Chapter Forty
The ridge above Blackwater Burn cut sharp against the morning sky.
Wind tore across it in hard, restless gusts, bending the grass low and carrying the scent of water and stone.
Lachlan stood at its crest.
Waiting.
Behind him, his men held positions—hidden, silent, ready.
Not an army.
A blade.
And below the English approached. Not cautious or hesitant as one would suspect. Lord Ashford rode at their center, his flag flying.
Exactly as Lachlan expected and planned.
Lachlan tightened his grip on his sword. “Wait,” he said quietly.
Beside him, Connor and Shamus nodded.
“Aye.”
They waited until the English reached the lower slope. Until they began to spread.
Lachlan straightened. Their formation was too wide, too deliberate. His eyes narrowed.
“’Tis wrong,” Shamus muttered with a curse.
Bollocks. Lachlan shifted to move his men. From the far ridge more riders appeared. From the tree line even more.
And from the rear—more.
The trap snapped shut.
Not theirs, the bloody Englishman’s.
# # #
Claire saw it from above. The moment everything shifted. The moment the careful balance broke. Dread filled her, more than dread, panic. She gripped her skirts trying to ground herself and to stop from running forward into the melee.
“Lachlan,” she whispered, hoping the wind would sweep it directly to his ears. “Leave. Please leave.”
She searched for her father. There he sat atop his stallion with an arrogant tilt to his chin.
Her father’s plan. This had never been about taking the bait. It had been about using it.
“Hold position,” Lord Ashford commanded, his voice carrying calm authority.
Absolute certainty.
Her father rode to her side.
Claire’s heart slammed against her ribs. “You are surrounding them,” she whispered.
Her father did not look at her. “Yes.”
Rage surged—hot and blinding. “You said you wanted control,” she said. “This is slaughter.”
“This is a resolution,” he said simply.
He was truly a horrid man.
Claire’s hands clenched. “No,” she said. “This is where you lose.”
He turned then. Slowly, as if he did not quite believe what he heard. “You still believe he will win?”
Claire met his gaze, pinning him with a glare. How had she not seen what a truly vile man he now was? “I know it.”
She shifted and peered toward the ridge. She felt him, his inspection of her. How she loathed distracting Lachlan at such a dire time.
She prayed for his safety. The safety of his men.
In her mind she tried to reach him, warn him. Yet, somehow, she knew he would be able to navigate the sudden turn of strategy. Her faith in him boundless, yes, he would prevail.
# # #
On the ridge Lachlan stood very still as rain began.
Watching, calculating and adjusting.
The trap had closed. But not completely nor perfectly.
There were gaps. There were always gaps. And those gaps would be their salvation.
“Ye see it?” Lachlan asked his comrade, his brother. He pointed toward the opening where men veered into opposite directions. No one filled the space between the pines. There were paths woven into the Highlands and the ones behind the keep led directly to the gap.
“Aye.”
A narrow break to the east, too small for a full retreat. Big enough for something else.
Lachlan’s gaze sharpened. “We’re no’ leaving,” he said.
Shamus blinked. “Ye’re thinking of pushing through?”
He grinned. “I’m thinking of ending this.”
Shamus watched him for a moment, then he shook his head. “Ye’re going for him.”
Lachlan’s expression turned to iron. “Aye.”
His gaze drifted deep within the mass of Englishmen. Those bastards trying to hurt his clan. There she stood a rose amongst the thorns. Her father sat upon his steed, spine ramrod straight. If only he could get to her side, steal her away from him—the cause of the death and destruction.
If the man hadn’t played them like pawns on a chessboard, his brother may still be alive.
Not that he deserved it. His brother had dug his own grave fueled by treachery and deceit.
“Laird?”
He refocused on the army before them, then glanced over his shoulder at his group of men. Small, but mighty and loyal. He trusted his men with his life and those of his clan—his English Rose.
“Go,” he urged his men. “Shamus, lead to the right. Connor, to the left.”
His men nodded and swiftly left to execute his order. They shifted through the brush and bramble without a sound.
Their stealthy actions mattered not. The wind swirled around them in a tempest of wet, dirt, and rocks sharp as a whip. Thunder raged from above, boom after boom echoed off the Highland shale. Lightening slashed across the sky like a jagged blade.
They could dance a jig and play the pipes without their enemy knowing. He grinned. ’Twas the perfect weather for such a surprise and weather fit for a Highlander.
The ground grew slick, hampering their efforts. Regardless, they persisted. The fate of their clan depended on them.
His men shifted into position, flanking their enemy. Lachlan held up his arm, surveyed their foe, then brought his arm down in a swift movement.
Guttural sounds broke through the thunder.
Steel glinted against the lightning as his men raised their swords and archers knocked their bows.
Surprise set their foe at a disadvantage, just as he had planned.
They cut through the men quickly, each strike a step toward their freedom. Pride surged as his men fanned out and took down more of the English bastards.
Lachlan struck a man down. Dispatched him with one thrust of his sword. He cleaned the blade with the edge of his plaid. Another and another met the same fate.
He parried with a young lad, too young for such a fight. The lad stumbled, landed on his arse. Lachlan pinned him with his foot and shoved the tip of his blade against the lad’s pale throat.
“Go,” he ordered in a merciful moment. ’Twasn’t the lad’s fault he was in the midst of the skirmish.
The lad scrambled away, glancing over his shoulder. Fear widened his eyes as he barreled through the throng of fighting men.
