But Marcus’ focus remained solely on Struan, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for the right moment to strike.
Struan’s face twisted in pain, but his eyes remained defiant. “Ye think ye’ve won, Marcus,” he spat, blood trickling from his mouth. “Ye may’ve defeated me here, but this war is far fromover.” Marcus’ grip tightened on his sword, but he kept his expression stoic. He knew Struan was broken, but the truth of the matter had not yet been uncovered. There was more to this than just the battle—it was the truth, and Marcus would get to the bottom of it, no matter what.
As Struan held his hand up, "Halt!" his guards hesitated, their eyes flicking nervously between their fallen leader and the victorious lairds. One by one, their swords dropped, the fight drained from them as they realized the battle was lost. With a collective, reluctant motion, they slowly raised their hands in surrender. The clearing fell silent, the sounds of clashing steel replaced by the wind rustling through the trees.
Eli rushed forward, his boots kicking up dirt as he knelt beside Marcus. “Laird, are ye all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Marcus grunted, his voice low but steady. He wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at his side where the wound from Struan’s trick still stung with raw intensity. The pain was there, but he could push it aside. What he truly wanted, what consumed his thoughts in that moment, was to see Annabeth again.
The thought hit him like a sudden wave, sweeping away the lingering tension of battle. The excitement of victory seemed to fade into the background as the longing to find her, to speak to her, filled his chest. His mind replayed the memory of their parting, the way she had left without a word, and the emptiness that had settled in him since then. He sighed, pushing the feeling aside for a moment, but it was harder than ever to ignore.
The truth hung heavily in his chest. He wanted to go home, yes, but what he really craved was the comfort of Annabeth’s presence. Her absence had left a void in his life, one that no amount of battle or victory could fill.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Annabeth dismounted her horse with practiced grace, her boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. She was still trying to shake off the tension from the long ride to the castle, but as she approached, her mind was already full of the things she needed to do. The moment she stepped through the gates, she was greeted by Elena, her face pale with worry. “Annabeth,” Elena said, her voice tight, “ye need to ken, Marcus and Eli have gone off to fight.”
Annabeth’s heart skipped a beat, a heavy feeling settling in her chest. She forced herself to take a deep breath, trying to keep the panic from rising.
“What do ye mean, fight?” she asked, trying to sound calm despite the unease swirling inside her.
Elena’s eyes flickered toward the distance, as if searching for answers that weren’t there, and then she spoke quickly, “They’vegone to face Laird MacCormack. The guards said it’s a battle they cannae avoid.”
Annabeth swallowed hard, her thoughts racing. She wanted to rush after them, to make sure Marcus was all right, but she knew that wasn’t possible now. Instead, she shook her head, forcing herself to think practically.
“We need to prepare the infirmary,” she said firmly, her voice steadying as she took control of the situation. “If there are injuries, we’ll need to be ready.”
Elena nodded quickly. “I’ll fetch the supplies and make sure the room is ready,” she replied, already moving toward the castle’s interior.
Annabeth watched her go for a moment before turning to head toward the infirmary herself. Her mind swirled with a thousand thoughts—concern for Marcus, for Eli, and for the outcome of whatever battle they had walked into. But she couldn’t allow herself to succumb to fear. She had a job to do.
As Annabeth entered the infirmary, she immediately began checking over the shelves, ensuring everything was in its place. The familiar scent of herbs and medicines filled her nose, grounding her as she worked. She adjusted the bandages, sharpened the medical tools, and made sure the bed linens were fresh. Her hands moved almost mechanically, as though preparing for something she already knew was coming.
Her thoughts drifted back to Marcus. She couldn’t shake the image of him standing at the gates of the castle, his determined eyes focused on something she couldn’t reach. She felt the ache in her chest, the worry gnawing at her insides. But she shoved it aside, knowing that she couldn’t let her emotions cloud her judgment now. There was no time for hesitation.
When Elena returned, the two women worked, both of them focused on the task at hand. However, Annabeth noticed Elena place her hand on her belly and furrow her brow.
“Elena? Are ye alright?” Annabeth asked.
“I am heavy with worry. Should me bairn be born without a faither…” Elena’s eyes watered.
Annabeth took Elena’s hand. “I have every faith they will return in one piece.”
“Aye, of course,” Elena replied.
Annabeth knew that when the men returned, it would likely be with injuries, but she didn’t want to add to Elena’s worry. The battle would be hard, and they would need to be ready to care for whatever came through the door. Annabeth kept her thoughts centered on the work, determined not to let fear show on her face for Elena’s sake.
As the hours passed, Annabeth found herself listening for the sounds of horses or footsteps, wondering when Marcus wouldreturn. The castle felt unnervingly quiet, and with each passing moment, the anxiety in her chest grew. But she knew that she had to remain strong, for herself and for the others. Her place was here, ready to help, ready to heal—whatever the outcome might be.
Annabeth stood by the large wooden table in the infirmary, her hands busy arranging the bandages and ointments, though her mind wandered constantly. Lady Elizabeth stepped into the room with her usual grace, her steps measured, though there was an air of something unspoken between them. Annabeth straightened, wiping her hands on her apron, and forced a smile onto her face.
“Yer Ladyship,” she greeted her softly, trying to mask the raw emotion behind her voice.
Elizabeth’s sharp eyes assessed her for a moment before she spoke. “Annabeth, ye’ve returned, but why is that?” Her voice was calm, but there was a hint of something more, a carefulness in her tone that set Annabeth on edge.
Annabeth hesitated for a moment, her fingers brushing over a cloth as she tried to find the right words. “I must speak with Marcus,” she said, her voice quieter than she’d intended. “I’ve somethin’ I need to say.”
Elizabeth’s gaze softened, but only just. “Aye, I can see that somethin’ has developed between ye and me son,” she said, her voice low but firm, “but I must say, I do nae approve. This bond ye share—it’s nae the sort of thin’ I ever wished for him. Andit cannae be, nae with what his future must hold. He is a laird, lass. A laird that must marry of rank. It is our wish he marry a woman of nobility from another clan to make allies. It is the way of things.”
