Chapter Twenty-One
The horns did not simply sound—they mourned.
Low and hollow, they rolled through the valley and climbed the stone walls of Raven’s Berry until the very air seemed to tremble with them. Claire felt the vibration in her chest before she fully understood what it meant.
War had started.
She stood on the battlements, fingers pressed into the rough stone and stared at the ridge where the English banners had begun to gather.
Crimson and gold cut through the gray morning like wounds across the land.
Beneath them, men advanced in disciplined lines, their armor catching what little light the sky offered.
And all of it—every man, every blade, every step forward—had come because of her.
The thought struck deep and sharp.
If she had not been taken or her father had not bargained or she had not crossed the border, Raven’s Berry would still be quiet. A place of smoke and laughter and bread baking in the morning.
Instead, it had become a target.
Her stomach twisted as another horn sounded, closer now, answered by the rising movement below. The bailey surged with purpose—men hauling shields into place, archers taking position, women carrying bundles of cloth and water with tight, determined expressions.
No one panicked. They were prepared for this.
Prepared because of her. Guilt pressed hard against her ribs, tightening her breath.
“You should not be here. Ye should be in the keep.” Lachlan’s voice came from behind her, low but edged with steel.
Claire turned. He strode toward her across the wall, already armed, his presence cutting through the chaos with unshakable force. The wind caught in his hair and tugged at the dark plaid across his shoulders, but he moved as though nothing could touch him.
As though he belonged in the storm.
She held her ground.
“Neither should they,” she said, gesturing toward the valley below. The words came sharper than she intended, but she did not soften them. Because it was true.
His jaw tightened. “This was always coming. My brother would use any reason to return and harm his clan.”
“Was it?” she challenged quietly. “Or did I simply hasten it?”
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Not anger, something deeper. Then it vanished quickly.
“This is not your burden to carry,” he said.
Claire let out a breath which almost became a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Your keep is surrounded by English soldiers, and I am the daughter of the man who sent them. I think it is very much my burden.”
The words hung between them, raw and undeniable.
Below, the first line of soldiers shifted, shields locking together as they advanced. The heavy shape of a battering ram rolled forward behind them, its iron-bound head glinting dully.
The sight filled her with dread.
“They mean to break your gates,” she said.
“Aye, my English Rose.” The calm certainty in his voice unsettled her more than fear would have.
Another horn sounded.
Then—
“Archers!”
The command rang out from somewhere along the wall, sharp and immediate.
Men moved around them in a blur of motion—bows lifted, arrows nocked, bodies braced.
Claire stepped back instinctively as the first volley loosed.
The sky darkened briefly as arrows cut through the air, then fell into the advancing line below. Cries rose from the valley—some sharp, some cut short—followed by the heavy thud of bodies striking earth.
Her stomach lurched.
This was no distant war.
This was blood.
Real.
A second volley followed, and this time the English answered.
Arrows rose from below in a deadly arc.
“Down!” Lachlan’s hand closed around her arm, pulling her back just as an arrow struck the stone where she had been standing. The impact splintered rock, sending shards skittering across the wall.
Claire sucked in a breath, heart hammering.
He did not release her.
For a moment, they stood close—too close—the heat of him cutting through the chill of the wind, his grip firm, grounding.
“You should be below,” he said, his voice rougher now.
“And do what?” she demanded. “Wait while your people bleed for a war I brought to your door?”
“You did not bring this war.”
“I am standing in the middle of it, Lachlan!”
The words broke from her, fierce and unguarded. Silence flickered between them, fragile and brief.
Then the ram struck.
The sound reverberated through the walls—a deep, thunderous crack shaking the very stone beneath her feet. Claire flinched despite herself.
Again, the ram hit harder.
Wood groaned in protest somewhere below.
“They will not hold long,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Lachlan’s gaze shifted past her, already assessing, already calculating. “Then we make them hold,” he said.
Another shout rose along the wall.
“Bring the oil!”
Men moved quickly, hauling heavy cauldrons toward the edge. The air filled with the scent of heated pitch and smoke as the liquid was tipped over the side.
Screams followed.
Claire closed her eyes for a fraction of a second, steadying herself. Then she opened them again. She would not look away.
Not when they could not.
A man stumbled back from the wall nearby, clutching his side where an arrow had lodged. Blood darkened his tunic, spreading quickly.
Without thinking, Claire moved. She crossed the short distance and caught him as he faltered, lowering him carefully to the stone.
“Hold still,” she said, though her voice trembled.
The man gritted his teeth, his breath coming fast. “Leave it,” he managed. “I’ll—”
“You will not,” she said firmly.
She tore a strip from the edge of her sleeve, pressing it against the wound to slow the bleeding. Her hands moved with surprising steadiness, guided by instinct rather than training.
Pressure. Cloth. Stay with him.
“Look at me,” she said.
He did.
She held his gaze until his breathing steadied, until the panic faded from his eyes.
“There,” she murmured. “You are not done yet.”
Footsteps approached.
Maddy.
