Page 39 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

C olin's destrier thundered across the moors, following the clear trail left by Midnight's distinctive horseshoes. The tracks were easy enough to read in the soft earth—a single horse moving at speed, heading northeast toward the border lands.

Stubborn lass. What were ye thinking, riding out alone?

Behind him, his best men followed in formation, but Colin had pulled ahead in his urgency to find his wife. He could hear Niven shouting something about staying together, about the danger of splitting their forces, but the words were lost in the thunder of hooves and his own mounting panic

The tracks led him through a grove of ancient oaks, then down toward a small burn that bubbled cheerfully in the afternoon light.

Colin reined in his destrier, studying the churned earth around the water's edge.

Midnight had stopped here, that much was clear.

The mare had drunk from the stream while her rider. ..

Colin's blood turned to ice.

There were deep gouges in the earth where boots had stepped on it, as well as broken branches.

Nay! Nay, nay, nay.

Colin swung down from his saddle, examining the ground with the keen eye of a man trained in warfare. More hoofprints now—approximately five or six additional horses. They'd surrounded Morag here by the water, and from the chaos of tracks, she'd fought them.

Christ almighty, she's been taken.

By the time his men caught up, Colin was already back in the saddle, his face like carved granite. Niven took one look at the scene and understood immediately.

"Fraser's men?" the older man asked grimly.

"Aye. About six of them. They're heading fer the border." Colin's voice was deadly calm, though fury burned through him. "Niven, take half the men and follow the main road. If they try tae circle back, cut them off. MacLeod, take the others and sweep the eastern approach."

"What about ye, me laird?" Niven asked, though his expression said he already knew the answer.

"I'm going after them directly. They have maybe an hour's head start, but they're moving fast and their horses will tire." Colin gathered his reins. "If I can catch them before they reach Fraser lands..."

"Me laird, ye cannae go alone?—"

"I'm the only one mounted fer this kind of pursuit," Colin cut him off, gesturing to his powerful destrier. But then he paused, seeing the determined faces of his men. Niven was right—charging in alone would be suicide, and Morag needed him alive, not dead in some heroic but foolish gesture.

"Aye," he said finally, his tactical mind reasserting itself. "Ye're right. Hamish, take the five fastest riders and come with me. The rest of ye follow with Niven—bring every man we can spare, but stay back until I signal."

"What's the plan, me laird?" Hamish asked, already selecting the men and horses.

"We track them, find out where they're taking her, then wait fer the right moment tae strike." Colin's voice was steel wrapped in ice. "But we dae this smart, nae desperate."

Within minutes, Colin rode out with his small advance party—six men total, all mounted on the fastest horses they had. Behind them, Niven organized the main force, who would follow at distance.

Hold on, lass. We're coming.

Guilt threatened to choke him, but he forced it down. Guilt was a luxury he couldn't afford when Morag's life hung in the balance. He had to think like a warrior now, not a husband drowning in regret.

The tracks led northeast, exactly where he'd feared they would. Fraser lands. And from the spacing of the hoofprints, they were moving fast, trying to reach the safety of their own territory before pursuit could catch them.

Nae if I can help it.

Colin leaned low over his horse's neck, his five companions keeping pace beside him. These were good men, seasoned fighters who'd follow him into hell itself. Having them with him felt right—not the desperate charge of a lone husband, but the calculated advance of a military unit.

Hold on, lass. Just hold on.

The sun was already sinking toward the horizon, painting the Highland sky in shades of blood and gold. Soon it would be dark, and tracking would become nearly impossible. If Fraser's men reached their stronghold before then...

Colin's jaw clenched as he pushed the thought away. They wouldn't. He wouldn't let them.

A mile ahead, movement caught his eye. Riders cresting a ridge, moving in formation. Colin counted them quickly—seven horses, one carrying double. His heart hammered against his ribs as he recognized the dark silhouette of Midnight among them.

