as the tip of his weapon lowered toward the ground.
Closing the distance between us, I carefully inspected the gash in his bicep. “This is bad. We need to get you to a doctor.”
Duncan’s eyes snapped back into focus with a grunt. “Get your hands off me. Continue fighting!”
“I will not!”
In one fluid motion, Duncan dropped his sword and then grabbed me by the hair. Quicker than I would’ve believe possible, he wound it around his wrist and spun me around so that my back was against his chest. “Do ye think the witch’s soldiers will give ye a time out?” he snarled. “Eòran, retrieve Mackenna’s sword for her.”
Mutton Chops scurried to do as his prince commanded. The badger-like guard handed me my weapon, hilt first. But I wouldn’t take it.
When I refused a second time, Duncan released me with a little push that sent me stumbling forward. “Pick up yer weapon and fight! Rabbie, begin the attack.”
The young guard’s mouth dropped open as he stared between the two of us with wide, disbelieving eyes. “But m’Laird.”
“That is an order, man!”
Rabbie leveled his sword at me, and nervously cleared his throat. “Please pick up your weapon, Miss Mackenna.”
“No.” I loosened the laces of my ruined top to expose my breastbone. “Kill me or let me tend to Duncan. Either way I’m not picking up my sword.”
Poor Rabbie looked at Duncan apologetically. “Sorry, m’Laird, I canna do what ye ask.”
“Be off with ye then! You too, Eòran.” Duncan waited for the guards to retreat, and then, without warning, he gripped my elbow and spun me around. “That was unacceptable. I’m tryin’ to save your life.”
“And I’m trying to save yours, you stupid ogre.” The blood streaming down his arm had started to pool on the ground. Whatever point he was stubbornly trying to prove would have to wait until after he got stitched up.
“In battle, you can’t afford to be impulsive,” he snapped, spit flying from his mouth. “If I’m injured, ye canna drop everything and come rushin’ to my side.”
“You’d do it for me,” I insisted.
Suddenly all the rage drained from his face and the coldness that replaced it terrified me in a way his anger never would. “Winning the battle and saving the kingdom is more important than any single life—even mine.”
“This is about more than the battle for Doon—and you know it. You never answered my question, back in the garden. Do you blame me for being stranded in Alloway? For not being able to go after your brother?”
His face was granite, features taut like he was keeping himself together through sheer force. “I should’ve been part of the rescue party. Then I’d have the certainty of knowing that Jamie was alive, or we’d both be dead and it wouldna matter.”
Hearing the truth of his confession rocked me on a cellular level. “So you’d rather die with him than survive with me?”
Duncan ducked his head. “Tha’s no’ what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said. Now please answer the question.”
“I dunno,” he admitted, unable to meet my gaze. “I mean, maybe . . .”
I searched his face. “What happens when we return to Doon, if he’s—gone.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “How dare you.”
But I could see the truth of it in his eyes. “You’re thinking it too. How could you not be? Let’s talk about it.”
“No.” He released my elbow so swiftly that I lost my balance and fell to my knees—the action seemed almost intentional in its violence. For a moment, I just stared at the small puddle of blood in the grass. When I finally found the presence of mind to get up, Duncan was gone.
I lay in bed, tossing and turning. For hours I’d tried everything in my power to fall asleep: counting sheep, lullabies, even reading. Nothing worked. Every time I closed my eyes, my humiliation and disappointment boiled over in a toxic burst of anger.
I was furious with Duncan for refusing to talk to me—and for walking away. Again. I kept replaying our fight over and over in my head, realizing too late what I could have said and done differently. It was Elaine Stritch all over again.
My final summer at drama camp had been highly anticipated for a couple of reasons. First, I got to pick my own monologue and song for the soloist showcase. Second, Elaine Stritch was coming as the showcase mentor. I’d spent most of my junior year preparing. Choosing Nina’s monologue from The Seagull had been a no-brainer—it was