Highland Obsession (36 page)

Cam turned back to the earl and inclined his head. “Of course. I’ll leave you to it.”

Licking his dry lips, he stared in the direction of the fray. Could he do it? Ride into a mass of men in a killing rage, with no intent to engage but merely to find a sole man? Even if he did venture into the midst of the battle, what were his chances of finding Alan? The smoke and dust were so thick, he’d hardly be able to see his hand in front of his face.

Not to mention that he wasn’t a rebel. He was a supporter of the government among insurgent ranks. What if one of them recognized him? What if the government troops mistook him for a Jacobite and cut him down? How could he defend himself against the very men he tacitly supported?

He held the reins steady. God. It would be so easy. A flick of his wrist and he’d be headed toward safety. Toward Sorcha and home. But he imagined her disappointment—no, her heartbreak—if he failed to bring Alan to her. The thought sent a pang of pain through his chest.

He continued questioning himself as the mare plodded forward, as nervous as Cam. They forged ahead despite both horse and rider’s obvious reluctance.

The odor of grime and fresh blood grew stronger and mingled with the acrid smell of smoke, making Cam’s stomach roil. He gritted his teeth and, bunching the muscles in his arms, forced himself to draw his sword.

Bloody hell. How had he gotten himself into this? He didn’t know what he’d do if he happened to encounter Alan. Pull him aside to deliver Sorcha’s message and then let him jump back into the battle? The entire scenario seemed ridiculous.

Sorcha. Alan.
His beloved friends. His companions during his darkest—and lightest—hours. The two people who had seen him at his worst and still stood by his side.

He must do this. For them. Above all, they deserved the happiness he knew could be theirs.

If he succeeded, it meant his redemption.

Baring his teeth, he plunged into the confusion. Jagged lines of Highlanders dressed in shirts and short jackets, their plaids cast off at the beginning of the battle, dodged from the inconsistent step of his jittery horse. It was all Cam could do to keep the mare from bolting, and his healing side, already pushed to its limits from the hard travel for the past few days, throbbed with a dull, deep ache.

The noise assailed his ears, as powerful as a physical blow. The clash of weapons was so intense, even the gunfire seemed distant and unreal in comparison. Yet the screams sliced through it all, death knells that chilled him to the bone.

A red-faced man, wearing a coat to match the hue of his cheeks and a blue bonnet sporting Argyll’s crest and the Hanoverian cockade, rushed at him swinging a broadsword and cursing in English.

Argyll’s man. God in heaven, Cam didn’t know if he was friend or foe. But when the man, his eyes wild, raised his sword to slice at Cam, Cam’s response was instinctive. He turned the horse, which shied, nearly unseating him, as he raised his own sword to block.

The tip of the man’s sword collided with Cam’s boot. His smallest toe smarted as the blade cut through the leather and nicked the toe-nail. Just a scratch, but it felt like his foot had burst into flames.

Men rushed by, weapons raised, shouting, “Huzzah! Huzzah! It’s a rout! Close in!” They sprinted past in a blur. Cam recognized none of them. But then, close by, a young, dark-haired Highlander trotted after the masses. The boy wore the MacDonald clan badge, the sprig of heather, beside the white cockade on his bonnet that marked him as a rebel. “MacDonald!” Cam called.

The boy turned, and though his cheeks were caked with mud and blood, Cam saw the resemblance to Sorcha in the slanted green eyes. His breath released in a whoosh.
James
.

“Aye?” James panted at him before recognition flared in his expression. “My lord?”

For a moment, Cam was distracted by keeping his frightened horse in line. “James,” he said when he had his mount back under control. “Do you need anything, lad?”

“Me, my lord? No.” His mouth twitched ironically as he glanced at the mare’s no-doubt crazed eyes and terrified face. “Looks like you might need some help, though.”

“Have you seen Alan?”

“Aye. We were fighting together moments ago.” He pointed up the rise. “He went that way, chasing after some wee English cowards.”

“Thank you, lad. Good luck to you.”

But James had spun round. Cam winced when he saw the boy had engaged another of Argyll’s—a young man who looked like he could have been James’s brother.

The horse tossed her head wildly as Cam pushed her to move behind James’s opponent. The mare leaped forward, and as he rode by, Cam aimed the butt of his sword at Argyll’s man. He toppled like a crumbling tower of bricks. As Cam struggled to regain control, he heard James calling his thanks.

