If Sir William died and his men disbanded, she would have no choice but to return home. Her intent to right the wrongs done to Scotland would have been a failure. The words of valor and bravery she’d written in her letter to her mother and sister would be lies.
She wasn’t done fighting yet.
The men scrambled down the ropes amid a barrage of arrows. One stuck fast into one of the men. Thankfully, he didn’t release the rope, his rapid descent not slowing.
“One of the men has been hit,” Kinsey said. “Go to the forest to meet him. Help him get back to camp for aid.”
Fib hesitated this time.
“He needs ye.” She infused her statement with an urgency in the hopes of discouraging him from staying.
A strange sensation twisted in her stomach, and the hair on the back of her arms stood on end.
More arrows were flying toward them. She hadn’t noticed early enough, as she had been focused on trying to get Fib to leave.
“Fib,” she cried, her voice pitched with fear.
But rather than duck, the brave lad threw himself before Kinsey.
The arrows thudded into the forest. Fib jerked several times and issued a low, whimpering exhale as he sagged toward her. Bright red blossomed over the front of his gambeson, staining his chainmail where several arrows had gone through his slight frame.
Fib’s stare slid down to his chest to the bloodstains that continued to grow.
“Nay,” Kinsey screamed.
His legs collapsed, and she caught him before he could fall into the dirt. Hot blood washed over her hands and drenched her kirtle. So much blood. Too much. Several arrows jutted from his back, every one stuck fast inside his slender body, the heads intentionally small enough to pierce through the chinks of chain mail.
Fib whimpered against her ear, and her heart constricted.
“Ye’ll be fine,” she whispered.
It was a lie, but she repeated those words over and over, her mouth moving as her thoughts scrambled, looking for a solution.
He was too heavy for her to lift. And Clara had always been the one with knowledge of healing. Kinsey would have to drag him to the other men. Mayhap someone at camp could help.
She carefully released him to readjust her hold. The color had drained from his face, and his body was limp. Her breath rasped with panicked gulps of air.
“Ye’ll be fine.” She slung her quiver and bow over her shoulder, grabbed him underneath armpits as gently as she could—mindful of the arrows—and pulled. Kinsey used the power in her legs against his weight to pull him slowly through the forest.
His legs bumped over the ground, collecting leaves and pine needles, but he didn’t make a sound as she continued to haul him.
Her heart slammed with urgency.
She had to get him to camp. The sooner he was there, the sooner someone could save him.
Her thighs shook with the effort, and her arms burned from hefting so much of his weight. But she didn’t stop. She didn’t slow. Not until she caught sight of the three men.
The familiar silhouette of William’s wide-shouldered frame was the first one she noticed. “William,” she cried out through her tears. “Help me.”
The men startled at the sound of her voice but recovered immediately and rushed to her.
“Fib.” William knelt by the boy, wincing as he favored one side.
“Let me,” Reid said, joining William by Fib and turning the lad on his side so he wouldn’t jar the arrows prickling out of him like macabre spines.
William glanced toward the other man. “Alec, run to camp and let them know we have an injury to be seen to.” There was a grimness to his voice that made a knot tighten in Kinsey’s gut.
Alec ran off through the forest at a frantic pace, leaving the four of them behind in the still night.
William lifted Fib’s head, which had lulled as Kinsey dragged him.
“Ye have to help him.” She couldn’t keep the panic from her voice now. Her fear trembled up through her and made hot tears run down her cheeks. “He was hit with several arrows. All through the chest, he—”
“It went straight through.” Reid looked up at her with, his face solemn.
Kinsey shook her head, trying to stop him before he said the words she dreaded most.
William rose and put a hand to her shoulder. “Kinsey.” His voice caught. “Fib is dead.”
6
The defeat was soul crushing.
It wasn’t that William had let his father down in his failure to reclaim the land that once belonged to the MacLeods. That was the least of his concern.
It was the men he had lost. Six of his father’s guards, good men who were tough fighters, cut down as they clung from ropes and shot with that damn weapon.
And Fib.
A knot of emotion lodged itself in William’s throat and his eyes burned with tears he longed to shed for the boy. He swiped them away. Sorrow tangled with rage.
The lad’s death had been senseless. Unnecessary.
Fib was too young to have joined as a warrior in the first place. William never should have allowed his father to harangue him into bringing the lad. It hadn’t sat comfortably with William. He should have known better.
Even going into battle so soon had not felt right.
He ought to have listened to his gut.
His men had paid the heavy price with their lives. Men, and one lad.
William stared at the opposite side of the cave they’d taken refuge in.
The surrounding forest was thick and they were far enough away that if guards from Mabrick Castle tried to find them, it would be a challenging feat. William and his remaining army needed a chance to see to their wounds and bury their dead.
They were
