She wasn’t sure if she’d rather see them duel with pistols or blades. Both were menaces in and of themselves. Would she rather see a hole torn through her husband, or watch him be cut to ribbons? She tried desperately to banish the thoughts, to think only of his victory, but fear plagued her, causing her feet to feel as heavy as iron weights. She had to hurry to keep up with Alexander’s long stride.
Alexander had tied his hair back in preparation for the duel, but made no effort to ward off the rain. Any extra garment would have been a hindrance, and possibly the difference between life and death. As he strode towards his waiting brother in only his tartan and shirt, rain dripped from his nose, jaw and hair. He looked just as he had the day Isla had met him, save for the fact that his expression was hard and determined. If she managed to shove reality from her mind for long enough, she could see the lonely woods around them, hear the trickle of the spring and feel him entering her for the first time. She tried to draw as much comfort as she could from the memories, but they were a double-edged sword. Would she find herself doing the same over the coming nights—the coming years? The memories, and their child, would be all she had left of him if he lost the duel.
“Isla, dear!” Mrs Mary appeared at her side, huffing and puffing with the effort of catching up.
Isla had last seen her in the house, staring nervously out of the kitchen window.
“I sent young John out to check the crofters’ cottages,” she fretted, “but he hasnae returned. I’m afraid I dinnae ken what else would stop them, save their father!”
“There isnae anything ye can do to stop them, Mrs Mary.”
Isla spoke the truth. John would not return in time with Alexander and Alpin’s father, and they listened to no one else—not even Coira, who was trailing behind them now, wailing for the entire world to hear, begging them to call off the duel.
Isla did pity the woman, though her sympathies were all but overwhelmed by her fear for Alexander. It seemed Coira hadn’t had any part in her son’s scheme after all. She hadn’t tried to accuse Isla, hadn’t even tried to claim that Alpin was innocent. She’d only begged for Alexander to spare his life. She continued to do so with every step, pleading as she ignored what must have been considerable pain to hurry through the rain.
“Here, Isla.” They stopped when they were close enough to see the blue of Alpin’s eyes, so like his brother’s in colour but in no other aspect. His gaze was as cold and biting as the rain. Isla shivered when it passed over her, settling eventually on Alexander, who’d tossed the pistol he’d brought far aside in the grass and drawn his sword instead. He held the blade to the edge of his kilt and cut a long, narrow strand of tartan away. It hung limp in his fist, dampened by the rain. Isla stood still as he raised it, pulled a section of wet hair out of her eyes and tied it securely with the makeshift ribbon.
“Now ye can see properly,” he said, “though I willnae blame ye if ye look away.”
“Never.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I thought ye’d say as much. Anyway, ye look bonny.” He touched his lips to hers in the lightest of kisses. The urgency that had overtaken him—both of them—in the bedroom was gone, replaced by a smooth calmness that scared Isla.
“Ye have my love, and I ken that I have yours, too. I’ll do my best to see it doesnae go to waste.”
Alexander’s kiss had warmed her lips, but the rain struck and quickly cooled them as he walked away.
“Alpin,” Alexander said in a clear voice that carried through the rain, “ye’ve harmed my wife and done your best to murder me. I’ve come to make ye pay for your crimes.”
Alpin responded with a characteristic sneer. “Ye’ve not seen my best,
brother
. I hope ye’ve said your goodbyes to the wench, for you’ll soon die.”
Isla’s heart seemed to stop, then flutter, as if it didn’t remember how to beat anymore. Coira was wailing harder than ever, and Isla felt like joining her. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream as the brothers held their blades aloft and prepared to enter mortal combat.
Alpin swung first, but his stroke was overeager. Alexander parried easily. The clash of metal on metal gave Isla’s heart the encouragement it needed to begin beating frantically again. Blood rushed in her ears as she watched, punctuated by singing blades and driving rain. Alexander and Alpin seemed a fair match, but would that have been different if Alexander hadn’t been ill? Surely his fever was hindering him. He should be lying in bed, not blocking a sword stroke aimed at his neck! Panic surged through her veins, and her breathing grew shallow. The world span before her, the two brothers blurring into a dancing mass of dark tartan and flashing blades. For a moment, she couldn’t tell which was which, and didn’t know whether to rejoice or cry when a blade sliced through flesh and sent drops of blood to mingle with those of the rain.