There. There is me wife.

Every instinct screamed at him to charge forward, to close the distance and cut them down where they stood. His hand went to his sword hilt, fingers tightening on the familiar grip. Seven men. He'd faced worse odds before.

"I see them," Hamish whispered, reining in beside Colin.

"Aye. Six riders, moving toward Fraser territory, plus Morag." Colin's hand went to his sword hilt, but his voice remained controlled. "We could take them, but nae without risking Morag's life."

"What are yer orders?"

Think, ye fool. Think like a laird, nae like a man half-mad with love.

Morag's life depended on him being smarter than his desperation. Colin studied the terrain, his military mind working through possibilities.

"We follow at distance. See where they're taking her. Then we make our move when the odds are better."

Colin's mind raced through possibilities, calculating distances and timing with the cold precision that had kept him alive through a dozen battles. "Ride back. Find Niven and the others and tell them the plan.

"And ye, me laird?"

"We’re going ahead." Colin's voice was granite. "We'll track them, see where they're taking her. But Hamish—" He caught the younger man's arm. "If there's nay word from me, tell Niven tae assume we're dead and act accordingly. The clan comes first."

Without waiting for a response, Colin spurred his destrier forward, his five companions following close behind. Behind them, he heard Hamish wheel his horse around and thunder back toward Niven, carrying the laird’s word.

The chase resumed with deadly intensity.

Colin pushed his horse to the very edge of endurance, closing the gap between them and his quarry with each passing mile.

The Fraser men would be confident now, convinced they'd outrun any immediate pursuit.

Their pace had slowed slightly, giving their mounts a chance to recover.

Arrogant bastards. Ye think ye've won already.

But even as Colin and his men gained ground, he could see the landmarks that marked the approach to Fraser territory. The standing stones that had marked the ancient boundaries, the burned-out croft that Fraser had destroyed in his first raid against Armstrong lands. They were almost there.

Come on, come on. Just a little more time.

His destrier was breathing hard now, foam flecking the great horse's neck. But the animal's heart was as fierce as his master's, and he didn't falter. Step by step, yard by yard, they closed the distance.

Colin could see Morag now, a small figure pressed against one of the riders. Even at this distance, he could tell she was bound, helpless. The sight sent fresh rage coursing through his veins, hot and pure and deadly.

I'm coming, lass. Hold on.

But the ancient marker stones were looming ahead, and beyond them lay Fraser lands proper. Once they crossed that boundary, Colin and his small party would be riding into enemy territory, and all they could hope for was that their reinforcement would arrive quickly enough.

The logical part of his mind screamed at him to stop, to wait for his men, to approach the confrontation with strategy rather than emotion. But the husband in him, the man who'd held Morag in his arms just that morning, couldn't bear the thought of letting her disappear into Fraser's stronghold.

Just a little closer. If I can get within bowshot...

That's when he saw them.

At first, it was just a glint of metal in the fading light. Then more—spear points catching the last rays of sun, the dull gleam of mail and leather. As Colin crested the final hill before Fraser territory, the sight that greeted him stopped his heart cold.

An armed camp sprawled across the valley below, easily two hundred men strong. Banners flew from improvised poles—the Fraser colors snapping in the evening breeze like predatory birds. Cook fires dotted the encampment, sending thin streams of smoke into the darkening sky.

This wasn't a raiding party. This was an army.

Christ preserve us. They've been planning this fer weeks.

The scope of Fraser's ambition hit Colin like a physical blow. This wasn't just about kidnapping Morag or even about revenge for the MacDuff alliance. Fraser meant to crush Clan Armstrong entirely.

And they were riding straight into the heart of it.

Colin watched in helpless fury as the riders carrying his wife approached the camp's perimeter. Sentries called out challenges and received responses. Torches flared to life as the camp stirred with activity, men emerging from tents to see what prize their fellows had brought back.

She's bait. She's always been bait.

The realization cut deeper than any blade.

