Chapter 22
Lachlan had learned long ago not to trust the quiet moments before a storm, the stillness filled with an ominous foreboding.
The sea beyond the cliffs of Dunvegan lay gray and restless, its surface shimmering beneath a low, heavy sky that pressed down like a warning. The wind carried the sharp scent of salt and distant rain across the land, threading through stone and timber alike, slipping beneath cloaks and into bone.
Behind the castle walls, the clan had already begun their morning work, but not with the usual jovial tones, rather they each had a pinched look on their face, stopping to listen every now and then.
Warriors filled the training yard with the dull, rhythmic clash of wooden blades, not wanting to dull the edges of their battle swords.
Their maneuvers were precise, disciplined, honed by years of repetition.
Near the clustered crofts, children ran between doorways, their small forms darting in and out of sight.
The lack of laughter revealed the weight of what gathered beyond the horizon.
At some point today, Lachlan would need to issue an order for the women and children to cluster in the cellar inside the castle walls, in the disastrous case the enemy breached their keep.
Lachlan walked the length of battlements, trailing his fingers against the same cold stone he’d touched as a child. Zeus followed the line of his trailing hand, overseeing the yard as though it were he in charge.
His gaze fixed on the narrow path that wound toward the south, the sun having barely yet risen as it was just nearing dawn.
He had watched that path for longer than he cared to admit, his attention returning to it again and again, measuring the time, marking the absence.
Waiting for the moment Caelan, Angus and Finley barreled down the road, the enemy on their heels.
The warriors who rode under Lachlan’s command had earned their place through skill and survival, their reputations were as well known as his own.
Men called him the Wolf of Skye—but wolves did not run alone, and those who rode at his side were no less dangerous for it.
The lack of Caelan, Angus and Finley’s returns did not bode well.
Something, or someone, stood in their path.
Soft footsteps sounded behind him, and he knew who it was before she spoke, her floral scent was an intoxicating balm.
“Ye’ve been standing here for nearly an hour.” Isabel’s voice carried a steadiness that he found soothing.
He glanced at her, taking in the length of her in the golden light of a sunrise, the simple gown she wore that hid the gloriousness of her body beneath. Despite the heaviness of the impending battle, he smiled. “Ye noticed.”
“Ye’re difficult no’ to notice,” she replied, stepping beside him, and placing her hand briefly over his on the stones. “They have no’ returned?”
Lachlan shook his head, his gaze returning to the horizon. Before he could form words, the horn from the outer watchtower blared. The sound cut through the morning like a blade, silencing the yard below in an instant.
Lachlan straightened at once, every part of him on high alert, and ready for action.
A rider broke into view along the narrow road, his horse lathered and hard-breathed from the climb, hooves striking sharp against the packed earth as his rider urged it forward. The wind blew his long red hair from his queue. Caelan.
Two more followed close behind, riding flank to flank, their pace controlled but relentless.
The white streak on the muzzle of the left horse gave away Finley’s mount, which could only mean Angus beside him.
Between them, lashed across a saddle like spoils taken in a hunt, a man sagged forward, his body bound and barely upright.
His head lolled with the movement of the horse, dark hair plastered to his face with sweat and dirt, his boots dragging dangerously low with each jolt of the path as though he lacked the strength to hold himself steady.
Lachlan let out a curse, already moving.
He did not wait for Isabel, but he felt her fall in beside him all the same as he descended the stone steps two at a time, the wind rushing past them as the tension of the morning broke into full alarm.
By the time they reached the courtyard, the men had crossed over the drawbridge and were dismounting.
The prisoner sagged between them, his hands bound, his face pale beneath the streaks of mud and exhaustion. He looked less like a soldier and more like a man who had run too far and been caught too late.
“We found him along the southern coast,” Malcolm said, his voice tight with restrained urgency.
Lachlan stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over the man with cold precision. He wore plain trews and a leine. No tartan. No English garb. “What were ye doing on my land?”
The prisoner rolled his head to look at Lachlan, lips pinched closed in defiance.
But there was fear in his eyes so complete it seemed to hollow him out from within.
The man’s shoulders remained drawn tight, as though bracing for a blow that had not yet come, and his gaze refused to rest in any one place.
Instead, his eyes flickered from man to man, darting across the ring of warriors surrounding him as though searching for a gap, an opening, some impossible path of escape that did not exist. Each time his gaze passed over Lachlan, it faltered, dropping quickly, unable—or unwilling—to hold.
Caelan stepped forward then, breaking the tension with quiet purpose. He held out a small leather pouch, its surface darkened with use, the drawstring pulled tight. “We found this,” he said.
Lachlan took it without removing his attention from the prisoner. He loosened the cord with one hand and tipped the contents into his palm, letting the pieces fall with a soft, unmistakable weight against his skin.
Coins.
They were small and worn from use, their edges dulled, their surfaces marked by time and trade—but there was no mistaking them.
Even before he turned one between his fingers, before the faint glint of the stamped mark caught the light, he knew what they were.
Silver pennies depicting a long cross on one side and the head of Edward I on the other. Too bad it wasn’t his actual head.
Lachlan’s jaw tightened, the muscle shifting beneath his skin as the quiet tension in the courtyard deepened. Around him, his men did not speak, but he felt the shift in them all the same.
This was no longer a question of trespass.
The presence of English coin in a Highlander’s pouch did not happen by chance, nor did it speak of wandering men or opportunistic theft.
It spoke of purpose—of direction given and followed with intent.
Lachlan closed his hand around the coins, their dull edges pressing into his palm as the truth settled in his mind.
“We also found this on him.” Malcolm withdrew a folded scrap of parchment from within his cloak.
