“My lady, we must make haste.”
7
Lachlan knew he was alive before he blinked open his eyes. Dead men could not feel this much. Pain ricocheted through his entire body. Deep and unrelenting. Settling into bone and muscle in a way that felt permanent. His shoulder burned. His leg throbbed. Even breathing felt like a negotiation he was not winning.
With a trembling exhale, he opened his eyes and forced himself to sit up, faltering and catching himself on his elbows as nausea racked him and the world tilted dangerously. Still, he pushed himself. He would sooner be dead than be laid low like this.
“Mo chreach, sit up, ye damn fool,” he muttered to himself.
Braced on his hands at his side, his swimming vision finally focusing, Lachlan cut a glance around the room. Robert the Bruce strode toward him. Either the man had a sense he was awake, or Lachlan, by some invisible tether, had awoken from hearing his leader’s approach.
“Ye’re awake,” Robert the Bruce stated the obvious with a tone no less than impressed.
Lachlan gave a short nod, jaw tight against the pain and reached out a hand. “Help me up, friend.”
The Bruce moved quickly, steadying Lachlan as he shifted upright, careful of the bandage at his shoulder where the arrow had struck.
“Good to see ye’ve’ not buried me yet.” Despite his current condition, Lachlan attempted a bit of mirth.
The Bruce’s expression darkened, serious. “Many of us live because of ye, Wolf,” he said.
Lachlan stilled and nodded slowly. “I only do my duty.”
The Bruce nodded in turn. “I’ve news for ye.”
Lachlan cocked his head, pushing the pain aside so that he could focus on what his leader was saying to him.
“I need ye to return to Skye.”
Lachlan blinked, his expression unchanging. He must have misheard him. There was no time or place on this earth in which Robert the Bruce would ask him to leave the campaign. Such a request would be… shameful. And he’d just said that Lachlan had saved many. But the way the Bruce was shifting on his feet, his hard eyes staring endlessly at Lachlan’s forehead confirmed he had indeed heard him correctly.
“Nay, my lord. I’ll be fit to ride and lead the men again within a day.” His declaration came out strong, even if his body wanted to collapse. Though he didn’t want to admit it, there was no chance in hell he’d be well enough in a day. My gods, but he felt as though he’d been, well, run through.
The Bruce’s mouth curved, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Aye. Ye will.”
Lachlan frowned. Even through the haze of his fever, he was pretty certain it had been too easy to convince the Bruce. Lachlan’s brain was turning too slowly, not quite connecting the orders that his commander was giving. “And ye will ride to Skye.”
The order landed harder the second time, and Lachlan had to force himself to remain sitting upright.
“Your wounds are too severe.” There was a heaviness to the Bruce’s words, and the set of his shoulders, as if he hated to even say it. “To ask ye to return to battle…” He shook his head. “Ye know what that means.”
Lachlan gritted his teeth. He did know what that meant—when a man’s wounds were grave enough that he might end up with others at risk by putting himself into battle.
He wasn’t willing to cause his men harm deliberately. That was a decision only an addled-minded person would make. The same decision that someone else had already made when they undermined the cavalry. But to leave the campaign altogether?—
Nay. He could help from the sidelines. Lachlan curled his fists at his sides. Around the great hall, men were starting to rise from their pallets. Sun was streaming through the few narrow windows, but the slim openings did not filter out the smoke from the hearth.
In a matter of weeks he would be back on his feet. There was a good chance that no other battles would ensue for a fortnight at least as each side worked to recover from their injuries and replenish their supplies.
He’d never been pulled from a battle before and he didn’t like the idea of starting now.
“My place is here,” Lachlan said. “If ye dinna want me on the battlefield until I’m fully recovered, I can accept that, in fact, I agree. But I can still lead. Advise. I’ll no’ sit idle.”
The Bruce regarded him for a long moment, and then his face grew cloudy as he met Lachlan’s gaze. “Your place is wherever I command.”
That startled Lachlan, the harsh edict striking harder than the spear he’d taken to the leg. The Bruce had never spoken to him so plainly, normally giving him latitude as the Wolf of Skye to make decisions for his forces. Understanding that there was no leeway this time around, Lachlan lifted his chin and bit his tongue. There was no use arguing further, not right now anyway.
“There is another matter,” the Bruce continued.
