Chapter Twenty-Six
The ride blurred into cold and motion. Wind tore at her face, stealing breath and thought alike, while the rhythm of the horse pounded through her bones. The man behind her held fast, one arm locked around her waist, the other guiding the reins with practiced ease.
She did not stop fighting. Even as exhaustion dragged at her limbs, even as the land beneath them dipped and rose in treacherous darkness, Claire twisted when she could. She drove her heel back when there was space, forcing him to tighten his grip again and again.
“You will only make it worse for yourself,” he snarled, his breath hot on her ear.
“Good,” she snapped, the word came raw from her strained throat. Tension strung through her body, pulling it as tight as a bow. Her neck, back, and legs ached.
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Aye. You have got teeth, I’ll grant you that.”
Claire did not answer. She focused on the land, the shapes, the slopes, the faint glimmer of water when the clouds shifted enough to allow moonlight through. She forced herself to remember the path, the direction, and the position of the moon.
If she could not escape now, she would later when the men looked away or slept. She must. Her life depended on it.
The ride slowed at last as the ground leveled. Voices carried ahead. Low, but unmistakably English. They must be near the camp.
Torches flickered into view, scattered across the valley like fallen stars. Tents stood in uneven rows, their canvas snapping in the wind. Horses were tethered along the outer edge, their restless shifting and nickers adding to the constant murmur of movement.
They rode straight through it.
Men glanced up as they rode straight through it. Some with curious inspection, others with knowing smirks on their faces. All of them watching.
Claire lifted her chin a notch, refusing to bow to her fears. Let them watch. All they would see was a strong woman. She was not broken.
The rider hauled her down from the horse with little ceremony. Her boots struck the ground hard, her balance faltering for half a step before she steadied herself.
“Careful,” he said lightly. “I would not want to damage the bounty.”
Claire’s gaze snapped to his. “I am not bounty.”
“No?” he replied, amused. “Then why is half the valley burning for you?”
The words struck, but she did not let them show. “Take me to whoever thinks he owns me,” she said.
The man’s smile faded slightly and he pushed her forward. “Careful what you ask for.”
Claire walked. Not because she was forced, but because she refused to be dragged.
The largest tent stood near the center of the camp, its banner catching the wind above it—crimson, marked, unmistakable.
Alasdair.
Two guards stepped aside as they approached.
“Found her wandering,” her captor said and pulled back the tent flaps. “Thought you might like the trouble delivered to your door.”
The man leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms before his chest. “Did ye now?”
The cold voice was familiar in tone, though she had never heard it before.
Curious, Claire stepped inside. The air was warmer there, lit by low-burning lanterns casting long shadows across the canvas walls. A table stood at the center, maps spread across it, weighted by daggers and cups alike.
And behind it—Him.
Alasdair Cameron.
Up close, the resemblance to Lachlan was undeniable. But where Lachlan felt grounded, Alasdair felt sharpened. Every edge honed for use.
He studied her with brazen slowness. Not with curiosity, with assessment.
“So,” he said. “Ye’re the English lass who’s caused so much trouble.”
Claire did not lower her gaze. “If you mean the woman you rode to war for,” she said evenly, “then yes.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Interest quickly banked by annoyance.
“No’ afraid,” he observed.
“Of you?” she asked with false bravado. “No.”
A necessary lie.
His mouth curved. “Grand,” he said. “I’d hate to be disappointed.”
He circled her then, slow, deliberate, as though inspecting something he had already decided to claim. “Do ye ken what ye are?” he asked.
Claire did not move. “A woman,” she said.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Nay,” he said. “Ye are leverage.”
The word landed clean and without apology. The bastard.
“Yer father made certain of that.”
Claire’s anger began to roil—but she held steady. “My father does not decide what or who I am.”
Alasdair stopped in front of her. Leaned in close. “He already did,” he said gruffly. “Ye were meant to secure loyalty. A marriage. An alliance. Something to keep the Highlands quiet while England tightened its grip.”
Claire’s hands curled at her sides. How she itched to slap the smirk off his face. An alliance? Were his boasts true? “I am not a treaty.”
“Nay,” he agreed. “Ye’re far more useful than that.”
The shift in his tone made her skin prickle.
“How?” she demanded.
His gaze sharpened, carving planes across his face as sheer as the Highlands and she understood why people feared the man.
“Because Lachlan cares whether ye live.”
The words struck harder than any blade. The man’s actions were due to his hatred of his brother? So much so, he feigned his death to later rise and wreak havoc? “You mistake him,” she said carefully.
“Do I?” Alasdair leaned in slightly and his gaze shifted over her. “Then why did he take ye? Why risk war for a woman he dinna ken?”
Claire did not answer. While Lachlan shared some information, she had a feeling deep in the pit of her stomach there was more.
Alasdair straightened and sniffed at her. “It doesna’ matter,” he said. “He’ll come for ye regardless.”
“And you think to use me?”
