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He needed to go on the offensive. He slashed his sword at de Bourgh’s face, but the man deflected and smashed the hilt of his sword into Owen’s face in a bone-crushing thrust. Owen heard the crack of bone and his head burst in white, blinding pain, sparkles flashing in his eyes. He staggered back for a moment, his arms searching for support.

De Bourgh grabbed Owen’s coif and hauled him forward. He rammed his helmet into Owen’s face, but Owen ducked, and thrust his sword into the man’s stomach. De Bourgh jumped to the side, but Owen got him. The chain mail prevented the blade from running de Bourgh through, but he was wounded, and he yelled and staggered.

Roaring with rage, de Bourgh slashed low and opened Owen’s thigh. Red-hot pain burned through Owen’s leg and he sank to one knee. De Bourgh raised his sword to serve the final blow, and Owen’s life flashed before his eyes as he stared at the unyielding blade. He realized how useless his romantic conquests had been. How silly he’d been to rebel against his father to prove a point and draw attention. How much time he’d wasted arguing and joking around, when he could have been enjoying precious moments with his brothers and his father.

Most of all, he realized how last night with Amber had been the best night of his life. How just that night was worth every mistake, every doubt, every quarrel, because they’d led him to her.

The love of his life.

And as the sword was about to reach his head, he closed his eyes, his last thought of Amber and how he loved her.

Chapter 31

Amber ran, the sword in her hand a useless, heavy toy she had no idea how to use. As she evaded men fighting with swords and axes, she looked for Owen and wished she had a gun. Owen had never showed her any sword-fighting techniques, and she was out of place here.

The battle was in full swing. The iron tang of blood was rich in the air, and the sound of metal clashing rang in her ears. Men fought, wounded one another, and died. All around her were spilled guts, open gashes, and cries of pain.

War was war, even in a different century.

Her gaze bounced off the faces, looking for Owen’s handsome features, his blond hair, his chiseled cheekbones, and short beard.

At least she hadn’t seen him among the fallen.

Good. Good.

Earlier this morning, she’d watched the army march off north, and everything inside her had gone nuts. Her gut had burned, her breath ragged and erratic.

She’d known then that she had to join the battle. Not to fight for the Bruce, but to protect Owen. She just had this feeling, this dark, cold premonition. She had to go.

She’d run to Amy and asked for a sword and a horse. And then she galloped after the army. It hadn’t been difficult to follow their trail. She was just afraid she was too late.

Suddenly, someone grabbed her braid from behind and yanked her back. Pain shot through her scalp. Someone wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders, blocking her arms.

“Why do you have a sword, woman?” the man said.

He turned her to face him, and she saw he was a young man of about twenty years old, blond, and square-jawed. Surprise and lust spread on his face as he eyed her up and down.

“Do Scots have dark-skinned women now?” With another hand, he pressed the blade of a bloody ax against her throat, and the cold metal chilled her skin. “You’re not going to fight me, are you?”

Fear gripping her limbs in its cold claws, Amber wriggled and thrashed.

And then she saw Owen.

And de Bourgh.

They were fighting, their swords flashing.

Oh, thank God, he was alive. Now she just needed to get to him. To help.

“Go to hell, you jerk!” she cried, raised her leg, and stomped on the man’s foot with all the strength she had. He yelled and let her go, but he grabbed her by the arm again. Fighting this guy would delay her from getting to Owen.

Then a familiar face appeared next to the man. He was tall and had black hair and battle scars on his face.

“Hamish…” she whispered.

Ragged sprays of blood stained his face and his coif, and cold battle rage flashed in his eyes, as though death looked at her. Last time she’d seen him, he’d helped them and saved Owen’s life. Whose side was he on now?

“Here, Hamish, help me deal with her,” the blond man said.