Page 69

The Bruce stared at him for a long time, and Owen felt rooted to the spot. The anticipation of the waiting to see his king’s response was like cold iron solidifying the marrow of his bones. What would it be, shame or victory? Would he lose everything over this? Would he dishonor the reputation of his family in front of yet another king?

“And ye’re certain of this?”

Owen found the ability to speak again. “Aye, Your Grace. I heard it with my own ears. Ye ken I have nae reason to lie or deceive ye, and I swear ’tis the truth.”

The Bruce looked at Dougal. “Ye look dubious. Speak yer mind.”

Owen’s eyes locked with his father’s. His features hardened, his mouth curved into a bitter grimace. If his father said one word against him, Owen was done. His chest tightened so hard, he stopped breathing. A drop of sweat snaked down his spine.

Dougal sighed and looked at the Bruce. “If my son says ’tis the truth”—he tapped his thumb against the table—“’tis the truth. Clan Cambel has always been loyal to ye. And we always will be.”

Relief flooded Owen, and an enormous weight on his chest lifted. His father nodded to him ever so slightly. Whether he believed Owen or not, he was on his son’s side before the king, and that was what mattered. Warmth spread through Owen, and it became easier to breathe.

Uncle Neil added, “I stand by my brother and my nephew’s words, Your Grace.”

Owen’s throat tightened. Now it was ironclad, if the chief of a clan gave his word, the whole clan stood behind him.

The Bruce gave a curt nod. “Aye. Now what about the Pass of Brander? Does anyone ken it?”

“Aye, I do,” Owen said. “I used it several times on my way to and from the MacDougalls when I was fostered there.”

The Bruce nodded. “Good. Now tell me how exactly ye think they’re going to try to ambush us and what can we do to counter them.”

Chapter 24

Amber felt Owen’s relief in her own bones. His shoulders and face relaxed, and she knew how grateful he must feel that his family was standing by him. She wished the same for herself, that her own brothers would support her in the difficult times, but she doubted that would ever happen.

Aunt Christel was the only one she’d been able to turn for help, but unfortunately, she’d put her innocent relatives in danger for covering a criminal. Had the police questioned her aunt and cousin? Had they pressed charges? God, she hoped not.

She was proud of Owen for stepping up and holding his ground. The Bruce was intimidating, and she could imagine he was scary for those not on his side. But Owen hadn’t faltered. He’d defended himself and stuck to his word.

Something she hadn’t done. Something she’d never have the courage to do in her time. She imagined standing up for herself, too. Standing her ground, hiring a lawyer, fighting the good fight against Jackson.

But it would be useless. She’d lose. There was nothing that she could do to defend herself. All the evidence was against her. So many witnesses had seen her and Bryan fight at the bar. Bryan hadn’t given her anything to prove that Jackson was smuggling drugs, only that name: Aman Safar. So even if she could accuse him of Bryan’s murder, without any evidence, she couldn’t prove he had a motive.

And she’d run from the authorities, which only made her look guiltier.

Owen took a pile of soot from the dead fireplace and poured it on the table.

“Pass of Brander is a narrow and dangerous track.” He drew a line in the soot with his finger. “’Tis only a few yards wide. On the right, it borders the precipitous side of the Ben Cruachan Mountain.” He ran his hand over the small pile of soot and made a broad, cone-like shape next to the line he’d drawn. “And on the left side, it drops into the waters of Loch Awe.” Owen drew waves on the other side of the line.

The Bruce scratched his bearded chin. “There’s nae better place for an ambush.”

“Aye.” Owen drew a line crossing the path. “MacDougall will block the way and put some of his men right on the Pass.” Then he poked the sooty surface several times on the pile indicating Ben Cruachan. “Here, on the mountainside above, he’ll place men who’ll hurtle rocks and boulders down on yer warriors below.”

Neil Cambel put his hands on the table and leaned over the drawing. “’Tis just like at Dalrigh.”

“I wasna at Dalrigh,” Domhnall said. “What happened?”

The Bruce’s eyes darkened, as did most of the men around the table. Owen rubbed his shoulder.

“’Twas two years ago,” the king said. “After the Battle of Methven, when the English destroyed us. We fled westward, only five hundred men and women with us. The MacDougalls blocked the path before us, and we didna have a choice but to fight. There were a thousand of them, all trained warriors. We had the remnants of my exhausted army, women, the elderly, and children.”

Amber swallowed hard as images of blood, pierced flesh, and dying people invaded her mind. She’d seen her fair share of torn body parts and blood soaking the ground. War was war.

She studied the Bruce’s mournful face, his dark eyes full of regret and pain. Would he let his people down, these Highlanders who had put everything on the line for their king?

“As ye can see,” the Bruce continued, “we escaped. Yer uncle, and yer father, yer brothers, too. James Douglas and Gilbert de la Haye were wounded, among others, and we put them on boats to escape. Then we had the worst winter of my life, hiding in the Isles and thinking the war was over.”