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The Bruce looked around at the last few enemies making their escape. “Get them!” he roared. “And let’s take Dunstaffnage!”

That was where the old MacDougall, John MacDougall’s sick father, resided. The men around the king pumped their fists in the air. Those who had horses mounted them, and those on foot gathered weapons and shields. Soon they all charged forward with victorious roars and cries. The Bruce noticed Owen on the ground and rushed over to him.

“Owen.” He sank to his knees, worry in his eyes. “Oh Christ, man, ye’re wounded badly.”

“Is there a medic here? A healer?” Amber said.

“Aye. We have several. They’ll stay and help ye, aye?”

“Thank ye, Your Grace,” Owen said.

The Bruce took Owen’s hand between his palms. “Nae, Owen Cambel. Thank ye. If it wasna for ye, I’d likely be dead or defeated. Ye’ve done everything right, man. Ye’ve done everything right.” He looked at Amber. “And ye, too, lass.”

“Thank you,” Amber said.

He looked at Owen again. “I must go and deliver the last blow, but once ye get better, I promise ye an estate in the Lorne for yer service. Ye’ll be the lord of yer own house.”

Gratitude and pride overflowed in Owen’s chest. He’d done everything right. The MacDougalls had been crushed. He hadn’t brought shame or embarrassment on his clan. On the contrary, the king was going to grant all MacDougall land to the Cambels.

And Owen had played a part in that.

“Godspeed, Your Grace,” Owen said, and the king smiled back at him through his beard. “Make them pay.”

The Bruce nodded and walked away. He mounted his horse and spurred it on, heading west with his knights to the heart of Lorne.

Owen looked at Amber. He had everything now. Tiredness was pulling him in its dark, warm embrace. He was slipping away, and he didn’t know if it was into death or an exhausted sleep. But wherever he went, he wanted to know Amber would not leave him.

“Stay…” It was all he managed to say before he sank into complete darkness.

Chapter 32

The next day…

Amber stroked Owen’s pale cheekbone. He was as handsome as ever in the semidarkness of his bedroom. The fire crackled softly. The shutters were open and the sunlight coming through the window fell on his chest.

Amber sat on his bed. She hadn’t left him for a minute since yesterday on the battlefield. A healer had treated the wound as best he could, and Amber had taken Owen back to Glenkeld together with several other wounded on a cart as soon as they could.

Back in Glenkeld, Amy treated his wound again with fresh cloth she boiled. She’d also disinfected the wound with alcohol, an even stronger version of moonshine that was poisonous to drink. Amy had stitched the gash in his thigh, and now, thankfully, the bleeding had stopped completely. Owen got the best medical care given the medieval circumstances.

His lids fluttered, and he opened his eyes. Amber’s heart burst with joy seeing him awake. He’d slept most of the night after Amy had stitched him up, during which he’d been awake and wheezing loudly through the pain.

“Amber,” he whispered.

His eyes were still clouded from the potion that Amy had given him for pain so he could sleep through the night.

She cupped his jaw, tears of joy prickling at the corners of her eyes. “Hey. How are you feeling? Do you want some water?”

He smacked his lips tiredly. “Aye. My damn arms feel like they weigh ten stone each.”

“Yeah, it’s the blood loss, buddy.” She helped him drink. “Are you in pain?” she asked when he finished.

“Aye. My leg feels like ’tis on fire.”

“You’ll be okay. We got the bleeding to stop, which is the most important thing. He got you good.”

“He paid for it.”

“Yeah. He did.”