Page 30 of The Rightful Highland King (The Last Celtic King #4)

Chapter Seventeen

Ansel trudged across the war camp, exhaustion weighing so heavily on him that he doubted he would even be able to make it back to his tent.

Every day, more and more of the king's men fell.

Every day, more and more of their lands were lost. The Ashkirk throne was shedding allies left and right, and the attacks upon their war camps were growing more frequent and more brutal.

Many of their men had been captured or killed, and many others had changed sides.

It was clear to anyone who cared to look that after more than twenty solid years of iron-fisted rule, Edric Ashkirk was slowly but surely losing this war.

There were only two people on their entire side of the war who did not whisper fearfully about the coming destruction. Only two people did not go to sleep with the bleak knowledge that their days were numbered, not because they would live, but because of the way they saw the world.

The first was the king himself. Edric had grown even more belligerent as the days passed, executing everyone he suspected of turning against him, from the lowest servant to the highest clan chief.

He had redoubled his violence on innocent villages, sending the most bloodthirsty of his men amongst the innocent to stamp his mark upon the land, his land, by force.

Every defeat drove him into more of a frenzy, and the people under his rule were suffering for it.

He did not, would not, or perhaps even could not accept that the end was coming, and so, in some ways, he was more of a threat than ever—to enemy and friend alike.

The second person who did not feel the encroaching horror of defeat was Ansel himself. It wasn't that he didn't know it was coming. It wasn't that he thought he would live.

It was just that he no longer cared.

In the three months since Baldric had been killed right in front of his eyes, Ansel's heart had grown as cold as the snow that fell around them, and his skin was stone.

His father had addressed him directly as soon as the deed was done, challenging Ansel to object, but all Ansel had been able to do was stand there and stare at the body of the only family member who had ever shown him love.

The only friend he'd ever been able to trust with all of his heart.

"See!" Edric had announced. "See how my loyal son doesnae defend the executed criminal! See how he kens I have done only justice! Come up on the platform, lad, and stand by me side!"

As if in a nightmare, Ansel had obeyed, barely aware of his own body.

He was frozen in that moment, trapped in the shield he'd built around himself to defend his screaming mind from the horror before his eyes, and he could not escape it.

The stone wall he had erected was now unmovable, stopping him from even considering what it might be to feel again.

Now, months later, Ansel was glad for it.

It was better not to feel. The moment that he felt again, he believed his body would collapse under the emotion.

Better that he allowed himself none at all.

Better that he simply served his role until the inevitable bitter end.

It would be easier for everyone, from the rebels to his father, if everyone just played his part.

And so, mechanically, he'd done as his father bid.

He'd headed up the war camp, directing the men, defending the land.

He hadn't led any attacks, ordering his men simply to defend, and he knew that there were divisions in his ranks between those most loyal to the king and those most loyal to him.

He knew that there was infighting. He simply didn't care.

Baldric was dead, and Ansel had watched. Neala was long gone, and her brother was on the way here to end Ansel's life. Perhaps it would be a mercy. Perhaps, at long last, those he had hurt over the years would get their justice.

It didn't matter, though. He was too tired to think of such things in more than passing, too cold to ponder the pain he had caused and felt, and too lost in the stone cage to consider changing his ways.

It was all he could do to keep going. His life was worth little now, and so he'd use it how he always had, serving his father until the end came.

There was no choice and no question. Ansel had never known anything else.

He wasn't brave as Baldric had been, nor determined as Neala was.

He wasn't anything but a candle lit at both ends, the wax almost all melted away.

He would do the role that he was born for until the moment the light went out at last.

He slogged through the thick snow toward his tent, some of the dampness leaking through his shoes.

He'd meant to replace them a month ago, but the thought had shuffled to the back of his mind, and it was hard to see the point.

Boots wore out. Replacing them would only be a temporary reprieve, anyway.

Better that they spend their dwindling funds on food and clothing for the men who were fighting in his name, many of whom, he knew, were only here out of loyalty to Ansel himself rather than to any true belief in the cause.

