Taken by Angeline Fortin (great books of all time TXT) 📗

For hours they fought.  The pikes they’d trained on with the French were useless in these tight quarters.  So many of his countrymen were nearly defenseless with the unwieldy spears in hand.  Again James lashed out, sparing one man from certain death, uncertain if it would save him in the end.

“Your Grace,” he shouted as he neared his monarch, cutting down the enemy around him.  “The battle is lost.  We maun see ye to safety.”

“I cannae withdraw,” the King protested, then looked at James.  “See that Home secures Coldstream for our retreat.  Go!  See that it is done.”

“I willnae leave ye here to die, Your Grace,” James said tightly, dismounting and hoping to urge his monarch up on his horse.

“It is not my day to die.”

Brave words but James knew better.  Everything Scarlett had warned him of had come to pass.  Everything was happening just as Scarlett’s pamphlet had said.  Everything.  His King was worn out and on the verge of death.  In all likelihood, James would die today as well, though his death had not been imprinted on the paper.

“We are blood, James,” King James said under his breath.  “I hae ne’er admitted it aloud, perhaps no’ even now is it loud enough for another to hear.  Ye are the only Stewart ne’er to envy my place, to conspire against me.  Ye ne’er did.”

“No,” was all James said.

“Watch over my son.  Guide him.  Protect him.”

James wanted to protest.  To beg his King once more to retreat but only nodded.  He knew stubbornness well enough.  He was a Stewart in part, at least.  King James would not give in.  If he himself could make it out of the day alive, he would do as King James commanded, not because he was James’ sovereign but because he was family.  “I swear it.”

“Go then.”

James fell back, hacking his way through the English who had them nearly surrounded.  Stepping on the bodies of his clansmen, his countrymen as he fought.  Some dead, some yet alive but not for long as they drown in the muck and blood of their fallen comrades.  His shoulder screamed in protest as he lifted his heavy sword again and again.  Slashing, stabbing his way through the mob.  Fighting to survive.

For her.  For Scarlett.

He had been alone for most of his life.  From his grandfather, he’d gotten a name.  From his father, a family of sorts.  But they couldn’t give him a home.  They could not bring him the sense of belonging he’d always longed for.

He’d never known a mother’s love.  Never known a woman’s love.  Never known that a woman’s soft arms could cradle him, surround him with something more than a physical release.

He knew those things now.  Knew them because of the appearance of a single extraordinary lass who had nearly brought him to his knees.  James didn’t want to lose that now.  He didn’t fear death in battle as much as losing the love of a will o’ a wisp of a woman.  Now, as he never had before, he wanted to live life to the fullest.

With her.  With Scarlett.

Swinging up into his saddle, James saw Home join Huntly as they made good their escape toward Coldstream. James could see the same salvation waiting for him.  It seemed wrong that he should survive when so many others would not and was tempted to return to battle but the King’s command weighed on him.  The prince, the new King was just a bairn.  He would have no one on his side.

A Sassenach pike caught James in the side and lifted him off his horse.  Staggering to his feet, James fought for breath against the all-encompassing pain and swung his sword once more.  Clash of steel against steel vibrating through his aching shoulders.  Slash to his enemy’s side and the man fell with a hoarse cry.

Clutching his side, James lowered his sword just as an angry cry sounded behind him and he turned to see yet another Englishman’s sword swinging for his head and no time to raise his sword in defense.

James closed his eyes waiting for the deathblow to fall, knowing that his end was at hand.  A high-pitched pop rose above the low din and opening his eyes, James saw the surprise on the Sassenach’s face as a small badge of red blossomed on his chest and unfurled.  He lifted his hand to the wound in surprise, his eyes shifting beyond James.  Another pop and the man staggered back and fell to his knees as a tiny red dot appeared on his forehead.

In astonishment, James spun about to find Scarlett thirty yards behind him, wrapped in his red Hepburn plaid.  Her arm raised and pointing at the man with the small firearm she had shown him in her hand.  A delicate wisp of smoke wove skyward from the barrel.  She was more pale than ever, her eyes dark with horror as she stared down at the body at James’ feet.

“Scarlett!”  The word was choked with surprise as he lurched toward her.  “What the fook, lass!  What are ye doin’ here?  This is nae place for a woman.”

Scarlett brows rose at that, color infusing her cheeks.  “Don’t you take that tone with me, Laird Hepburn.  I just saved your life!”

Another battle cry behind them, and James turned to fight once more but another pop sounded and the Englishman stumbled with a scream of pain as the bits of his knee fell apart.  Scarlett again.  Reaching her side, James grasped her arm, hauling her away from the fighting.  “Are you hurt?” she yelled over the clash of metal and the screams of dying men.

James shook his head.  He would survive it if they made their way through this mêlée.  Battling, pushing his way through the swamp of combat and death.  Ahead, he saw Rhys fall to his knees and rushed forward, feeling a jolt through his shoulders as his sword sank deep into