Forever Doon (16 page)

N
ot that anyone who knew me would believe it, but I'd actually started to enjoy my morning jog from Dunbrae Cottage to Mabel's barn. Okay . . . maybe “enjoy” was too strong a word. But I did feel a sense of accomplishment that I no longer arrived huffing and puffing like the big, bad wolf. I'd started making decent time too. Not enough that I was in danger of exchanging my tap shoes for a track medal, but enough that I believed I might actually be useful in the impending battle against Addie and her minions.

The morning, though cool, was bright and clear. If one looked closely, not that I made a habit of it, you could see the first green shoots of spring struggling to life. That was another effect of running; my focus on the world around me became sharper as the ever-present show tunes in my brain shut off. Unfortunately, I did enjoy living my life with an internal Broadway soundtrack. When things got quiet, I missed the voices harmonizing in my head.

Still, the early signs of spring gave me hope that whatever
funk Duncan had been suffering from the last couple days was over. In the distance, I spied my boyfriend setting up for training. As I approached, I searched for signs that whatever little, black rain cloud he'd been trapped under was gone.

Skidding to a halt, I glanced at the fitness app on my phone. “Ta-Da! Eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds. A new record.” With a flourishing sweep of my arms, I took a bow and straightened up in time to catch Duncan's grimace before he resumed working.

“Were ye able to speak with Queen Veronica last night?” he asked as he placed a stone marker in the grass, completing a rectangle.

No “Good morning” or “Great job, woman.” No “You look positively radiant in this light, lass.” Zip.

Despite the clear skies, I found myself wishing I'd brought an umbrella for protection against my boyfriend's isolated thunderstorms. “Not really. Last night's dream was weird. It's like we were underwater or something.”

He headed into the barn and I followed like Fosca begging for the scraps of Giorgio's affection. “Vee looked like a mermaid with her hair floating around her head. I was swimming behind her, so I don't think she even saw me. But I did see her wearing Aunt Gracie's ring—so I think she has it.” I noticed because it sparked to life, lighting the water around her, just before I woke up. Since I didn't have any context for the dream, I felt reluctant to mention that part.

“Tonight, try to speak with her again. If you can, tell her that we're coming home. We'll need her and the ring to be ready.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” I replied with a little salute.

He frowned again before pointing through the open barn door at two figures in the distance. “Eòran and Rabbie are going to help us today.”

“With what exactly?” I asked as I reached for the protective padding that Duncan insisted I wear under the leather gear. When I got it all on, I was more insulated than that kid in
A Christmas Story
.

“Sparring. And don't bother with that,” he said, waving at the padding. “We're fighting just like ye would in a battle—leather plating only, no extra gear. And be careful with the weapons, they're extremely sharp.”

Great. Battling experienced soldiers with razor-sharp swords and no protective padding. That was like Christine Daaé being ripped from the chorus and thrust into the starring role at the
Opéra Populaire
. Did that make Duncan my Angel of Combat? I had to trust that he wouldn't put me in this position if he didn't think I was ready for it. He wouldn't endanger me unnecessarily. At least I hoped he wouldn't . . .

Rabbie and Eòran strode into the barn. While the former blushed at the prospect of interrupting something, the latter, whom I affectionately thought of as Mutton Chops, scowled as if he were here under duress.

“Thank ye for coming, lads.” Duncan picked up two swords, handed them to the guards, and then retrieved the remaining two for himself and me. As he handed me the weapon, he explained, “Rabbie and Eòran are familiar with this exercise. We will spar side by side. I'll partner with you first and then we'll switch until ye've fought all of us. All right?”

I nodded. That didn't seem too hard. I'd sparred individually with each of them a dozen times or more.

Successfully blocking out the other two soldiers, I focused on blocking Duncan's moves. Although he didn't go easy on me, he did hold back—at least at the start. When I finally gained the offensive, he went into Celtic warrior mode, but I
growled and snarled right back at him as I swung my blade repeatedly to drive him back.

“Time!” Rabbie called as he lowered his weapon.

Duncan nodded toward the young soldier. “Partner with Mackenna and I'll take Eòran.”

Expecting a brief intermission, I tried not to let my disappointment show as I moved to my next opponent. As I faced off against Rabbie, Duncan fought to my right. Suddenly my concentration split in two, and no matter how hard I tried to block him out, Duncan dominated my awareness. So much so that I failed to block Rabbie's sword as it swung toward the leather plate strapped to my thigh. The adrenaline rush caused by the prospect of being amputated like the Black Knight allowed me to twist away, saving my leg, but earning a long gash in my favorite yoga pants.

Struggling to regain my mental focus, I gave myself a little pep talk.
Duncan will be fine. He's the Michael Crawford of battle. Focus on Rabbie. What's his weakness? Find it and use it!

As I blocked my opponent, I focused on Rabbie's movements. Tall and broad in the shoulders like Duncan, but without the same fighting mastery, Rabbie would be most vulnerable from a quick, agile attack toward his lower body. Since most of his strokes were high and wide, it would take him more time to respond.

When Rabbie's body language announced his next move would be a sweeping down stroke, I hastily blocked a set of counter moves—
fake parry, roll, turn, calf strike.
As his weapon dropped, I feigned a block. Then at the last possible second, I dropped and rolled under his arm. Still in a crouch, I turned to strike.

That's when I saw the blood. Duncan's blood—running down his limp left arm, soaking the shirt under his leather breastplate and spattering the ground as he continued to fight Eòran.

Shouting his name, I dropped my weapon and ran toward him—right into Rabbie's sword. With a “hey,” Rabbie checked his swing so that it stopped just short of cutting me in half. Undeterred, I pushed the flat of the sword out of the way and continued forward.

