Chapter Thirty-Eight
A supply column wound through a narrow pass edged in stone and pine. Lachlan searched the line and grinned. ’Twas unguarded at the rear, overconfident at the front.
They hit fast, silent and precise. The bastards never saw them coming.
Shouts cracked against the granite face of the Highlands. Steel rang on steel. Steel tore through flesh. Horses screamed in terror, rearing and bolting through the chaos while men fell beneath pounding hooves and the mud turned black with blood.
Lachlan wheeled his mount hard as he caught sight of Alasdair across the fray.
His brother raised his sword over one of their clansmen—a lad Lachlan had watched grow from a gangly lad into a warrior. One brutal strike would split the man from collar to breastbone.
Alasdair did not hesitate.
Neither did Lachlan.
With a savage kick of his heels, he drove his horse forward. Men collided around him. A dying scream cut through the din. None of it mattered. His vision narrowed until there was only Alasdair.
Only his brother.
Lachlan rose in the stirrups and brought his sword down with all the fury coiled inside him.
Steel crashed.
Alasdair caught the blow and twisted aside with vicious strength. His blade lashed out in return, forcing both Lachlan from his steed and the clansman backward.
Swift strikes.
Merciless strikes.
Lachlan barely blocked the next cut aimed for his throat. Sparks burst between their blades. Alasdair drove at him again and again with frightening precision, each blow carrying enough force to splinter bone.
“Bollocks,” Lachlan roared when the edge of Alasdair’s sword bit deep into his shoulder.
Pain exploded hot and wet beneath his plaid.
Rage answered it.
Years of betrayal. Years of funerals. Burned crofts. Mothers weeping over dead sons. All of it surged through him as he struck back with brutal force. Blow after blow rained down until Alasdair stumbled against the jagged wall of Highland stone.
Breathing hard, Lachlan jammed his blade against his brother’s chest.
Alasdair sneered despite the blood streaking from his mouth. “You fight for her?” he spat. “God help ye, Lachlan, ye’ve become a lovesick fool.”
The words snapped the last thread of restraint inside him.
With a savage strike, Lachlan sent Alasdair’s sword flying. It clattered uselessly against the rocks below.
Before his brother could recover, Lachlan slammed the edge of his blade against his throat. “You dare speak of her?” he snarled.
For the first time, fear flickered in Alasdair’s eyes.
Not fear of death.
Fear of him.
“You would kill me?” Alasdair rasped. “Your own brother?”
The world halted.
In an instant Lachlan saw two barefoot boys racing through the glen. Saw stolen meat pies and bruised knuckles and nights spent laughing beside the fire while their mother scolded them both in equal measure.
God, when had they come to this?
When had affection curdled into hatred? The answer came swift and merciless.
The day Alasdair betrayed their clan.
The day innocent men died screaming because his brother hungered for power more than blood.
The day Maddy’s husband was returned to them with a cleaved chest.
“Do it,” Alasdair growled, eyes glittering with fury. “If ye have the courage.”
Lachlan pressed harder. The blade pierced skin.
A thin ribbon of blood slid down Alasdair’s throat, bright against the steel.
Shock flashed across his brother’s face. Then came something worse.
Acceptance.
Alasdair touched the blood with trembling fingers and stared at it as though he could not fathom his own mortality.
Around them, the battle thundered on. Men shouted. Steel clanged. Somewhere nearby, a horse shrieked in agony.
Yet Lachlan heard only the rasp of his brother’s breathing.
One thrust.
That was all it would take.
Would his mother and father forgive him from above?
Could he live with the stain of spilling his own brother’s blood?
Lachlan’s grip faltered.
He stepped back.
Alasdair watched him with cold understanding. Coward, his eyes seemed to say.
The sound of his clansmen fighting snapped through Lachlan’s haze. His men still needed him. The battle was not done.
Jaw tight, he lowered his sword and turned toward the fray.
“M’laird!” Shamus shouted, charging toward him. “Behind ye!”
A roar exploded at Lachlan’s back.
He spun.
Alasdair hurtled toward him like a man riddled with madness, sword gripped in both hands, the blade aimed straight for Lachlan’s heart.
There was no time to think.
Only instinct.
Lachlan slashed. Steel tore through cloth. Through flesh.
The force of the strike staggered Alasdair mid-charge.
