Sixteen
Fires blazed toward the heavens from the valley where the Summer Walkers were known to dwell, and fear lodged itself in Callum’s heart. He and Broch exchanged a look, and then they both drew their swords.
“My God,” Marsaili said from her perch in front of Callum on his destrier. “It appears as if the entire valley is burning!”
Though the sun was now high in the sky, Callum could no longer see it, for the smoke that rose from the valley was thick and gray. He slowed his horse to a stop. “Marsaili, I want ye to wait here.”
She twisted around to look at him. “Nay! Ye said we would face our problems together.”
“Aye, I did, but we dunnae ken what has occurred below. I dunnae think it can be peaceful, given the fires. I want to keep ye safe.”
She placed a hand on his cheek. “And I love ye for that and so much more.” Hearing her say she loved him made his chest squeeze warmly. “But I’ll nae let ye ride into possible danger alone, and if ye try to leave me here”—she tilted her chin up defiantly—“I’ll just follow.”
He didn’t doubt it. Her stubbornness was one of the reasons he had fallen in love with her. That combined with the bravery she displayed now made him feel so much love that he ached. He wanted to argue, but he knew it was pointless. He nodded. “Stay by my side, ye ken?”
She nodded and held out her hand. “Give me a weapon please.”
He withdrew a dagger from the holder at his hip and handed it to her, then turned to Broch and Maria. He settled his gaze on Broch, who looked disgruntled. Callum assumed it was because he had relented to Marsaili’s wish to ride down below with him, but when Broch glared at Maria and said, “This one refuses to stay, as well,” Callum realized the Highlander was irritated that he’d not been able to convince Marai to do as he bid.
Maria smiled sweetly. “Ye need me there to aid ye.”
Broch frowned. “Ye’re a lass.”
She snorted. “Therefore, I must be weak?”
“Aye,” he agreed.
“Lean close, ye big clot-heid. I will kiss ye farewell, then.” When Broch leaned forward to kiss Maria, she snatched his dagger out of the holder on his hip and held it to his throat. “I may be a lass,” she said in a cool tone, “but I am nae weak.”
Broch pushed the dagger away with the tip of his finger. “Ye may come, but dunnae ever hold my dagger against me again, lass.”
“Dunnae offend me, then,” she shot back.
“Fair enough,” he replied. “Let us ride.”
They set a slow pace down the hill. Callum scanned the surrounding woods for enemies as best he could, but with the smoke so thick he knew they were easy targets to ambush if someone was wishing to do so. The closer they came to the camp below—or what was left of it—dead bodies began to litter the ground.
Marsaili clutched at his leg. “Someone has laid waste to the Summer Walkers,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Aye,” he whispered, pulling his horse to a halt. “We walk from here so we will nae be so easy to spot.”
Marsaili nodded, and he quickly helped her dismount, as Broch did Maria. With Marsaili behind him, they climbed down the steep embankment, the smoke so heavy now that Callum’s eyes burned and he had to swallow repeatedly to keep from coughing. He looked toward the river, where fires burned almost in a straight line.
“Someone has set the tents on fire,” he said.
Marsaili moaned an almost animalistic sound, but Callum did not need to ask why. If their son had been here, he could be dead. If he had not been here, where was he? Black rage swept through Callum as he considered the possibility of never knowing his own son. He cursed himself for not riding to Marsaili’s home so long ago to see her dead body with his own two eyes. He cursed himself for ever leaving her in the first place. He should have taken her with him the day he’d departed her home. He’d lived with guilt over choosing his heart over his clan, but he realized in this moment that by choosing his heart, he would strengthen his clan with Marsaili by his side. Their love was a mighty alliance all on its own.
The camp was eerily quiet, so when a child cried out, the screeching pierced the silence. It was a lone cry, high-pitched before it turned into a wail. The cry seemed to echo to the very chambers of Callum’s heart, as if his soul recognized his son. He could not explain it, but he glanced back at Marsaili and saw her eyes wide, her face white as snow. She knew it, too.
“Callum,” she sobbed.
The cry came again, louder, and then through the thick smoke, they became visible—a sea of warriors clad in the Campbell plaid. In the front of the hundreds of men, one man sat on a great, black charger with a wailing boy sitting in front of him.
All logic fled. With a bellow, Callum raised his sword to charge the men, but a dagger pierced his sword arm from behind, and he dropped his sword. Shocked, he turned as Broch swooped upon him and slid the flat of his blade across Callum’s neck. “If ye move,” the Scot said, “I’ll slit yer throat.”
The anger and betrayal he felt was almost numbing. “I will kill ye,” he replied, nearly choking on the words.
Broch had given her a look, hadn’t he? Marsaili’s heart beat wildly with doubt as two of her father’s guards seized her. They started to drag her toward Callum.
