But what drew her eye most was the spear lodged clean through his thigh. His kilt was blood-soaked, the colors lost to dark crimson, and still, despite the brutality of the wound he looked every bit as dangerous as before. Perhaps more so. How was he still conscious?
Isabel shivered, and could not say whether it was his size, his reputation, or the sight of the brutal wound that had her trembling. Maybe it was simply his ability to stare at her with an obvious desire despite the enormous pain he must be in.
Around her the servants had gone quiet, their whispers threading through to pluck at her ears. “That’s Lachlan MacLeod. The Wolf of Skye.”
The Wolf of Skye. One of the most fierce and dangerous men in her uncle’s army. The one men spoke of in lowered voices. A man as feared as he was revered.
According to the servants, he was a legend, a hero, and the phantom that haunted many an English soldier in the dead of night. He was also one of her uncle’s most trusted warriors.
She frowned, unhappy with herself for thinking only of her own situation when she should be worried about the wounded. In particular, this man—the Wolf of Skye—who might not make it through the night.
She’d seen men die with lesser wounds. Isabel crossed herself.
Her uncle snapped her out of her thoughts with a sharp command. “Isabel, help the wounded.”
All at once the sounds around her funneled back into her ears. The cries of pain, the cries of worry from those who’d been left behind.
“Help this man first,” her uncle said, pointing to the Wolf of Skye.
Isabel nodded, and all she could think about was that very soon, she’d have to touch his bare thigh. That removing his tartan, to work would reveal more of his muscled skin. That anything she did to help him would either contribute to his imminent death or cause him more pain. There was no other outcome for him, she was certain, though she would do her best to help Chief Lachlan MacLeod, no matter the outcome, even if that was easing his passage into the afterlife.
She had been born and bred to be the lady of the castle, and most were trained to keep their warrior husbands and his soldiers alive. But her skills went above and beyond the norm. She’d been trained in the arts of healing by one of the healers who’d worked many years with her uncle’s father. She’d taught her the right combination of herbs. How to use honey and moss. That Mother Nature provided when men needed her most. Isabel only hoped the things she’d learned wouldn’t disappoint her uncle in the end.
Because if the Wolf of Skye didn’t pull through, she worried that she might be blamed for the loss of the greatest warrior her uncle had at his disposal. Mortal injury or not, Isabel was suddenly aware of the weight that had just been pressed on to her shoulders. The fate of Scotland in her healing hands.
“Careful,” Isabel cried as four of the guards who’d been left behind carefully removed the injured warrior from the saddle. His bellow of agony sent gooseflesh racing along her limbs. There would be more shouts like that one to come, and she dreaded every decibel.
As she stepped forward, prepared to direct the men where to carry Lachlan MacLeod, Isabel couldn’t help but worry what this foretold about the future.
And more imminently, when would the English be breaking down their walls?
But there was no time for these thoughts. And she didn’t need the distractions. There was a man she’d have to save, however impossible the task.
5
Lachlan drifted in and out of consciousness. One moment he was fighting off a horde of twelve Sassenachs, steel clashing and blood slick beneath his boots—and the next, the battlefield at Falkirk vanished.
He was sixteen again.
Peat smoke filled the air, and an early frost shone on blades of grass. The Highlands stretched wide and endless before him. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, not from fear, but from the sheer, roaring anticipation that had filled his chest. His first real battle. No mere skirmish of training. This was where lads were either broken or remade.
The weight of the MacLeod colors on his back made him stand taller. Red like blood, black like death. The older warriors glanced at him, some with blank expressions, others with doubt. Lachlan had grinned, welcoming the chance to prove them wrong.
The ambush came fast. The thunder of hooves. The battle cries of men. The only kind of madness that could swallow hesitation whole. Lachlan, untested, had not faltered. He plunged straight into it.
Steel met steel. He’d taken a blow to the ribs that stole his breath. Split a man’s shoulder with a strike that jarred him from palm to spine. When the battle was won, the enemy broken, and the field falling into silence, Lachlan still stood. Bloodied. Bruised. Bursting with life. No longer was he a lad, but a man.
Standing covered in blood that was not his own was their chieftain, his father. When their eyes met, the MacLeod nodded at Lachlan, and his chest swelled with pride. The best day of his life. And one of the worst. That nod was the one thing standing between him and the nightmare of truth. That he had taken lives, even if they were his enemies, he was the reason a child would grow up without a father. He was the cause of a widow’s tears.
The memory fractured, slipping from his grasp, and the Falkirk battlefield surged back in its place. Screams tore through the air. Hooves thundered against the ground. Then, the unrelenting agony of his speared leg that stole the breath from his lungs.
More than the pain was the shame of being beaten. That burned hotter than any wound. The Wolf of Skye had been brought low in the mud like any other fallen warrior.
And the cavalry, mo chreach, the cavalry had not come...
His mind clawed for a reason, even as darkness pressed in at the edges of his unconscious mind. He pictured them on the road, ambushed and cut down before they could reach the field. Horses frantic. Men slaughtered. For there had to be a reason they had abandoned their own, and he couldn’t imagine it was that they’d switched sides, eschewing their tartans for English armor.
What if they weren’t meant to come at all? What if someone had ensured their absence?
