Chapter Twenty-Four
The rider came alone. His first wrong step.
Not the army drawn along the ridge which Lachlan expected. Not a gathering of banners, snapping red against the gray sky. Not even the quiet falling over Raven’s Berry as every man along the wall turned their attention toward the valley.
It was the stillness in the rider himself.
He did not rush. Did not hesitate. He rode as though the ground belonged to him.
As though he had never left it.
Lachlan stepped forward onto the outer stretch before the broken gate, boots crunching over splintered wood and churned earth. Shamus moved to his right without a word, sword low but ready. Behind them, the line held, silent, watchful.
“Stay sharp,” Lachlan said under his breath.
Shamus gave the smallest nod.
The rider drew closer.
And with every step of the horse the past came with him. Lachlan saw it then. Not just the resemblance. Not just the familiar line of bone and movement. Memory.
Alasdair.
His brother had aged but not softened. His hair was darker now, his face harder, carved by choices Lachlan had once hoped would kill him before they changed him.
They had not.
Alasdair reigned just beyond striking distance. The crimson banner snapped above him.
For a long moment, neither man spoke.
The wind moved between them. The same wind had once carried them across these hills as boys. The same wind now carried the scent of war.
“Well,” Alasdair said at last, his voice carrying easily. “Ye built something worth burning.”
The words landed as though this were nothing more than a visit between kin.
Lachlan did not move. “Ye should have stayed dead,” he said.
Alasdair’s grin held nothing but malice. “And miss this?” he replied. “Miss seeing ye play laird over a crumbling keep and a starving clan?”
A ripple of tension moved through the men behind Lachlan.
“Say what ye came to say,” he said.
Alasdair’s gaze slid past him then. Toward the keep. Toward her.
Lachlan felt it before he turned. Claire stood just beyond the threshold of the inner yard, not hidden, not shielded, simply watching.
Of course she was.
Alasdair’s smile deepened. “There she is,” he said softly. “The prize.”
Lachlan’s hand tightened around his sword. “She’s no’ yers.”
Alasdair laughed. “No’ yet.”
The word scraped like iron against Lachlan’s loose grip on his fury.
“I didna come for yer land, brother,” Alasdair continued, his tone shifting, sharpening. “Though I’ll take it if I must. I came for her.”
Claire did not move but Lachlan felt her stillness harden.
“She is under my protection,” Lachlan said.
“Aye,” Alasdair said, leaning forward slightly in the saddle. “’Tis precisely the problem. Her father promised her to a verra powerful man.”
The words struck like a blow.
Even knowing, even suspecting, hearing it spoken aloud twisted something deep in Lachlan’s chest.
“A bargaining piece,” Alasdair continued. “A marriage. An alliance. A leash to keep men like ye in line.”
Silence fell heavy.
Behind him, Lachlan heard Claire’s sharp intake of breath.
His attention remained steadily on his brother. If one were to show any weakening, he’d pounce. And turning to look at Claire would reveal all he felt for the woman, the beautiful woman who’d invaded his thoughts and dreams.
“Ye lie,” Lachlan said.
Alasdair shrugged. “Then allow her to come with me,” he said lightly as if they were having a simple conversation while sharing a dram. “Let her ask him herself.”
The offer hung in the air. Poison wrapped in reason.
Lachlan stepped forward. “Or what?” he asked.
Alasdair’s gaze sharpened. “Or I take her,” he said simply. “And this time, I dinna leave yer walls standing.”
The threat was not loud. It did not need to be. Because Lachlan believed him. Because this was not the boy he had once known. This was a man who would burn everything to win.
“Come and try,” Lachlan said.
The words were quiet.
Deadly.
Alasdair studied him for a long moment, then he smiled again. “Aye,” he said. “I think I will. Ye will no’ win this one, Brother.”
He turned his horse with effortless ease and rode back toward the ridge.
The banners stirred, the army shifted, the pause was over.
War would come again. Harder this time, closer to all he protected.
A final skirmish to decide it all.
# # #
She had known something was wrong the moment the rider appeared.
Not another attack. Not yet. Something else—worse.
Claire stood just inside the broken gate, her hands still stained, her breath not yet steady from the last wave of chaos. Around her, the keep held its fragile order, but she felt the tension beneath it, sharp and waiting.
And then she saw him.
Alasdair.
Even from a distance, the resemblance struck like a physical thing. The same height. The same strength in the shoulders. The same stillness Lachlan carried when he was about to strike.