His brother stopped cold.
For one terrible heartbeat neither man moved.
Then blood spread slowly across Alasdair’s doublet.
Dark, endless, and fatal.
Alasdair looked down in disbelief, his fingers slipping against the wound as blood poured through them.
“Ye…” He coughed hard, crimson spilling from his lips. “Ye surprise me, brother.”
Lachlan felt hollow as he watched the life drain from him. Not triumph. Not relief.
Only grief sharpened into something unbearable.
Alasdair swayed where he stood while the battle raged around them, utterly forgotten.
Each ragged breath sounded weaker than the last.
“Forgive…” Blood dribbled down his chin. “Forgive me—”
His knees buckled.
And for the first time since boyhood, Alasdair looked not like a traitor.
Only a brother.
How? How could he forgive his brother? The man who left their father to die. The man who forged an alliance with the English? The man who’d been responsible for Maddy’s husband Peter’s death?
Lachlan spared his brother one more glance, grabbed the length of his plaid and wiped his sword free of blood.
“They’re running, m’laird,” Shamus said with pride and a hint of regret as he glanced at Alasdair.
Lachlan inspected his captain and friend. Blood covered his face, dripped from his hair. He looked like a Berserker, mad with fury as his chest heaved.
“Bloody bastards,” Connor said as he spat on the ground.
Lachlan nodded. “Organize the men and tell them to head to our next point of action.”
By the time the English completely fled the area, half their provisions were gone, their horses scattered, and the men who survived were left staring into the empty hills where their attackers had vanished like ghosts.
It was only the beginning.
“Two more routes cut,” Lachlan said to Shamus.
“Aye, and one still smoldering.”
He glanced toward the smoke twisting into the night sky from the remains of the third camp. Their swift actions of devastation left messengers confused as they rode between English encampments.
“One more,” Lachlan said. He stood with his hands fisted at his waist. His clan had done him proud.
Shamus nodded. He held his sword up high. “To arms.”
A cheer resonated through Lachlan’s men. Eager and proud to defend their clan, the men slid their swords into their scabbards, the scratch of metal against metal resonated throughout the clearing.
One more. And then to his English Rose.
# # #
Lord Ashford stood as still as a stone statue.
Claire watched from the edge of the command tent as another report was delivered.
“Lost,” the captain said tightly. “Both wagons. No clear sighting of who took them.”
“And Alasdair Cameron.”
The captain shifted his gaze to the ground. “Gone.”
“Gone?” her father asked with an incredulous tone.
“Cut down by his brother.”
She gasped.
Her father said nothing. Even at her distance, she saw thoughts racing through his mind. His gaze narrowed, his jaw clenched.
The captain shifted, discomfort obvious in his jerky movements. “Orders, my lord?”
A long pause stretched.
Then—
“Double the patrols,” Lord Ashford said, his tone sharp as a blade. He tipped his head in Claire’s direction. “No movement without escort.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Silence fell as the man withdrew.
Claire stepped forward. “You did not expect this,” she said. She tried to remain calm. Lachlan had killed his brother? How it must pain him no matter Alasdair’s treachery.
It was not a question, it was a challenge and perhaps foolish to goad him. Regardless, her smile told him of her pleasure.
Her father’s gaze slid to her. “No,” he said.
His response was honest and rare.
“They are not defending,” she continued. How it pleased her to see him thwarted. “They are dismantling you.”
A flicker of something—irritation, perhaps—passed through his eyes. “They are delaying the inevitable.”
Claire tilted her head slightly and trailed her fingers along the table edge, flicking the edge of parchment. “Are they?”
Another pause.
“You underestimate the cost of what they are doing,” he said curtly and gathered the papers from the table.
“And you underestimate them.”
His expression hardened. “I do not underestimate anything.”
Claire held his gaze and scoffed. “You underestimated me.”
Silence cracked between them.
Sharp and immediate.
Then a slow, cold smile. “Did I?” he asked.
Claire did not answer. Because the truth was already written across the map behind him.
“No,” she whispered as she clutched her chest.
Arrows pointed in numerous directions. What garnered her attention and set her heart pounding was the arrows rounding the loch below the keep, circumventing the paths trod deep in the road leading the gate, and pointing directly to the rear of the bailey and apparently a hidden entrance.