As I approached, Duncan leveled his blade at me. “Halt!”

Feeling like I was trapped in a nightmare, I stared down the pointy tip of the blade at my bleeding boyfriend. “What are you doing?”

Now that he was no longer fighting, a crimson pool began to form around his left boot. Face flushed, his body shaking, he growled, “Pick up your weapon and finish the exercise!”

“No. You're injured.” I pointed to his left arm. “We need to stop.”

“There's no stopping in battle. Now go get your sword.” He swayed on his feet, eyes rolling back in his head as the tip of his weapon lowered toward the ground.

Closing the distance between us, I carefully inspected the gash in his bicep. “This is bad. We need to get you to a doctor.”

Duncan's eyes snapped back into focus with a grunt. “Get your hands off me. Continue fighting!”

“I will not!”

In one fluid motion, Duncan dropped his sword and then grabbed me by the hair. Quicker than I would've believe possible, he wound it around his wrist and spun me around so that my back was against his chest. “Do ye think the witch's soldiers will give ye a time out?” he snarled. “Eòran, retrieve Mackenna's sword for her.”

Mutton Chops scurried to do as his prince commanded. The badger-like guard handed me my weapon, hilt first. But I wouldn't take it.

When I refused a second time, Duncan released me with
a little push that sent me stumbling forward. “Pick up yer weapon and fight! Rabbie, begin the attack.”

The young guard's mouth dropped open as he stared between the two of us with wide, disbelieving eyes. “But m'Laird.”

“That is an order, man!”

Rabbie leveled his sword at me, and nervously cleared his throat. “Please pick up your weapon, Miss Mackenna.”

“No.” I loosened the laces of my ruined top to expose my breastbone. “Kill me or let me tend to Duncan. Either way I'm not picking up my sword.”

Poor Rabbie looked at Duncan apologetically. “Sorry, m'Laird, I canna do what ye ask.”

“Be off with ye then! You too, Eòran.” Duncan waited for the guards to retreat, and then, without warning, he gripped my elbow and spun me around. “That was unacceptable. I'm tryin' to save your life.”

“And I'm trying to save yours, you stupid ogre.” The blood streaming down his arm had started to pool on the ground. Whatever point he was stubbornly trying to prove would have to wait until after he got stitched up.

“In battle, you can't afford to be impulsive,” he snapped, spit flying from his mouth. “If I'm injured, ye canna drop everything and come rushin' to my side.”

“You'd do it for me,” I insisted.

Suddenly all the rage drained from his face and the coldness that replaced it terrified me in a way his anger never would. “Winning the battle and saving the kingdom is more important than any single life—even mine.”

“This is about more than the battle for Doon—and you know it. You never answered my question, back in the garden. Do you blame me for being stranded in Alloway? For not being able to go after your brother?”

His face was granite, features taut like he was keeping himself together through sheer force. “I should've been part of the rescue party. Then I'd have the certainty of knowing that Jamie was alive, or we'd both be dead and it wouldna matter.”

Hearing the truth of his confession rocked me on a cellular level. “So you'd rather die with him than survive with me?”

Duncan ducked his head. “Tha's no' what I said.”

“It's exactly what you said. Now please answer the question.”

“I dunno,” he admitted, unable to meet my gaze. “I mean, maybe . . .”

I searched his face. “What happens when we return to Doon, if he's—gone.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “How dare you.”

But I could see the truth of it in his eyes. “You're thinking it too. How could you not be? Let's talk about it.”

“No.” He released my elbow so swiftly that I lost my balance and fell to my knees—the action seemed almost intentional in its violence. For a moment, I just stared at the small puddle of blood in the grass. When I finally found the presence of mind to get up, Duncan was gone.

I lay in bed, tossing and turning. For hours I'd tried everything in my power to fall asleep: counting sheep, lullabies, even reading. Nothing worked. Every time I closed my eyes, my humiliation and disappointment boiled over in a toxic burst of anger.

I was furious with Duncan for refusing to talk to me—and for walking away. Again. I kept replaying our fight over and over in my head, realizing too late what I could have said and done differently. It was Elaine Stritch all over again.

My final summer at drama camp had been highly anticipated
for a couple of reasons. First, I got to pick my own monologue and song for the soloist showcase. Second, Elaine Stritch was coming as the showcase mentor. I'd spent most of my junior year preparing. Choosing Nina's monologue from
The Seagull
had been a no-brainer—it was my best material, but the solo had been difficult. I'd driven Vee crazy testing songs on her before finally choosing “Still Hurting” from
The Last Five Years.

Despite my nervousness, I knew everyone at camp had faith in me, and as their resident star, I couldn't let them down. They were sure, as was I, that Ms. Stritch would fall in love with my performance—maybe even insist that I skip my senior year to study in New York as her protégé.

After I finished my pieces, I walked downstage for the interactive part of mentoring, notes from an actual Broadway legend . . . Ms. Stritch regarded me with her critical eye and larger-than-life personae, asking, “What do you know about heartbreak, Ms. Reid?”

“Uh, well . . .” I stammered, my face flushed from my performance and inability to form coherent thoughts. “Not a whole lot.”

She nodded and said in her rasping drawl, “I could tell. Next!”

I remember leaving the stage in a stupor, shame blurring my vision. She was right, of course. I'd picked performance pieces that I'd had no life experience for—I'd never had a serious boyfriend, let alone crippling heartbreak.

Now, I could sing that song with enough heartfelt passion to make a cynic weep. Without warning I started to sob—dry heaves that racked my body from the inside out. Eventually tears began to gush, and gush, and gush. I cried until my nose stopped up, my eyes swelled shut, and my throat felt raw. Sometime shortly after, I drifted off to sleep . . .