Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(39)

With a fierce battle cry, Duncan arrived at full gallop, cutting down two more. His father's guardsmen rallied behind him, and with a burst of renewed ferocity, fought back the charge.

When it was done, and the Gordons had retreated to prepare for the next volley, Duncan jumped off his horse and plowed through the circle of men who'd surrounded his father and Argyll.

His path was blocked by his cousin. His relief at seeing Archie alive was replaced by anger. Now maybe he would listen. “Damn it, Archie, you need to move back. You could have been killed.”

“Duncan, I'm sorry …” Archie's expression filled Duncan's veins with ice.

He held his cousin's stare for a long heartbeat and then pushed passed him, knowing what he would see.

No. His chest clamped down so tightly that he couldn't breathe.

His father lay prone on the ground. One of his guardsmen knelt beside him, holding a cloth to staunch the blood gushing from his side. The ball had avoided the plate mail, instead finding a narrow gap of unprotected flesh.

“Father.” Duncan fell to his knees.

“I'm fine,” his father said, his voice clenched as if even breathing added too much pain.

Duncan's throat tightened. They both knew he lied.

Another cannonball exploded nearby, sending a spray of dirt, rock, and smoke in all directions. He needed to do something before they were all killed. He wanted to go with his father and see him to safety, but as long as men were fighting his duty lay on the battlefield.

“We need to get you back to the castle.” He stood and quickly issued instructions to a few nearby men.

“Colin?” his father gasped.

The heir. Something twisted in his chest.

“Safe,” Duncan assured him, ignoring the hurt. “I sent him back to get more ammunition. I'll send him to you when he returns.”

“Watch … over … will … need … you.”

Duncan wanted to argue against the implication, refusing to accept that his father was dying, but nodded instead. His father needed all his strength to battle his injury.

Panic suddenly widened his father's gaze. “Must … tell … you … sorry …” Another explosion cut off what he'd been trying to say, and the effort proved too much for him as he fell unconscious.

The men hustled his father away and Duncan turned to Argyll, steel in his eyes. “Go with them.”

This time the earl didn't argue, but his cousin's face was twisted with hatred. One day Archie would be a great leader, but he did not yet possess the age or maturity to weather a blow of this magnitude to his pride with grace. His face flushed red and his eyes bulged with rage. “It's not fair. Were it not for treachery this would be my moment of triumph.” Tears of humiliation streamed down his cousin's cheeks. “This is all Grant's fault. I'll destroy him.”

Duncan nodded grimly, but he wasn't thinking about Grant—he had no doubt the Laird of Freuchie would get what he deserved. He was thinking about Grant's daughter. Jeannie's father's betrayal had cut off any possibility of a match sanctioned by their families.

But it might have done more than that. His chest tightened. She knew. It was the only explanation for why she'd come for him last night.

And now his father lay dying.

His jaw clenched. He didn't have time to think about the ramifications. Huntly's clansmen from the next charge were just breaking over the rise in front of them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glint of brass and silver. His father's sword was right where he'd left it, staked like a cross impaled through the chest of the man who'd shot him. The enormous two-handed great sword—almost six feet in length—had been handed down to the Chiefs of Campbells of Auchinbreck since the time of the Bruce. Engraved on the blade was one word: steadfast.

Clasping the horn grip with one hand, he slowly pulled it from the dead Gordon and, brandishing it before him, turned to face his attackers. They were almost upon him.

He fought like a man possessed. Perhaps he was. Bastard or no, his father's blood ran through him, and he could feel the strength of his ancestors behind him as he wielded blow after deadly blow, crushing all who came in his path.

They repelled the attack with ease and were waiting for the next when he noticed one of the MacLean's guardsmen riding hell-bent toward them. The guardsman looked around, obviously searching for a leader. Duncan stepped forward. With his father gone from the field, as captain he was in charge of what was left of his clansmen.

“What is it, Fergus?”

If the MacLean clansman was surprised by Duncan's assertion of command he didn't show it. “It's the Mackintosh. He and his men are surrounded. My laird is doing all he can to hold off the Earl or Erroll.” Erroll was Huntly's loyal cohort and fiercest warrior. MacLean had to hold him; if Erroll broke through they were done. Someone else would have to go to Mackintosh's aid.

Duncan didn't hesitate. “Where?”

Fergus pointed to the gap in the ridge on the other side of the burn.

Through the haze Duncan could just make out the skirmishing warriors. Perhaps a dozen men had been separated from the rest of the force and were trapped in a narrow gully between the two hills—completely surrounded by Huntly's forces who were descending on them like vultures.