It was worn nearly to breaking, the edges softened and darkened with dirt.
The surface had been creased again and again as though it had been opened and reopened, studied and restudied, and then hidden in haste.
Lachlan took it without speaking, as he unfolded it with deliberate care. The parchment resisted slightly, the fibers stiff, before giving way beneath his fingers. He smoothed it once against his palm, then lifted it into the light.
The writing was crude. His eyes moved across it quickly at first, then slowed, returning to certain lines, certain symbols, as the meaning began to take shape.
Coordinates.
Below them, rough descriptions of the coastline—jagged outcroppings, narrow inlets, places where ships might anchor unseen or approach without drawing notice.
Several points along the cliffs had been marked with small, deliberate strokes, each one corresponding to a place Lachlan knew well enough to picture without needing the map before him.
Lachlan did not move for a moment, the parchment held steady in his hand as the full weight of what it meant settled into place. Around him, the courtyard had gone quiet, though he barely registered it. His focus remained fixed on the page, on the unmistakable intent of such a document.
Whoever had written this had not been guessing. They had known these waters. Knew the land. Knew exactly how to lead the English where they wished them to go.
That confirmed it in a way suspicion never could.
This was no single act of desperation or betrayal born in the chaos of battle.
It had taken time to gather information, to pass it on, ensuring it reached the right hands.
Kerr had not acted in haste. He had planned.
And he had continued long after the Battle of Falkirk, feeding the English what they needed to move with purpose instead of guesswork.
And it appeared he had a long reach, and many helpers.
“And why,” Lachlan said, his voice low and even, “would the English care about Dunvegan?”
The prisoner faltered. His breath hitched, and for a moment it seemed he might try to hold the answer back. But fear had already taken hold of him too completely for that. His gaze shifted, catching on Isabel where it lingered too long, revealing the truth before he even spoke.
“They want her,” the prisoner’s words were rushed. “Kerr told them she was here.” The man swallowed hard, his voice faltering as he forced the rest out. “He said if they capture her—”
“He said Bruce will be forced to bargain.”
“And where are the English?”
The man’s lips clamped closed, but all it took was a well-placed squeeze on the neck from Malcolm, the press of a blade in a threat to gut him from stem to sternum. Then he was singing. “They’ll be here in the dead of night. Taking a page from your savage strategies.”
Lachlan held the man’s gaze for a moment longer. Aye, many of the raids had taken place in the dead of night. He supposed it was only a matter of time before the enemy adopted their tactics. He glanced at Isabel who stood ramrod straight, defiance in her gaze, even as her face had gone pale.
This was no longer simply a matter of defending land and people. Kerr had given the English something more valuable than territory. He had given them leverage.
“Light the signal fires.” The command cut cleanly through the stillness, and the men moved at once.
Torches were seized, orders carried, boots striking against stone as the courtyard shifted from watchfulness into action.
“Women and children gather what they need to survive the night in the cellars. Warn the crofters. Tell them to come here, bring their livestock into the bailey for protection,” Lachlan continued, his voice carrying over the rising movement.
More men broke away at once, their pace quickening as they moved to follow orders.
“Hide the boats along the western shore. Leave nothing in the open that can be taken or turned against us. We’ll send a contingent of warriors on the road to intercept the enemy.”
The clan responded as one, each man, woman and child falling into their role without question.
Lachlan turned back toward Isabel, the urgency of the courtyard still moving around them, though his focus narrowed to her alone. “Ye should return to the castle,” he said, his tone controlled but firm, the command clear beneath it.
Her reaction was immediate. Her eyes flashed, not with panic, but with authority. “Nay.”
“That was no’ a request, lass,” he replied, stepping closer, lowering his voice so it did not carry beyond them. “Ye heard the man, the bastards are coming for ye.”
Her gaze flickered to the courtyard, guilt in the turn of her mouth.
“And that is precisely why I will no’ hide.
” She returned her gaze to his. “I will stand with the people who risk their lives to protect mine. And I will gather provisions for tending the wounded. I’ve never been a woman that hid from conflict, Lachlan, ye should know that by now. ”
’Twas true, the lass was strong, intelligent, and not once had he seen her cower in the face of danger. If anything, she was ready to take up a sword and fight. That was part of the reason he’d fallen in love… Zounds, but he loved her.
“Aye, lass.” He exhaled slowly, though it did little to ease the tension building in his chest. “I should no’ love ye the way I do,” he said, the words escaping before he could stop them.
Isabel’s breath caught at that, her composure faltering for the first time. “Lachlan—”
He closed the distance between them, his hands resting on her hips. “I tried to keep my distance,” he continued, his throat tight with emotion. “I told myself it was foolish. That it would only make things harder. But, I canna, willna…”
“Love,” she breathed, her eyes wide as if the word itself surprised her. “I love ye, too.”
“If we survive what is coming…” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I wish for ye to be my wife.”
Isabel stared at him for a long beat before she spoke. “Do ye mean that?”
“Aye. With every fiber of my being.”
“Even if my uncle threatens to punish us?”
“Nothing and no one can stand between us. I would take the harshest punishment if it meant I could keep loving ye.” He brushed his fingers lovingly against her cheek. “I will no’ lose ye.”
Before she could answer, the horn sounded again, its bleat long and urgent, cutting through the moment, breaking the spell that had settled between them. A shout followed, carrying across the bailey with sudden force.
“Ships!”
Lachlan turned at once, instinct overriding everything else. He rushed up the battlement stairs, reaching the wall, his gaze on the sea loch.
Dark sails cut cleanly across the gray water, their line steady, purposeful, their direction unmistakable.
The prisoner had lied.