“Stay strong, dear! He may falter if he sees ye go down.” Mrs Mary spoke quietly but fervently into Isla’s ear and gripped her arm with surprising strength.
Thus supported and encouraged, Isla managed to stand tall again and her vision cleared. She could watch the brothers now with sickening clarity, could see that Alexander had sustained a gash across one biceps. His injured arm wasn’t his sword arm, but his sleeve was rapidly turning crimson. Isla’s knees wobbled.
Another hand gripped her free arm—Coira’s. Her grip was firm, despite her injured rib. Isla didn’t dare to pause to thank her, or to tear her gaze from Alexander again. As she watched, he lunged at Alpin, thrusting his blade at his ribs.
Alpin arched his back like a cat and dodged, escaping what might otherwise have been a devastating blow. Alexander whirled after him, not missing a beat. He was graceful and clearly skilled. So was Alpin, though it was painful to admit. Under less deadly circumstances, Isla might have found them beautiful to watch, especially Alexander. As it was, she’d never felt worse—not even when Hamish had been slaughtered, though she’d by no means forgotten the event or the feeling. It played over and over in her mind now, reminding her that Alexander might be only moments away from the same fate. Would she kneel by his body as she had Hamish’s and watch his blood flow into the water that glazed the rain-soaked earth?
No! She forced herself not to imagine it, but to focus instead on the moment at hand and pray for his victory.
Alpin aimed a bold strike at Alexander’s head, forcing him to dodge. He slipped on the slick ground, lurching forward and narrowly avoiding falling on his own sword. Alpin lunged for him, eyes and blade flashing maliciously. Alexander rose, throwing his blade over his head to save himself.
Alpin brought his blade clashing down on his brother’s with deadly force, and Alexander’s arms trembled beneath the blow. Alpin’s blade forced Alexander’s down and glanced off his shoulder. Blood welled up immediately, blossoming crimson on his shirt, and began to streak over his front and back.
Isla moaned, but Mrs Mary and Coira held her steady. Had it not been for them, she would have fallen to her knees and begged God to spare Alexander. With their support, she made do with standing.
Alexander rose and stood again, though his shoulders sagged—even the one that hadn’t been injured. He staggered slightly. Clearly, fever and blood loss were catching up with him. Isla pleaded for mercy as the rain beat down harder than ever.
Emboldened, Alpin aimed his blade at Alexander’s neck and swung with all his might.
Alexander just barely managed to dodge the blow. Alpin’s blade sliced through air and rain, the force of his swing pulling him slightly off balance. Alexander countered with surprising speed, drawing his blade up and across Alpin’s chest.
Isla’s heart surged and thumped madly against her ribs. Had Alexander’s weakness been a farce?
No—his shoulders still sagged, and he wasn’t nearly as light on his feet as he had been at the start. It had been an exaggeration, at most. Still, he managed another devastating stroke, pulling his blade down across Alpin’s chest, marking him with a bloody X.
Alpin’s eyes widened and his lips cracked apart, though he made no sound. He hit the ground with a splash, his body gone as limp as a ragdoll.
Alexander towered over him, heaving and bleeding, but poised to strike nonetheless. Isla failed to breathe as she watched, cringing as she awaited the final blow that would snuff out Alpin’s life.
It didn’t come. After several moments of staring down at his brother, Alexander lowered his blade. With a casual flick, he drew it down the top of Alpin’s forearm. Isla’s own scar twinged as she watched the redness well on Alpin’s skin and run onto the ground, which had become saturated with blood and water. Seeing this comparatively small damage done, Alexander turned and faced Isla.
Coira abruptly let go of Isla’s arm and rushed to her fallen son. Mrs Mary kept Isla steady as Alexander crossed the space between them.
