd honor until his last breath. Scotland, the Bruce, his clan, they were all his heart. The only love he would ever have.

"Hand me the whisky." Alistair took that jug they'd brought and held it aloft with his good arm. "Too going home tomorrow." He took a long swallow and passed the jug to Duncan.

"I'll drink to that."