Owen moved to another man, then another, fighting his way through the forces. Battle rage roared in his blood, hot and burning.
Two men came at Owen from either side. One swung an ax, the other a sword. Owen deflected the sword with a grunt and barely ducked the ax as it swooshed by his head. The swordsman raised his sword to slash Owen’s side, but before he could lower his blade, a spear cut through his chest. He froze and fell, lifeless. A few feet away, Angus Mackenzie stood and nodded to Owen.
The man with the ax stared at the corpse for a moment, his eyes wide. Raghnall Mackenzie appeared behind the man and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned, and Raghnall punched him in the face, sending his head jerking backward.
He roared and launched at Raghnall, hammering at him with the ax as though he were a log. Raghnall deflected the ax, but the man turned his weapon slightly and hooked Raghnall’s claymore between the ax’s crescent blade and handle. He jerked Raghnall’s claymore from his hands and lifted the ax for a lethal blow. Owen surged forward and thrust his claymore into the man’s side. He grunted and fell, clenching the gaping wound.
Owen leaned down, picked up Raghnall’s sword, and threw it to him.
Raghnall caught it and grinned. “My thanks.”
More enemies came at them, and the battle continued. At some point, Owen was aware that Ian, Craig, and his father all fought by his side, too. He didn’t know how much time passed, it all flashed in a blur of metal, blood, and distorted faces.
The fighting slowly came down the mountainside as the MacDougalls were losing, caught in the Bruce’s vise from two sides. And then there he was. With dark, cold eyes, and wearing English armor.
De Bourgh.
A low growl escaped Owen’s throat. Oh, the man was his.
Owen half slid and half walked down the slope, his lungs burning, his muscles ringing with exhaustion.
It didn’t matter. The man would pay for everything he’d done to Amber. Not to mention what he’d no doubt done to Muireach.
De Bourgh had just pierced the neck of one of the Bruce’s knights when he saw Owen coming towards him. When Owen reached even ground, the man’s eyes widened in recognition. He wore good, expensive armor. Owen had but his leine croich—a long, quilted coat—chain mail coif, and his helmet. But de Bourgh wouldn’t leave this battlefield alive.
They came at each other, each with a roar and their swords clashing. De Bourgh was smaller, but quicker than Owen. He struck at Owen from above and the side. Owen deflected his blade, but the impact resonated in his bone marrow. Another blow came from the other side, and Owen barely had time to meet the blade.
He needed to go on the offensive. He slashed his sword at de Bourgh’s face, but the man deflected and smashed the hilt of his sword into Owen’s face in a bone-crushing thrust. Owen heard the crack of bone and his head burst in white, blinding pain, sparkles flashing in his eyes. He staggered back for a moment, his arms searching for support.
De Bourgh grabbed Owen’s coif and hauled him forward. He rammed his helmet into Owen’s face, but Owen ducked, and thrust his sword into the man’s stomach. De Bourgh jumped to the side, but Owen got him. The chain mail prevented the blade from running de Bourgh through, but he was wounded, and he yelled and staggered.
Roaring with rage, de Bourgh slashed low and opened Owen’s thigh. Red-hot pain burned through Owen’s leg and he sank to one knee. De Bourgh raised his sword to serve the final blow, and Owen’s life flashed before his eyes as he stared at the unyielding blade. He realized how useless his romantic conquests had been. How silly he’d been to rebel against his father to prove a point and draw attention. How much time he’d wasted arguing and joking around, when he could have been enjoying precious moments with his brothers and his father.
Most of all, he realized how last night with Amber had been the best night of his life. How just that night was worth every mistake, every doubt, every quarrel, because they’d led him to her.
The love of his life.
And as the sword was about to reach his head, he closed his eyes, his last thought of Amber and how he loved her.
Chapter 31
Amber ran, the sword in her hand a useless, heavy toy she had no idea how to use. As she evaded men fighting with swords and axes, she looked for Owen and wished she had a gun. Owen had never showed her any sword-fighting techniques, and she was out of place here.
The battle was in full swing. The iron tang of blood was rich in the air, and the sound of metal clashing rang in her ears. Men fought, wounded one another, and died. All around her were spilled guts, open gashes, and cries of pain.
War was war, even in a different century.
Her gaze bounced off the faces, looking for Owen’s handsome features, his blond hair, his chiseled cheekbones, and short beard.
At least she hadn’t seen him among the fallen.
Good. Good.
Earlier this morning, she’d watched the army march off north, and everything inside her had gone nuts. Her gut had burned, her breath ragged and erratic.
She’d known then that she had to join the battle. Not to fight for the Bruce, but to protect Owen. She just had this feeling, this dark, cold premonition. She had to go.
She’d run to Amy and asked for a sword and a horse. And then she galloped after the army. It hadn’t been difficult to follow their trail. She was just afraid she was too late.
Suddenly, someone grabbed her braid from behind and yanked her back. Pain shot through her scalp. Someone wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders, blocking her arms.
“Why do you have a sword, woman?” the man said.
He turned her to face him, and she saw he was a young man of about twenty years old, blond, and square-jawed. Surprise and lust spread on his face as he eyed her up and down.
“Do Scots have dark-skinned women now?” With another hand, he pressed the blade of a bloody ax against her throat, and the cold metal chilled her skin. “You’re not going to fight me, are you?”
Fear gripping her limbs in its cold claws, Amber wriggled and thrashed.
And then she saw Owen.
And de Bourgh.
They were fighting, their swords flashing.
Oh, thank God, he was alive. Now she just needed to get to him. To help.
“Go to hell, you jerk!” she cried, raised her leg, and stomped on the man’s foot with all the strength she had. He yelled and let her go, but he grabbed her by the arm again. Fighting this guy would delay her from getting to Owen.
Then a familiar face appeared next to the man. He was tall and had black hair and battle scars on his face.
“Hamish…” she whispered.
Ragged sprays of blood stained his face and his coif, and cold battle rage flashed in his eyes, as though death looked at her. Last time she’d seen him, he’d helped them and saved Owen’s life. Whose side was he on now?
“Here, Hamish, help me deal with her,” the blond man said.
Hamish’s eye twitched, his nostrils flared. He shoved Amber away from the blond man and slashed his sword at him. The man deflected the blow, astonishment on his face.
“Go, Amber!” Hamish barked. “Now!”
Amber turned and ran towards Owen. De Bourgh had just raised his sword over his head and was about to kill Owen.
“No!” she yelled, her screech enough to distract the man.