He hated that. He hated that they had such faith in him when he knew that it was misplaced.

They thought him different from his father, and they were right in that—but not in the way they thought.

His father was a tyrant, but Ansel? Ansel was nothing.

Sighing at his own dark mood, he nodded vacantly to two soldiers who were standing near his tent.

Ruadh smiled at him, but Lorcan, one of his father's men, simply gave him a stiff nod in return.

Ansel couldn't find it in him to even care.

He'd been pushing for too long, and all he wanted to do was sleep.

At least, when he slept, there was no war.

At least in sleep he could allow himself to feel.

It was warm enough in his insulated tent which even had a small fireplace merrily blazing in the corner, and Ansel took a moment to ensure the entrance flap was secured before sighing and kicking off his boots.

The royal war tent was plush and comfortable, and despite Ansel's insistence that he didn't need such comforts, he was grateful tonight that he had an actual warm bed to sink into rather than a stiff cot.

He kicked off his wet shoes and peeled off the woolen socks, enjoying the feel of the woven carpet that acted as the floor under his bare feet.

He quickly discarded his clothing, getting rid of the damp shirt and trousers that were sticking to his skin, and shook his head to rid his hair of some of the excess snow.

He stood in only his leine, tiredness weighing on his shoulders.

Though his tent was heated, the cold still felt harsh against Ansel's slightly-damp nude body, and he moved toward the fireplace to warm up and reach for his sleepwear.

A shadow flickered in the corner of his eye, and Ansel tensed. He turned toward the dark corner of the tent where someone was clearly hiding and reached for his sword. Whoever it was may think him weak and exposed here only in his underwear, but they would soon learn how deadly he could be.

"Ye may as well come out," he said steadily. "Let's make this quick."

A figure stepped out of the shadows, and the breath was knocked entirely from Ansel's lungs at the sight.

A woman stood before him, her shining golden hair longer than the short dark maid's style he remembered. But he would never forget those eyes, those lips, or that expression of pure determination. He saw it every night in his sleep.

"Neala," he said, his voice coming out as a hoarse whisper. "Am I asleep already? Me dreams arenae often so cold."

Her perfect lips twitched up into a smile. "Neither, I imagine, find ye unarmed and surprised in yer underwear." She took a step forward, then stopped. "It's good tae see ye."

It wasn't a dream. Ansel rubbed his eyes, but she was still there when he looked again.

Silence trickled between them like the sand in an hourglass, and Neala's posture shifted.

She chewed at her bottom lip, seeming suddenly uncertain.

Ansel's eyes flickered to her mouth as she did, and his body stirred, a sudden powerful yearning threatening to break through his carefully crafted wall of stone.

"What are ye doin' here?" he asked at last in a low growl. " How are ye here? How on Earth did ye get tae the royal war tent in the center of Ashkirk power without gettin' yerself killed?"

Her eyes flashed in defiance, and his heart stammered in response. "I'm a White Sparrow," she reminded him. "I can go anywhere I please without bein' noticed. Yer soldiers are nae threat tae me."

"They will be if they catch ye," Ansel snapped, heat surging like a wave in his chest. "Are ye a fool? Why would ye come here? Did I give ye yer freedom for nothin'?"

She remained calm in the face of his anger. "I had tae see ye. I've wanted nothin' more than tae see ye from the moment I left ye behind. I couldnae just let ye die."

Ansel scoffed. This whole situation was absurd.

Here he was in nothing but his undergarments talking to a woman who was supposed to be dead who was now helping lead a war to kill him and everything he'd ever known.

It almost made him want to laugh. "What did ye think was gonnae happen when ye went back tae McNair Castle?

Did ye think yer brother would spare me because I let ye go?

Did ye think me father would take pity?"

She kept her gaze steady. "I asked ye tae come with me."

"And I refused!" he shouted, barely aware he was raising his voice. "Was that nae enough for ye? I dinnae ken what ye think ye saw in me, but I warned ye. Ye ken nothin' about me, and now ye've risked yer life, and for what?"