The mare plunged into a thick clump of fighting men. Red coats and multicolored Highland jackets swarmed together in a confusing mass of bodies engaged in violence.

Fear pounded at Cam’s spine, made his bowels turn to jelly. For Christ’s sake, he’d never wished to be anywhere near a battle. Yet here he was, in the midst of the worst of one.

A sharp shout came from behind him. Cam glanced back to see a government soldier sprinting at him, sword raised. He spurred the horse, but just as she lunged ahead, the man’s sword swooped down, slicing her rear flank.

She reared high, and Cam lost his grip on the reins. His body slammed to the earth. The air rushed from his lungs. He lay still, gasping for air as his horse pounded away.

He hurt from head to toe, but he wasn’t seriously injured. His sword lay in the muck a few feet away, and he reached for it. Slowly, he came to his knees, the world spinning around him . . . or perhaps he was the one spinning like a child’s top. For a moment, he wasn’t sure.

He struggled to his feet, swaying. Blinking hard, he raised his sword into a defensive position. But all the men surrounding him were deep in battle.

Alan
. He had to find Alan.

Cam pushed forward. He could scarcely see a body’s length ahead of him. Cannon fire boomed loud and resonated in his skull. Brushing the back of his hand across his eyes, he saw a flash of blond curls sway beneath a blue bonnet.

He lunged toward the man, but he turned, revealing a cherubic face and brown eyes. Not Alan.

God. Where could he be? Cam limped, stumbling over injured men, defending himself when necessary, trying to achieve the impossible end of staying alive without harming anyone on either side.

Dropping to his knees on the boggy earth, he pushed on the shoulder of a prone Highlander, pressing his lips together when he saw the man’s glazed eyes. It wasn’t Alan. Thank God.

Then, just ahead, he heard a familiar grunt. He looked up. Alan had eschewed tradition and kept his plaid on to combat the cold on this frigid day. His bonnet was perched gaily on his head, the sprig of heather framing the rosette of the cockade. He’d just delivered a deadly blow to an Englishman and was now doubled over, taking in gulping breaths.

Two soldiers shouting in English rushed up the slope behind him, bayonets raised. A loud boom echoed close by, and thick, black smoke billowed around them so suddenly Cam could hardly see Alan or the men attacking.

“Alan!” Cam screamed, sprinting toward them. “Behind you!”

Alan spun around and managed to raise his shield to deflect a blow that would have sliced through his neck. Cam leaped to his feet to assist him as yet another English soldier advanced.

“I don’t think so, you bastard,” Cam snarled. “Alan’s busy.”

The man faced him, his bloodshot eyes wide. He swung his sword wildly, but Cam jumped aside and drove his weapon into the man’s belly. The soldier fell to his knees, a shocked expression on his face, but Cam didn’t have time for him. He dodged past to help Alan.

One of the Englishmen had circled around Alan. Busy staving off his other opponent, Alan didn’t seem to notice him hovering behind him in the smoke.

With a howl, Cam dove at the Englishman just as the soldier poised to sink his bayonet into Alan’s spine. He head-butted the man in the side, and they both tumbled to the ground, Cam on top. Pinning the man to the earth, Cam punched his face until blood sprayed from his mouth with every blow.

Cam took in a big gulp of smoke and coughed. Besides the burning in his lungs, he felt nothing except a sharp pain in his side where Alan had wounded him in the duel. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet it hurt like hell. A dim part of his mind registered that it had probably reopened. Warm fluid glued the fabric of his shirt to the skin on his stomach, confirming it.

Finally, the Englishman’s eyes rolled back in his head as he fainted.

Gasping for breath, Cam looked up at Alan, who stood inches away and stared down at him, openmouthed.

“Cam, what the hell—?” But a Hanoverian trooper swooped past, aiming a boot at Alan’s skull. Alan’s neck twisted awkwardly, and he crumpled to the ground like a deer shot in the heart.

“Alan?” His gasping breaths turning to sobs, Cam crawled to his friend. Just as he reached out and grasped Alan’s arm, a blinding pain swept through his head. Stars flashed brightly in his vision. He collapsed on top of Alan. And then everything went dark.