But where Lachlan felt like stone, this man felt like fire. Uncontrolled, hungry, and consuming fire. She did not realize she had stepped forward until the cold air hit her fully, until she stood where she could hear them.
Every word.
Every truth.
“There she is. The prize.”
Claire went still.
The word settled over her like a brand. Prize. Not woman or a person. Something to be claimed—to be traded.
Her stomach roiled, regardless, she did not look away. No, she forced herself to meet his gaze, to stand up for herself. Even as something cold and sharp began to form beneath her ribs.
Her father promised her to a powerful man. That was not what she had been told and the words echoed in her mind with shape and meaning and intent.
Not just a marriage, an alliance and a leash.
Claire’s fingers curled at her sides. All at once, pieces fell into place—the urgency of her journey, the silence around her betrothal, the way decisions had been made without her voice ever entering the room. She had not been protected, she had been positioned.
Where had the man gone who taught her to play chess? The man who adored her mother?
Everything shifted when she looked at Lachlan and he had not turned toward her.
But she saw it in the set of his shoulders, their tension, the fury barely held in check.
He knew or had known enough. And still he had taken her. And the realization struck her, his motive was not for power or for leverage, but to keep her from this.
Trust unfurled fully for this man and his clan. An emotion she had rarely experienced in her life, and it felt good no matter the current situation.
Alasdair’s voice carried again. “Then allow her to come with me.”
Claire’s breath caught and for a single heartbeat the world tilted. Back to England? To her father? Everything she had ever known.
She could go back and end this, end the war. Keep all safe from further plunder. Protect the clan—Lachlan.
The thought flickered, then died, because she understood now. Going back was not safety, it was surrender and she would not be bartered.
Not again. Not ever.
“Or I take her.”
Claire straightened. Fear rippled through her sharp and real. No, she would not allow it to take root. Instead, it burned with indignation and prompted her to further her resolve.
She lifted her chin and met Alasdair’s gaze fully. Let him see she was not something easily taken. The man ignored her, his gaze rooted on his brother until he finally turned and rode away, the valley seemed to exhale with him.
But the quiet he left behind was worse than the noise. It was not peace, it was a promise war would come again.
Claire stepped forward, closing the distance to Lachlan. “You knew,” she said quietly.
He turned then, his eyes met hers with sorrow and regret. “Aye,” he said.
“How?”
He swiped at his brow, leaving a dark red streak across his skin. “My father and yours corresponded.”
Corresponded? The man spoke nonsense. Her father loathed the Scots, raged against them when given a chance, especially since her mother’s death. The man turned into something Claire did not recognize—a man turned to stone.
“Many years ago, my father saved yours.”
Confusion filled her mind with too many thoughts. Yes, her father had fought, it fueled his hatred. Yes, he possessed a slight limp and complained when it bothered him. She had never thought to ask him how he had been injured.
“I have their letters. They are filled with niceties and talk of family. When your mother died . . . he, my father worried Ashford’s grief would change him.”
Claire grunted and Lachlan moved closer. Why had he not told her before? Why all of the secrecy?
Lachlan tipped up her chin and gazed directly into her eyes. “When my father died, I found the letters. All details of yer father’s plans. My brother’s treachery. And the bargaining of an innocent lass.”
The word settled between them, and she appreciated the honesty despite the tension coiling within her.
She turned Lachlan’s words over and over trying to understand how she had been ignorant of her father’s machinations.
She fleeting wondered what hurt the most, her father’s actions or how Lachlan had kept the information from her until this pivotal moment.
The clan shifted around them. Men helping guide the injured to inside the castle. Others tried hauling the pieces of the broken gate away. Children silently moved through the chaos with fear widening their eyes.
Fire kindled in her gut. Hot and furious. “Did you think I was so weak I could not have navigated my betrothal on my own?”
She pointed her finger into his chest. “Have I not proven myself as capable?”
“Claire,” Lachlan began, “I donna think ye weak.”
“Yet my father and you stole my ability to decide regarding my fate. Regardless, Claire held his gaze. “I will not go back,” she said.
There was no hesitation in her proclamation. She meant each word, felt them deep within her. Now she had experienced a freedom of sort, and she would not return to England and live in a gilded cage. No matter what had happened.
He nodded, his face solemn and his eyes filled with concern. No, he did not deserve her consideration. Then his grin was quick and shined in his eyes. “Grand,” he said.
The man seemed pleased with himself, while she remained piqued at his actions, his decisions and the decisions of the men making choices for her.
Regardless, her vow to remain in Scotland brought clarity and now she had made a choice, her future was her own. She would stand by it.
No matter what came next.