“Alexander!” Isla pressed herself against his chest as firmly as she dared. “Can ye walk to the house, do ye think?” She wanted to say—and ask—so much more, but the immediate necessity of ensuring his gaping wounds were treated took precedence.
“Aye, I can walk. I dinnae reckon I can carry ye, though, so ye’d better stop starin’ at the blood.”
Isla nodded mutely and tore her gaze from his gashes, meeting his eyes instead. “I thought ye were goin’ to die! I’m so glad ye lived.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed, as the tears she’d been too panicked to cry during the duel finally broke free. She let them flow against his shirt, knowing they’d disappear into the already soaked fabric.
Alexander placed a shaking hand on top of her head and stroked her hair somewhat awkwardly. “To the house then,
mo chride
. I dinnae think I can stay on my feet much longer.”
* * * *
Sun was streaming through the bedroom windows when Alexander finally woke. He’d slipped into oblivion shortly after the duel and had slept for two days, leaving Isla in purgatory as she’d waited, either cooling his forehead with a damp cloth or curled by his side on the bed. She’d agonised over him until his fever had broken the night before, shedding hope on her desperate vigil. She’d waited with eyes wide open ever since, watching for his dark lashes to flutter. Now that they finally did, her heart leapt as she drew a sharp breath.
“There ye are,
mo chride
.”
It had all been worth it.
“And where did ye think I’d be, if not by your side every minute of these past two days?”
“Has it been two days, then?” he rasped, his voice dry.
Isla hurried to pour him a cup of water from the pitcher waiting on the bedside table, pressed it to his lips and watched as he drank.
“Aye, two whole, wretched days.”
He motioned for her to lower the cup. “I’m sorry to hae kept ye waitin’.”
She wrapped her arms lightly around his neck, taking special care not to touch his injured shoulder, and kissed his cheek.
“I was worrit your fever wouldnae break, is all. I couldnae wait to hear your voice again, so ye could tell me yourself you’re all right.
“I’m fine,” he said, reaching up and smoothing her hair. “But tell me, does Alpin live?”
She stiffened and pulled carefully away from him, pressing her hands into her lap and meeting his solemn eyes. “Aye, he lives.”
She paused, smoothing her skirts—as if she cared what they looked like after two days of wear. “Why did ye not kill him? He would hae taken your life in a heartbeat.” He damn well nearly had.
“I intended to, at first. When it came down to it, I couldnae bear to do it. Not when I knew I’d hold ye in my arms whether he lived or no. The thought of you was too sweet… I couldnae think of you and killin’ at the same time.”
Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, threatening to spill over. “What will happen to him, though? Surely ye dinnae think there will ever be peace in the house after this.”
He frowned and let his head sink back against the pillows. “I dinnae ken just yet, but I’ll see things are taken care of. My father willnae try to stop me, not after what Alpin’s done.”
Alexander’s words sparked Isla’s memory, bringing to the surface a promise she’d nearly forgotten in the miserable haze of caring for Alexander and waiting for him to wake.
“Your father… He made me promise to fetch him when ye woke. He hasnae left the house since the duel.”
“Ye’d better go, then.”
She reached under the sheets, found his hand and squeezed. “Will ye be all right without me?”
“I reckon I can survive the next few minutes if I’ve lived through the past two days.” He smiled and squeezed her hand in return. “Get on with ye, now. I promise to be here waitin’ when ye get back.”
She reluctantly left his side for the first time since the duel, stepping out into the hall in search of Alexander’s father or the nearest person who might be sent to fetch him. The corridor was empty. She could just make out a faint bustling coming from behind Alpin’s bedroom door, but she didn’t dare to go there. She paced to the steps and descended in search of Malcolm Gordon.
She found him on a sofa in the sitting room, his expression tense as he stared into the fire. He wore the same dark green tartan Alexander favoured, and the creases among the pleats seemed to indicate it had been a while since he’d thought of his appearance. Isla didn’t blame him—she knew she must look like hell, too, but damned if she cared. All she could think about was getting back to Alexander.