 

Sorcha paced the muddy encampment, glancing frequently in the direction Cam had gone. Just after dusk, a mounted man arrived, informing Mrs. Farquarson the battle was over and her husband’s squadron had retired a few miles south. He bore news that Mr. Farquarson had survived and all were in good spirits, their right flank having routed the government’s left.

Unsurprisingly, he bore no news of Alan, Cam, James, or any of the MacDonalds of the Glen.

Mrs. Farquarson took one look at Sorcha, and her face softened in sympathy. “Can ye walk, lass?”

“Aye.”

“Come, then. ’Tis no matter it’s nearly full dark. We’ll go to Blackford and see to your kinsmen for ye.”

“Thank you,” Sorcha said, relieved to have the company. Even if Mrs. Farquarson hadn’t suggested it, she would have gone on her own. If Cam and Alan were all right, they would have returned to her immediately. Panic whispered in her blood. She feared she wouldn’t find either of them in Blackford.

Over an hour later, they arrived at the encampment, wet, cold, and tired. As Mrs. Farquarson reunited with her husband, Sorcha searched the exhausted ranks of the rebel army.

She nearly burst into tears as she recognized a small group of MacDonalds huddled round a fire. When they heard the choking noise emerge from her throat, they stared up at her in shock.

“Have you . . . have you seen Alan?” she managed.

Bowie rose from his position on his haunches at the fire. Taking two steps toward her, he said, “Sorcha . . . milady, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

“I . . .” She could barely get the words to emerge from her squeezed chest. “I need to find Alan. To tell him . . .”

Bowie shook his head. “It was chaos. None of us have seen him since midafternoon, in the thick of it.”

“You . . . you’ve
lost
your laird?”

“Appears we have,” said one of the older men glumly.

Bowie gave the man a hard look and then turned back to Sorcha. “He disappeared in the confusion,” he said in a low voice. “There were four of us guarding him. A cannon misfired near us and set off a small fire, and when the smoke cleared, we couldn’t find him.”

“What about James?”

“We haven’t seen your brother. We were separated from the rest. We think they’ve already started home. But we”—he gestured to the four other men—“have decided to stay and continue to fight with Lord Mar.”

“Have you seen the Earl of Camdonn?”

Bowie raised a brow. “Last I heard, he was safe at Camdonn Castle.”

One of the other men smirked. “Not one for grand battles is our wee earl, now, is he?”

Turning from them in despair, she went to seek out Mrs. Farquarson, who was nursing a man with a bloody arm.

“I’m going to the field,” she said, kneeling beside the older woman.

Mrs. Farquarson made a clucking sound with her tongue, but kept her focus on the bandage she was wrapping. “It’s quite a distance from here, my dear. Perhaps you should wait till morning.”

“No. If they’re alive, if they’re injured, I’ll not have them freezing to death overnight in this cold.”

“Aye, lass, I understand. I’d be ill at ease too, if my Colum hadn’t come home yet.” Mrs. Farquarson rose, withdrawing a glinting object from the folds of her skirt. “Well, then. Take one of your MacDonalds with you, and also take this.”

She pressed the hilt of a dirk into Sorcha’s hand.

Sorcha gasped. “I don’t know how to use this!”

Mrs. Farquarson’s lips twisted. “Well, you will know if you need it, won’t you? Go on, then, and may God go with you.” She turned back to the man whose wound she’d nursed, who was staring at Sorcha with bright, dazed eyes.

Sorcha had nowhere to stow the weapon, so she just gripped it in her hand as she returned to Bowie, who lounged against a pile of rocks.

“I’m going after them,” she said softly.

Bowie cracked open one eye to gaze up at her, and groaning softly, scrambled to his feet. “Aye, Sorcha. We’ll come with you.” He turned to the big man who’d been reclining beside him and kicked him in the ribs. “Up, Malcolm, you lazy sod. We’ve got to help Sorcha find Alan and James.”

“And the earl,” Sorcha murmured, her heart panging for Cam.

Bowie managed to borrow a pair of horses from the kindly Colum Farquarson, and they picked their way out of the camp, away from the resting and wounded men and the people scurrying around to attend them.

The recent traffic of men made their progress toward the battlefield easier, but it was dark as pitch save the blanket of stars overhead casting a meager light over the trampled fields.