Lachlan gave a curt nod, indicating he was willing to listen, though he was too furious to find the words. What he wouldn’t give to have the ability to storm out of the great hall and deeply breathe in the Highland air.
“Ye will escort my niece, Lady Isabel, to Skye.”
For the first time since waking, Lachlan forgot the pain and he laughed.
And then he stopped abruptly, a fleeting memory of what he’d thought was a dream crashing into his consciousness. A woman, leaning over him, her hand firmly on his chest, her voice low and insistent. Telling him he was supposed to be her protector, but it would be she in fact protecting him. But, if what he was hearing now was not a dream, then neither had the angel’s visit been.
The smell of the room dragged him back into the present. Stale sweat, crushed herbs packed into wounds, alcohol, blood. All of it clung to the air, thick enough to taste.
Lachlan attempted to swing his legs over the side of the table, weaker than he expected. When he was fully facing his leader, he said, “I’m a warrior, no’ a nursemaid.”
The Bruce nodded slowly. “Aye. But ye are the only man I trust with her safety.”
Again, fury laced through Lachlan’s limbs, and he gripped the wool of his plaid draped over his lap, the fabric scratching against his palms. The damned Sassenachs. This was their fault.
If not for their bloody king, he wouldn’t be in this situation. He’d be ramping up for another campaign, leading his men, swords in hand. Driving back Longshanks before he could claim another stronghold or start another battle.
“I know what I ask is no small thing,” Robert the Bruce said, “but the English have the advantage now. They will press on.”
Which was exactly why Lachlan’s place was here. He gritted his teeth, swallowing a growl of frustration. He had heard as much while he was lying here convalescing—that the English had been victorious, he’d known it from the moment he’d been pinned to the ground.
He’d asked about the casualties. There were a few from his own clan and several from Callum’s clan.
But the majority had been from other clans, numbering in the thousands. Rows of bodies laid out in the cold, awaiting burial.
“What happened?” Lachlan asked.
The Bruce did not answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the wall, as though he were seeing the battlefield behind the stacked stone and mortar. “We were betrayed,” he said finally. “And I do no’ know by whom.”
A chill settled in Lachlan’s chest, recalling how he’d waited for the cavalry, how even until the end he’d prayed they’d come. “Let me find out who.”
The Bruce’s gaze returned to Lachlan, glancing down at where the plaid covered the worst of his injuries. “Once ye heal, aye. I would like ye to unearth our enemies. Ye and Ewan and Callum. My Guardians of the Highlands. I trust the three of ye to root out whoever is behind this, whoever cost Scotland the lives of many men.”
Guardian of Scotland. The title settled like a mantle of iron across Lachlan’s shoulders. Until now that was a title that belonged to William Wallace. Now, Lachlan would share it, and the responsibility of such a designation?—
“’Twill be my honor, my lord.”
A beat passed, but Lachlan needed more. “And the lass?” he asked.
“My niece. She requires protection. And I trust no one else with it save for the three of ye, my guardians. And ye are the only one who will no’ be riding into battle until ye recover. As soon as it is safe, I will send for her, and ye can return.”
Lachlan drew in a breath, steadier than before. He wasn’t happy about the Bruce’s decision, nor his current situation, but what other choice did he have? He wasn’t going to put his men at risk by forcing the issue, and if this was what Robert the Bruce wanted, then he needed to comply. Having been given the title of Guardian of Scotland did soften the blow.
The Bruce had barely stepped away before the space he’d occupied was filled.
Lady Isabel.
She was more beautiful than he remembered from his dreams—more real too. Close enough that he could see the faint flush beneath her skin, the loose tendrils of her hair that had escaped from the long blonde plait down her back. Her gaze was steady, assessing, the set of her jaw stubborn. Her lips soft.... In a flash, he recalled pressing his lips clumsily to hers. Please, by the saints, let that at least be a dream. For he was quickly coming to realize most of the things he thought he’d hallucinated were in fact true.
“Ye’re the one who threatened to let me die,” he said with a grin.
“And ye were the one who refused to cooperate.” She scanned his body, settling her gaze on the plaid, and he had the distinct impression she wanted to lift it to look, but he was naked underneath.
There was a slight twitch to her lips. “Lie back. Let me take a look.”
Lachlan smirked, wanting to tease her about what exactly she planned to look at, but reining in his impulse.
“Ye’ve a fierce tongue, my lady,” he said instead.
