“Without ye by my side, Mills, I’m just a man wrestling with ghosts. But I need ye whole—not shattered,” he says, his typically assertive voice wavering just a tad.
As he offers me the reclaimed weapon, our fingers brush against each other momentarily, sending electric sparks up my arm. Clutching onto the hilt with newfound resolve, I ready myself for whatever comes next.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The MacDowells’cozy inn and tavern has been transformed overnight into a makeshift command center. Robust Scotsmen nonchalantly swing their swords like they’re flicking through their social media stories, their grumbles bouncing off the time-worn stone walls. Having taken on the role of a battlefield nurse, Fiona is patching up their wounds (a few of them accidentally self-inflicted) with a wonderful mix of sternness and humor.
The air is heavy with a smoky aroma that would be utterly romantic if it were billowing from a beachside bonfire. But when it’s spewing from hastily lit torches in what was once my favorite pub? Not quite as charming.
As I grip the sword Cal tossed my way earlier, the cool metal against my palm is like a shot of espresso, pumping pure adrenaline and courage into mysystem. This isn’t just a hunk of metal—it’s a tangible sign of Cal’s trust in me—his trust in us.
“Hey! Listen up!” I scramble on top of a stack of whisky barrels and holler over the din. “Our future depends on this fight! We have to unite to kick these Campbell invaders to the curb! Teamwork’s our secret weapon!”
My words slice through the noise. Our makeshift team—Fiona, her sister Elspeth and their badass girl gang in trousers and boots, Alistair and Fergus rocking clan kilts and brandishing shiny swords, even the stable boys armed with pitchforks—they all spin towards me with sparks of determination flaring in their eyes.
Well, what do you know? I’ve rallied them. Not too shabby for a 21st-century woman dumped into Early Modern mayhem, wearing combat boots and double-denim.
As we start arranging our troops into some semblance of strategic formation, Cal pops up beside me again, seemingly unfazed by the surrounding pandemonium. Alistair thrusts another sword into Cal’s hand.
“Glad tae see ye haven’t bolted,” he grunts in his thick brogue. “Thought ye might’ve legged it back through that portal last night, leaving us tae clean up yer mess.”
Cal lets out a belly laugh. “And miss out on all thisexcitement? Nah... beats another night binge-watching Netflix!”
Alistair shakes his head, looking utterly confused as he tousles his hair.
“Ye’re a strange one, lad. But I’ll admit, there’s something about ye that’s oddly endearing.”
Alistair slaps Cal on the back before we join Fergus and gather around the main table. Pouring over rudimentary maps and brainstorming tactics, it becomes clear that while our brave crew outside fends off the enemy forces, our role is to strategize from within to secure victory.
Hours slipaway until dawn breaks; the morning’s first rays illuminate our group and signal that it’s time to move. Fueled by unity and the thrill of an impending battle, we’re primed to confront whatever challenges the new day—and Gregor’s troops—may hurl at us.
As we step out of the tavern onto the battlefield, I glance at Cal. His strong profile and how he carries himself in the family kilt give me courage and send my heart racing.
Suddenly, Cal bellows a warning:
“On yer left!”
He lunges forward to intercept an attack aimed atme. Swiveling around with my sword held high, I’m instantly squaring off against one of Gregor’s strongest warriors. He towers over me like a menacing mountain; his eyes glint wickedly as he swings his sword.
“Witch!” he sneers.
I grip my weapon tighter, attempting my best “resting bitchface” glare.
“Well, well,” I retort with faux nonchalance while internally freaking out, “Looks like someone ditched Etiquette 101.”
His response is a snarl and a blade slicing through the air towards me. I parry just in time; the jolt travels up my arm like an electric shock. We’re locked in a deadly dance now: swords clashing together in an orchestral display of steel against steel. Sweat trickles down into my eyes, but there’s no chance I’m backing down.
“Ye fight well, fer a woman,” he grunts, his hot breath fanning my face.
Oh, it’s on now.
“And you don’t fight half bad... for a Neanderthal.”
A chuckle escapes me. Then I muster all my strength and give him a good shove. He stumbles back but recovers faster than I anticipated, his eyes narrowing into slits as he starts circling me like some big cat eyeing its dinner.
The battlefield around us is complete chaos. In the thick of the turmoil, I glimpse my allies. Theirexpressions, etched with firm determination, hold steady against an opposing force that appears ready to swallow us whole.
Fiona is in the thick of it, her sword flashing as she takes on three hulking brutes who look like they ate boulders for breakfast. But she’s not backing down. Her quick wit and nimble footwork are enough to keep them at bay.