Fraser had never intended to simply hold Morag for ransom or use her as a bargaining chip.

She was the lure in a trap designed to destroy everything that represented Armstrong.

When word reached the castle that Lady Armstrong had been taken, honor would demand a rescue attempt.

And Fraser would be waiting with overwhelming force to crush any response.

Colin's hands shook with rage as he watched his wife disappear into the enemy camp.

Every instinct screamed at him to charge down that hill, to fight his way through Fraser's army with nothing but steel and fury.

But that was exactly what Fraser wanted—the Iron Laird arriving alone and desperate, easy prey for superior numbers.

I'm sorry, Morag, but I can't save ye by getting meself killed.

The bitter truth settled over him like a burial shroud. Morag needed him to be smart, not heroic. She needed the tactician who'd kept Clan Armstrong alive through years of hardship, not the lovesick fool who'd charge into an army for a woman's sake.

Even if that woman was worth more to him than his own life.

Colin raised his hand, bringing his small party to a halt on the ridge overlooking the valley. The scope of what lay below hit them all like a physical blow.

"Christ preserve us," one of his men breathed. "That's an army."

"Aye," Colin said grimly, his tactical mind already working.

He turned to two of his fastest riders. "Ye, take one man and ride back tae Niven and the others.

Tell him what we've seen here - two hundred men, maybe more.

I want ye tae head back tae the castle and bring every fighter we can muster within a day. "

"What about the rest of ye, me laird?" he asked.

"We'll watch the camp, see what we can learn. But we need proper numbers before we can act." Colin's jaw tightened as he watched his wife disappear into the enemy stronghold. "Fraser's turned this intae a war. We'll fight it for what it is, instead of a rescue."

The two riders thundered away into the darkness, carrying word that would either bring salvation or confirm their doom. Colin and his remaining men settled in to watch and wait, every hour feeling like an eternity while Morag remained in enemy hands.

It was nearly sunset the following day when Niven finally arrived with the main force - thirty of Armstrong's best, every man who could be spared from the castle's defenses.

"Me laird," Niven said quietly as he reined in beside Colin. "We came as fast as we could."

"Look," Colin said simply, gesturing toward the valley below." That's an army." Colin's voice was deadly calm, though inside he was screaming. "And me wife is somewhere in the middle of it."

The men behind Niven shifted restlessly, their horses sensing their riders' tension. These were seasoned fighters, men who'd followed Colin through blood and hardship. But even they could see the impossible odds spread out below them.

"What are yer orders, me laird?" Niven asked quietly.

Colin stared down at the Fraser camp, his mind working furiously. Thirty men against two hundred. Impossible odds by any measure. But somewhere in that nest of enemies, Morag was waiting for rescue that might never come.

Unless...

"How long would it take tae get word tae our allies?" he asked suddenly. "The MacDougalls, the Campbells, anyone who might answer a call fer aid?"

"Days," Niven replied. "Maybe a week for full mobilization."

"We dinnae have days." Colin's jaw clenched.

"Then what dae we dae?"

Colin looked around at his men—loyal souls who'd followed him into the jaws of hell without question. Good men. Strong men. Men who deserved better than to die in a hopeless assault.

But his wife was down there in that camp, probably terrified, definitely in danger. And every moment he waited was another moment Fraser had to consolidate his advantage.

"Me laird?" Niven's voice cut through his bitter reflections.

Colin straightened in his saddle, the Iron Laird reasserting control over the desperate husband. "We wait fer full dark. Then we see if me few men can accomplish what two hundred expect us tae fail at."

"And if we can't?"

Colin's eyes never left the Fraser camp as he answered. "Then I’ll die tryin’. Because I'll nae leave her in that bastard's hands."

The sun disappeared behind the western peaks, plunging the Highland valley into shadow. And in that darkness, Colin Armstrong began planning either the greatest rescue in clan history—or the most glorious defeat.