“I think,” he said, “he’s already lost.”
Claire met his gaze and allowed a small, icy smile. “Then you do not know him at all.”
His brow cock in a sharp angle over his piercing eyes. “I’ve kenned the mon my entire life.”
"Lachlan will never allow this." The words had barely left Claire's mouth when Alasdair laughed.
Not loudly or cruelly.
Worse.
The sound held no humor at all.
The English soldiers nearby exchanged glances before drifting farther down the worn path between the tents.
Alasdair stepped toward the entrance of the tent. Rain misted in heavy clouds. Beyond it, gray skies pressed low against the hills.
"Always Lachlan."
Claire stiffened. Had he meant for her to hear the words? "What do you mean?"
He turned to face her. Took a step forward. His mouth curved. Not into a smile. Into something bitter.
"When we were boys, it was always Lachlan." He folded his arms and took a step forward. "My father praised Lachlan."
She remained silent.
"The clan admired Lachlan."
Another step.
"The lasses followed Lachlan."
Claire bit at her lip in worry, how far would Alasdair go in his quest for revenge. " Alasdair —"
"Nay."
The word cracked through the cold night air.
For the first time since she had met him, genuine emotion broke through his control. "I was the heir,” he said, his voice dropped into a quiet and steely cadence. "I was born first."
Claire said nothing.
"Do ye ken what my father told me the day he named Lachlan successor?" A hollow laugh escaped him. "He said I loved the keep more than the people inside it."
The bitterness in his voice startled her, not because it sounded false. It sounded wounded.
"He told me I could have been a great laird if only I had learned to love something beyond myself." Alasdair turned toward her. His eyes glittered. "I spent my entire life preparing for Raven's Berry."
For a moment Claire almost pitied him. Almost. Then she remembered the deaths.
The betrayals.
The war.
"And yet Lachlan was rightfully chosen."
Alasdair 's jaw tightened. "Nay." He stepped closer. "Nay, Claire."
The tension of the man from his broad shoulders to the position of his hand gripping the hilt of his sword sent a shiver of fear through her.
For the first time, his mask slipped entirely, revealing a man with a pained past. "Ye chose him."
It was hard to swallow as the man before her inspected her with contempt and interest.
"You looked at him the same way everyone always has."
The pain in his voice made the truth clear. His actions had never been about land or titles. His actions were not even about power.
It was about being passed over until bitterness became the only companion he had left.
She shifted her gaze to avoid his intrusive one.
"You think this is about revenge," he said softly.
Without being able to stop herself, Claire met his gaze. "If not revenge, what?"
Alasdair smiled a broken, sad smile. "The world finally admitting my father was wrong."
# # #
The dark night did not slow him, it drove him.
Lachlan rode hard across the Highlands, the wind cutting cold against his face, the ground blurring beneath his horse’s hooves. Behind him, Shamus and a small group of men followed without question, their pace relentless, their silence absolute.
No one spoke. Frankly, there was nothing to say.
She had been taken.
The land stretched dark and unforgiving around them—rolling slopes, narrow dips, patches of pine loomed like shadows waiting to swallow them whole. Lachlan knew every inch of it. And he pushed through it without hesitation.
“They’ll head for the valley,” Shamus called over the wind. “Low ground. Easier to hold.”
“Aye.”
Lachlan did not slow. He could see it already. The faint glow ahead of fires burning before pitched tents.
“She fought,” he said suddenly.
Shamus glanced at him. “What?”
“The ground,” Lachlan said. “The marks. She dinna go quiet.”
A ghost of a grin touched Shamus’s mouth. “Aye. Sounds like her.”
Something fierce rose in Lachlan’s chest. It gave him comfort, and something to steady the edge of his anger. He leaned forward, tight against his stallion’s neck.
They crested the ridge and the English camp spread below. Torches, tents and men moving about.
And at its heart, a large pavilion.
“Alasdair,” Shamus muttered like a curse.
“Aye.”
“He’ll keep her close,” Shamus continued. “He’ll want control.”
“He’ll have it,” Lachlan said.
For now.
He swung down from his horse in one smooth motion, handing the reins off without looking.
“We donna charge,” Shamus said quickly. “No’ yet. We go in quiet. Count their numbers. Find her first.”
Lachlan did not answer immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the tent. On the man inside. On the woman he had taken.
He nodded. Everything Shamus said was the correct course of action. The only action Lachlan wanted was to charge forward and rescue his English Rose.
“Split,” he said. “Two with me. The rest circle wide. Cut off retreat if it comes to it.”
Shamus’s hand clapped briefly against his shoulder. “We’ll get her back.”
Lachlan turned toward his comrade—his true brother. His voice came low and certain. “Aye,” he said.
Not hope or promises. A pledge of the truth.
This time there would be no hesitation, no delay, no second chance.
He would walk into the heart of the enemy, and he would bring her out.
Or burn it to the ground trying.