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As he lifted his sword to stop another blow, he wondered what he would do now. He was in love with Anna, and now she might be pregnant with his baby. Those had been his greatest fears for the past three years, the reason he’d remained a virgin. And they’d both come true. How could he leave now?

No, he couldn’t leave. He wasn’t a man who would do that.

His arms and legs were as heavy as lead. The dirt-packed floor of the church sucked him in and held him and didn’t want to let him go.

He was really stuck here now. Bound and forced to stay. Unless…unless Anna would want to go with him, now that she wasn’t marrying Philip. A wild joy, a burning expanded his chest and made bubbles of excitement suffuse his very core. She’d said no to Philip. She’d said no.

Was she saying yes to him?

The thought was a blast of energy in his chest. He thrust his sword deep between the man’s ribs and he fell with a grunt of pain.

Ignoring the stab of guilt, he looked over the heads of the fighting men, searching for Anna. She was behind the altar, shielding Laoghaire and fighting a man with her dagger. He saw Robert the Bruce come to her rescue, grab the man by the collar from behind, drag him away from her to the nearest wall, and slam his face against the rocks.

A little assured now that Anna had the protection of her father, he started making his way to her, moving around the fighting men, ducking the blades that flashed around him. But he didn’t make it.

The swoosh of a mace and a flash of something dark next to his face made him duck. When he regained his balance and held his claymore with both hands, he saw it was one of Mowbray’s knights in proper, shining metal armor—the visor of his helm was up, though, and sharp eyes were glaring at David out of a fierce face.

He had never fought someone with a mace. But he’d seen the wounds left by it: heads smashed with brains spilled on the ground, limbs crushed despite protective armor, looking like minced meat mixed with bone. The mace was what they called a morning star—a round head with what looked like two or three dozen spikes planted all around it.

David gulped.

The knight roared, swinging the mace back and bringing it down on him. David brought his sword forward and blocked the handle of the mace. The impact was like a whole football team crashing into him.

It was so much stronger than any sword, the vibration went through him. But he held his ground. He now had Anna and maybe a baby to think of. He could still take her to the future. He had to fight for that, for her, and for him.

For love.

The knight brought the mace back and hit David with it again and again, and David barely brought his sword up to parry.

He was retreating. Step back after step back, he was losing the swing area he would need to properly wield his sword.

The knight, getting angry and impatient, swung the mace aiming for David’s stomach, protected only by a leine croich, and he jumped back. His foot caught on something—a dead body, he realized—and he fell on his back.

The knight lifted the mace high above his head, ready for the final deadly blow. But as he did that, he revealed the space between his chain mail and cuisse, the upper armor on his thigh. Before the man could bring the mace down on David, he hauled himself up and thrust his claymore into the unprotected slit.

Blood burst at him in a fountain of gore; he’d no doubt cut the femoral artery. The man grunted and let the mace drop to the floor then staggered back and fell, the pool of blood soaking into the dirt-packed floor like water.

David stood up, breathing hard, looking for the next attacker. Something was thumping hard in his chest…his heart. He was still alive.

The fight was still in full swing. The forces were equal, and he saw Colum and Aulay MacDonald and Iàcob fighting. Bruce was swinging his sword, too, as fierce and as brutal as any other warrior.

Dead and wounded lay on the floor, and the air in the church was thick with the iron tang of blood and sweat and excrement as men lost their bowels dying.

And then he saw Philip. And across the battle scene, Philip saw him.

The man was furious, his eyebrows drawn together, his nose a straight line.

And David knew this would be it. Philip strode towards him with his great sword drawn, candle flames bouncing off the long, broad blade. He was not in armor; he was a groom dressed to get married to the daughter of the King of Scotland.

And David had robbed him of his beautiful, future wife. Of being related to Robert the Bruce.

“Aaaargh!” Philip roared as he charged at David. The grunt carried across the church, louder than the sounds of the battle around them.

He hammered his sword into David’s. David staggered from the impact and pushed across and down to bring Philip’s blade to the ground. When Philip freed his sword, he came at David again and again from left and right and left and right. The strength of his blows was like the force of that storm that had stopped Anna and him.

David’s hands were slick with the knight’s blood, and it was hard to hold the handle.

“Ye bastart!” yelled Philip as he lifted his sword for another blow. “Ye are a man of nae honor.” A slash across. He got too close, and a cut on his cheekbone stung David. “Ye took the virginity of an innocent lass destined for another man!” Philip swung his sword from the other side, aiming for David’s kidney, but David parried it. “Ye ken nae laws of chivalry, ye whore’s son! And ye will pay for dishonoring a lass!”