The image haunted Lachlan. The blood streaking the lad’s face, the cut across his shoulder.
He shook the thoughts from his mind. The distraction unwelcome.
“To arms,” bellowed from behind the Englishmen.
“Aye,” he muttered to himself. Whooping and cheers sounded around them.
A missive was sent to The MacKails several days ago. God bless them for their quick arrival.
They shoved the English back, stepping over fallen men. Some, his clansmen, God help them. But ’twas mostly the English.
The laird of Clan MacKail, rallied beside him. A grin wide on his blood-streaked face. “A bonnie lass down yonder, Lachlan.”
“Aye,” he said as he dispatched the man he’d been fighting. “And she’s mine.”
MacKail chuckled. “No’ if I get tae the lass first.”
Challenge accepted, Lachlan thought.
Their efforts proved fruitful. The last line of men turned and fled as a horn blew retreat.
Lachlan charged toward the encampment, desperate to get to Claire. He surveyed the chaos and rode his steed into the middle of the camp, knocking over tents and men.
Where was she?
“Laird Cameron,” came a commanding voice from behind him.
He jerked his horse to pivot.
There she stood, her father behind her with his sword held close to her neck.
Tears raced down her face, panic filled his wild eyes.
Rage boiled beneath his skin. He took a step forward. Claire gasped as the bastard pressed the sword into her skin. Blood trickled over the blade’s edge.
He tossed his sword to the ground and held up his hands as if in defeat. “Donna hurt her.”
The man laughed. His eyes glazed with madness.
Time slowed as his world narrowed.
Two men—one moment.
Everything hanging between them.
“You should have stayed in your hills,” Ashford said.
“You should have stayed out of them.”
Steel flashed as the man tightened his knife against Claire’s throat.
“You fight for something you cannot hold,” Ashford said, his voice tightening.
Lachlan’s eyes burned. “I fight for something worth losing everything for.”
The words struck harder than steel.
Ashford’s expression flickered uncertainty, then with resolve.
Chills chased down Lachlan’s spine. “Donna worry, Claire. All will be well.”
Her chin trembled, but a calmness softened the tight line of her shoulders.
His men and those of Clan MacKail surrounded them. Their silence deafening as if they held their breaths and refused to breathe.
Out of the corner of his eye, he witnessed Shamus maneuver to a spot behind Claire and her father. Relief filled him as Shamus caught his eye and nodded. He held up his hand and counted down by three.
In one swift motion, Shamus knifed Claire’s father from behind and Lachlan rushed them, ripping Claire from the bastard’s grasp.
Ashford dropped to his knees.
For a moment, the man remained upright.
Proud. Unyielding even in defeat.
His gaze lifted.
Not to Lachlan.
To Claire.
Ashford looked at her. “I lost your mother and would not lose you,” he said quietly. “I spent so many years trying to keep you safe that I forgot to let you know you were loved.”
Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. He toppled to his knees. Still his gaze remained pinned on her. “Is this what you choose?”
Tears raced down Claire’s face. She swiped at them. “Yes.”
A faint breath. Something unreadable in his eyes as they turned glassy. “Your mother’s ring is in my waistcoat.”
His strength failed and he crumpled to the ground.
Claire shifted her gaze between them, then she raced to Lachlan’s side.
She crumpled against him, curled her fingers into his shirt. Sobs racking her shoulders.
“There, there mo ghrá,” he whispered into her hair and kissed her head.
Her father lay dead on the dirt, blood pooling around his body.
Claire moved to glance over her shoulder.
Lachlan held her tight. “Nay, ye donna wish to see what’s left of the mon.”
A soul rendering sigh slipped from her. “Thank you,” she said against the crook of his neck. “Thank you for coming for me.”
He tipped up her chin and said, “Ye are my life, my English Rose. My life.”
She lifted her hand and cupped his cheek. “And you are mine.”
“Looks like ye win, Laird Cameron,” the chieftain of Clan MacKail said with a hearty chuckle.
The men surrounding them let loose a rousing cheer.
It mattered not, all Lachlan could do was stare at the woman before him. Even with dirt smudged on her cheek and brambles in her hair, she was the dearest and loveliest creature he’d ever seen.
Even with the chaos surrounding them, she captivated him.
“Go,” she prompted. “I will see myself back to the keep.”
He laughed, and bollocks, it felt good. “Nay, m’lady. Ye will have an escort.”
Lachlan motioned to a lad and instructed him to return Lady Ashford back to keep ensuring she arrived safely.
She laid her hand on his arm. “I am more than capable.”
He glanced at her hand resting upon his arm. The stark contrast of her pale, lovely skin and his scarred, blood-stain skin was not lost on him.
They were from two different worlds. Did he have a right to keep her in Scotland?
“Aye, ye are. I donna wish to worry as we are forcing the English home.”
Her eyes widened and she nodded with sympathy. “As long as you are not forcing this Englishwoman home, then I will allow you to continue.”
The battle did not end all at once. It broke like a wave collapsing in on itself.
English forces faltered once their leader had been killed.
Command shattered as they realized the fight was not their own but that of a man risking all for control over the Highlands.
The Camerons with the MacKails pressed. Not wildly. Not brutally.
But decisively ending what had begun.
With the men dispersed, Lachlan’s men began to howl with satisfaction shouting, “Aonaibh Ri Chéile” over and over again.
Aye, Lachlan thought with pride, “Let us unite.”
The wind moved across the Highlands.
Free and unbroken.