Chapter Twenty-Two
The smell reached her before the flames did.
Hot pitch and burning wood thickened the air until each breath scraped her throat.
Smoke curled upward from the base of the walls, dark and choking, as the English pressed closer beneath their shields.
The battering ram struck again, the impact reverberating through the keep, the force rattling her bones.
Claire wiped her hands quickly on what remained of her sleeve, though the blood had already soaked through the fabric. The wounded man she tended was breathing more steadily now, his grip no longer frantic against her wrist.
“You will live,” she told him, though she did not know if it was truth or hope.
He managed a faint, crooked smile. “Aye. Thanks to ye, m’lady.”
Maddy appeared again, pressing a bundle of cloth into Claire’s hands. “More will be comin’. We’ll no’ keep up if we donna move faster.”
Claire nodded, already rising. “I’ll bring water,” she said.
Maddy caught her wrist briefly, her grip strong despite her age. “Mind where ye step. The wall is no place for wandering thoughts.”
“My mind is not wandering,” Claire replied.
“Nay,” Maddy said, studying her. “Ye are choosing.”
The words struck deeper than expected. Did the woman speak the truth? And truly, did Claire have a choice? Or did the cruel fates have other plans for her? Plans made by men and England.
Claire did not answer. She turned and moved quickly along the battlements, weaving through men and movement, through shouted commands and the sharp clang of steel. Buckets lined the wall near the stairs. Water drawn from the well below, sloshing with each hurried step of those who carried them.
She seized one, nearly losing her balance as another impact from the ram shuddered through the stone.
The gate would not hold.
The truth of it settled heavily in her chest, but she did not allow it to slow her.
A cry rose to her left.
“Fire!”
Claire turned sharply.
Flames had caught along a section of the outer wall where burning pitch had been thrown back by the defenders. The wind, fierce and relentless, fanned it upward, licking at the wood supports beneath the parapet.
Without thinking, she ran. “Water,” she called. “Bring more water!”
Two boys, barely more than children, stared at the flames, frozen in place.
“Move,” she snapped, thrusting the bucket into one of their hands. “Pour along the base. No, not there—there.” She pointed, guiding them, forcing their focus into action.
They obeyed and others followed.
Claire dropped to her knees, grabbing another bucket, sloshing water across the growing flames. Steam rose in a sharp hiss, but the fire resisted, feeding on the dry wood beneath.
“Again,” she urged.
More water came. More hands.
Together they beat it back, inch by stubborn inch, until the flames guttered and died, leaving only smoke and scorched wood behind.
Claire sagged back on her heels, breath coming hard, her blood racing through her veins.
“Ye’ve done this before?”
She looked up.
Maddy stood over her, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.
“No,” Claire said honestly.
Maddy huffed a quiet breath. “Ye’ve fooled me, lass.”
Another crash shook the wall.
Closer now.
The ram struck again, and this time the sound of splintering wood followed loud enough to cut through even the chaos above.
Claire’s head snapped toward the inner yard. “They are breaking through,” she said.
“Aye,” Maddy replied grimly.
Below them, men were already moving, repositioning, preparing for what would come next.
The battle shifted.
Claire pushed to her feet. “Where am I needed?” she asked.
Maddy studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded toward the stair. “With the living,” she said. “And the ones we intend to keep that way.”
Claire did not hesitate.
She turned and ran.
# # #
The gate would not hold.
Lachlan felt it in every strike of the ram, in the way the wood shuddered beneath the force, in the subtle shift of sound. It told him the structure was weakening beyond recovery.
He stood near the inner yard now, no longer on the wall, directing men into position as the defense tightened inward. Swords and shields were raised. Spears angled forward. The narrow space would work in their favor if they held.
“If it breaks,” he said, his voice carrying over the noise, “we meet them here. No retreat beyond this line.”
“Aye,” came the answer, strong and unified.
Shamus moved at his side, already bloodied from a cut along his brow, though he seemed not to notice.
“They’ll come fast once it goes,” Shamus said.
“They always do.”
Lachlan adjusted his grip on his sword, the leather warm beneath his hand despite the cold air. “Let them.”
Another crash.
Wood split.
A shout rose from the gate.
“Again!” someone yelled from outside.
The ram struck with brutal force, cracking the gate.
Not a groan or warning.
A splintering break sending bits of shards across the bailey.
Men shifted, tightening ranks, and shields locked.
Lachlan stepped forward, placing himself at the front line. And still his gaze lifted just once more toward the stairs.
He had told her to go below and meant it. Yet he knew she would not simply hide.
A flicker of movement caught his eye.
Claire.
She descended the steps quickly, carrying another bundle of cloth, her expression set with fierce determination. Smoke clung to her, and her hands were stained with blood, but she moved with purpose, weaving through the wounded and the warriors alike.
Not in the way, not afraid, a part of it. A part of the clan.
A strange, sharp pride rose in his chest, cutting through the tension.
“Your English Rose has teeth,” Shamus muttered beside him, following his gaze.
Lachlan did not look at him. “Aye,” he said.
“And ye’ll no’ like what happens if they take her.”
The words landed heavy, making the threat ever more dangerous.
Lachlan’s jaw tightened. “They willna.”
It was not hope, but a promise.
The gate splintered again, gave way.
Wood burst inward with a thunderous crack, shards flying as the ram broke through. The first line of English soldiers surged forward, shields raised, blades drawn, their battle cries filling the yard.
Lachlan did not hesitate. “Hold.”
The word rang out as he stepped into the breach, meeting the first soldier head on. Steel clashed, the impact jarring his arm as he drove the man back, then struck again, clean and decisive.
The line held as his men pressed forward.
Shields collided. The air filled with the sounds of battle—grunts, shouts, the sharp ring of blade against blade.
Lachlan moved through it with practiced precision, every strike purposeful, every step controlled. But even as he fought, he was aware or her.
Somewhere behind him, too close, too exposed.
A man broke through the line to his right, slipping past a shield, driving toward the wounded.
Toward her.
Lachlan saw it too late to call out.
Claire turned just as the soldier lunged.
For a heartbeat everything slowed. Then she moved, not back, bollocks, but forward.
She seized a fallen spear from the ground and drove it toward him. Not with perfect form, not with trained skill, but with enough force and surprise to throw him off balance.
It was enough.
Lachlan reached them in two strides and cut the man down before he could recover.
The soldier fell hard at Claire’s feet.
Claire stood frozen for half a breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Then she looked up at him with fear and shock widening her eyes. She was alive, unbroken, and God bless her, fierce.
Something in Lachlan shifted and he caught her wrist, pulling her back behind the line, his voice low and rough. “Stay where I can see ye.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around his. “I was helping,” she said.
“Aye,” he said, his grip not loosening. “And ye’ll keep doing so. Just no’ by getting yourself killed.”
Their eyes held for too long. Another soldier crashed into Lachlan’s shield, breaking the moment. He released her and turned back into the fight. But the feel of her lingered.
The knowledge she had chosen to stand stayed close in his mind and damn him, his heart.
And now there was no turning her away.
War had come.
And she had stepped into it beside him.