The older woman took in the scene in a single glance—the blood, Claire’s hands, the torn fabric. Her expression was not one of surprise, but of recognition Claire was part of them, part of the clan come what may.
“Grand,” Maddy said briskly, kneeling beside them. “Keep the pressure. I’ll fetch more cloth.”
Claire nodded, not looking away from the man she held.
Around them, the battle raged. Steel rang. Voices shouted.
The ram struck again.
But for that moment she did not feel like the cause of destruction. She was useful.
If her father came to strike, she could do her best to strike back.
# # #
He had seen fear before. Knew its shape, its scent, the way it hollowed a man from the inside and left him brittle.
Claire did not break that way.
Lachlan stood at the wall, sword in hand, issuing orders as the battle surged around him, but his gaze kept returning to her despite himself.
He had told her to go below.
She had not.
For a moment he contemplated forcing the matter. Instead, he watched as she knelt beside one of his men, her hands bloodied, her voice steady as she worked to keep him from slipping into shock. Not hesitation or weakness, just action.
It stirred something in him he did not have time to name.
“Shields up!” he called, stepping forward as another volley rose from below.
Arrows struck the parapet in sharp succession. One glanced off his shoulder guard, the force of it enough to jar his arm. He ignored it, scanning the line, adjusting positions where needed.
“Keep the archers rotating,” he shouted. “Donna give them a clear mark!”
“Aye,” came the answering call.
The ram struck again.
Harder.
The gate would not hold indefinitely.
“Shamus,” he barked.
“Aye.” His friend appeared at his side, breath steady despite the chaos.
“Take five men and reinforce the inner gate. If it gives, we fall back to the second line.”
Shamus nodded once, already turning. “And Lachlan,” he paused, his gaze flicking briefly toward Claire and continued quietly, “She’s got more steel in her than half yer men.”
Then he was gone.
Lachlan did not answer. He did not trust what might come out if he did.
Another crash echoed through the keep as the ram struck again, the wood below splintering further with each blow.
Time narrowed.
He moved along the wall, cutting down a man who had nearly gained the parapet, then kicked the ladder away as it crashed back into the line below. The fight pressed closer now. No longer distant, no longer contained.
This was the breaking point.
A shout rose behind him.
“The wounded!”
Lachlan turned.
Claire was still there, still kneeling, still refusing to retreat.
Blood stained her hands and sleeve, her hair loosened by the wind, her focus fixed entirely on the man she held as though nothing else existed.
Not the arrows.
Not the war.
Not him.
A mix of pride and fury twisted in his chest. Something far more dangerous threaded through both. Without further thought, he crossed back toward her in long strides, catching her arm as she shifted to reach for more cloth.
“’Tis enough,” he said.
She looked up at him without fear and he kenned yielding. “I am not finished.”
The quiet certainty in her voice struck deeper than a shout.
“Ye will be if the gate breaks,” he said, nodding toward the inner yard.
Another thunderous crack answered him.
She followed his gaze.
For a moment, uncertainty flickered.
Then, she set her jaw. “Then I will move when it does,” she said.
Bollocks.
He should have dragged her from the wall. Should have ended the argument there. Instead, he released her.
“Stay close,” he said. The words came low, rough, far too close to something he did not allow himself.
She met his gaze and nodded. Not out of obedience, but of understanding.
Lachlan turned back to the fight as the ram struck again, the gate below groaning under the strain.
War arrived at Raven’s Berry.
And it would not leave without taking something in return.
He only prayed it would not be her.
The sight of the English banners brought another memory. One he rarely allowed himself to revisit.
Snow had covered the Highlands that winter.
The cold had settled into the bones of Raven's Berry itself. Lachlan had returned from the outer village to find shouting echoing through the great hall.
Alasdair stood before their father. A folded parchment clenched in his fist.
"I saved them," Alasdair had shouted.
Duncan Cameron stood unmoving near the hearth. "You sold them."
The hall had gone silent. Every clansman present frozen and sensing one slight movement could bring their laird’s scrutiny upon them.
Alasdair thrust the document forward. "’Tis timber rights. Nothing more."
His father stared at his brother as if he loathed the man. "It was Cameron land."
"Land we could spare." Duncan's voice had dropped lower.
Far more threatening than shouting.
His father crossed his arms before his chest and pinned Alasdair with a lethal glare. "It was not yours to trade."
Lachlan remembered the absolute fury in Alasdair 's face.
Not guilt or humiliation.
As though being corrected before the clan wounded him more deeply than the mistake itself.
"We needed food,” Alasdair insisted as he pounded on the table before him.
"We needed honor," his father countered.
The words struck like a blade. Alasdair 's expression changed.
Something hardening, something breaking.
For one terrible heartbeat, Lachlan had seen hatred in his brother's eyes.
Not hatred for England.
Not hatred for circumstance.
Hatred for the man standing before him.
Years later, when the letters were discovered and the deaths traced back to English informants, Lachlan would remember the look.
And realize the true betrayal had begun long before any letter was ever written.