Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(40)

A quick reconnaissance of the situation proved grim. Any rescuers seemed just as likely to be slaughtered as the men they were trying to reach. Their only chance was to strike hard enough at Huntly's left vanguard, creating enough of a diversion to give the Mackintoshes time to retreat through whatever gap they could create. With a big enough force it wouldn't be as difficult, but Duncan knew he could not afford more than a few men—they were having time enough of it as it was defending their own position. If they lost the hill, they lost the battle.

He made his decision and turned to face his father's men—now his—explaining his plan. He called out the names of five of his fiercest warriors, all of whom he knew to be unmarried and without bairns. His jaw clenched. Like him.

“I'll not force you to go,” he said. “There is every chance you'll not return.” He looked around the circle of men, seeing no hesitation, but fierce determination on their dirty, scraped-up faces. And he saw something else. Trust. They trusted him—not only to lead them into battle, but to bring them home or follow him to the death. He felt a charge go through him, emboldened, and knew without a doubt that this was his destiny.

Neil, one of the older guardsmen, spat on the ground. “Hell, Captain, ‘tis the damned Gordons who'll sup with the devil before the day is done.”

Duncan grinned. “Aye, then we'd best not delay—we wouldn't want them to be late for dinner.”

With a fierce battle cry Duncan led the valiant charge.

The six Highlanders who rode at breakneck pace, swords held high, into the heart of Huntly's left vanguard should have died that day.

Instead, they became legend.

Jeannie woke with a start. The first golden rays of dawn broke through the dirty pane of glass in the small window and tumbled across the floor. But the sun could not warm the cold emptiness that gripped her heart.

She knew without even looking: Duncan was gone.

She'd failed.

Dread took hold of her and did not lessen its virulent grip the entire journey back to Freuchie Castle. Indeed, it was only made worse when barely an hour into the journey they heard the terrifying sound of loud explosions behind them. Explosions unlike anything she'd ever heard before, but knew to be cannon. Even from a distance she could feel the air reverberate with each deafening boom.

As much as she wanted to know what was happening on the battlefield, she also knew that Duncan was right—it was no place for her. Thus, she hastened back home to do all that she could—wait and pray and hope that he came for her as promised. Her guardsmen did not hesitate at the sudden “change” of plans to return to Freuchie, nor did she need to feign the illness, which was her explanation. Her fear for Duncan saw to that.

It was the longest day of her life. She tossed her needlework to the side and hastened to the tower window once more as she'd done all day—back and forth, unable to sit still. God, she hated waiting. Hated the feeling of utter helplessness. Her life was being played out on a battlefield and all she could do was stand by and wait. What was happening? Who would emerge victorious? Would he still come for her? And the most torturous question of all: Would he live to come at all?

He couldn't be dead. Surely she would know it?

Then, just before nightfall, Jeannie saw the white standard of the Chief of Grant crest the hill from the east. And riding not far behind, her father.

She said a prayer of thanks for his safe return and raced down the tower stairs, through the great hall, and down the forestairs into the barmkin below, her heart pounding like a drum. The victorious expressions on her clansmen's faces as they rode under the iron yett answered her first question: The Campbells had lost.

Now, all she could do was wait and hope that if Duncan lived—and she could not bear to contemplate anything else—he did not blame her for her father's treachery.

The triumph over the death-defying rescue of the Mackintoshes was short-lived. Duncan fought alongside the MacLean until the bitter end, but eventually they were overwhelmed and forced to retreat. No matter how bravely or fiercely they battled, Huntly's cavalry and his cannon proved insurmountable. Had the Campbells not lost half their vanguard in the first hours of the battle, they would have had a chance. As it was, they could claim a small victory to have lasted as long as they did. Though he supposed his cousin would not see it as such.

Argyll's flag would fly over Strathbogie Castle this night as he'd promised, but in defeat not in victory. Though it had taken three spears to bring him down, Robert Fraser, Argyll's standard bearer, had fallen to the enemy.

The last whisper of daylight had just faded when Duncan rode through the gates of Drumin Castle, numb and exhausted from the day's events.

They were waiting for him in the laird's solar. The chiefs and chieftains who'd made up the War Council last night appeared changed men—somber, pride in tatters, an air of stunned disbelief permeated the painfully quiet room. These were men not used to losing. And though none would ever give voice to their thoughts, ever present was the knowledge that what many had warned against had come true. But no one could have anticipated Grant's treachery.

Perhaps they should have. Perhaps he should have.

Duncan took one look at his cousin and could see that time had not dulled his rage. He was in a dangerous temper. Mouth pulled back in a snarl, eyes narrow and hard, with his sharp, Gallic features he looked like a half-crazed wolf, ready to take a bite out of the first person to look at him the wrong way.