Page 32 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T he first thing Lachlan noticed as they crested the hill overlooking McLaren lands was how different the countryside looked from his own prosperous territory.

Where Kinnaird boasted fat cattle and well-tended fields, McLaren showed the scars of years under poor leadership—patchy crops, scattered livestock, cottages that needed repair.

But as their party descended toward the valley, something else caught his attention. Movement from every farm and cottage, people dropping their work and hurrying toward the road.

"M'lady!" an elderly woman called out, her weathered face breaking into a smile of pure joy as she recognized Erica. "M'lady, ye've come home!"

The cry was taken up by others, and soon they were surrounded by McLaren clans people, all pressing forward with eager faces. Lachlan watched in fascination as his composed wife transformed before his eyes—her formal bearing melting into genuine warmth as she greeted her people.

"Agnes!" Erica called out, pulling her horse to a stop as the elderly woman reached them. "How's yer grandson's arm healin'?"

"Oh, bonnie as ye please, m'lady, thanks to the salve ye sent." Agnes beamed up at her, tears glistening in her eyes. "We've missed ye so."

More people crowded around, some actually reaching out to touch Erica's horse, her stirrups, anything they could reach. The devotion on their faces was unmistakable—this wasn't the fearful respect he'd seen shown to other lairds, but something deeper. Love, perhaps. Or hope.

"Malcolm," Erica said, leaning down toward a middle-aged farmer. "Tell me about the barley harvest. Are ye pleased with the yield?"

"Aye, m'lady, better than we dared hope after the wet spring."

"And young Sarah? Did she have the baby?"

"A bonnie wee lassie, m'lady. Sarah wants to name her Erica, if ye'll allow it."

Lachlan saw his wife's eyes mist with tears. "I'd be honored."

They moved slowly through the crowd, Erica stopping to speak with person after person, asking about children by name, inquiring after harvests and health, and a dozen small details that painted a picture of a leader who truly knew her people.

"How does she remember them all?" he murmured to Frederick, who rode beside him with obvious amazement.

"Damned if I ken," Frederick replied. "But look at their faces when she speaks to them. They'd die for her."

It was true. Every person Erica acknowledged seemed to stand a little straighter and smile a little brighter. These people had found hope again, and it was clear where that hope was centered.

As they finally approached the castle gates, Erica seemed to sense his thoughts.

"It's nae a prosperous land," she said quietly, as if reading his mind. "But it's a recoverin' one."

Lachlan looked around with new eyes, noting not just the signs of past neglect but the evidence of recent care—newly repaired fences, cleared fields, the general sense that things were improving.

"The people are only just gainin' their faith back," Erica continued, her voice growing troubled. "And then these raids begin. It's as if someone wants to remind them that they're still vulnerable."

"Or someone wants to test yer defenses," Lachlan said grimly. "See how quickly help arrives, how well organized yer response is."

"Aye. Some lairds think a female leader is a weakness to be exploited. A woman to be conquered, bedded, and made fat with little bairns until she's too busy to rule properly."

"Erica," Lachlan said, his voice carrying a warning note.

She glanced at him and smiled, a mischievous glint in her dark eyes. "I dinnae say ye were among them."

"Good. Because I'm nae."

"Nay, ye're nae." Her voice grew softer, more serious. "If any laird is goin' to make me fat with little bairns, ye're nae the worse choice."

The words brought a flush to her cheeks even as she said them, but she didn't look away. There was something in her tone—acceptance, perhaps, or even anticipation—that made heat curl in his belly.

"Am I nae?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Aye," she said simply, then urged her horse forward toward the castle gates as if she hadn't just said something that made his heart race.

Behind them, Frederick cleared his throat meaningfully. "Should I give the signal for the men to take their positions?"

Lachlan forced his attention back to military matters, though part of his mind remained fixed on Erica's words. "Aye. Twenty men to reinforce the weak borders as we discussed. But keep five with us—at a distance, but close enough to respond if needed."

"Understood." Frederick raised his hand in a subtle signal, and Lachlan watched as their escort smoothly divided, most of the seasoned Kinnaird warriors peeling off toward the borderlands while five remained at a discrete distance.

"Will that be enough?" Erica asked, having noticed the maneuver.

"For now. We'll assess the situation and adjust as needed." He guided his horse closer to hers as they passed under the castle gates. "But I brought me best men, lass. They'll hold whatever needs holdin'."

The relief on her face was palpable. "Thank ye. I ken what it costs ye to station yer men so far from home."

"Ye and yer people are me people now," he said simply. "Their safety is me responsibility."

As they entered the courtyard of McLaren Castle, Lachlan took in the modest but well-maintained structure. It wasn't as grand as Kinnaird, but it was solid, defensible, and—most importantly —filled with people who looked at his wife like she was their salvation.

For the first time, he truly understood what he'd married into. Not just a woman, but a calling. Not just a clan, but a sacred trust.

And watching Erica's face as she came home to her people, he realized he was beginning to understand why that calling meant so much to her.

The moment they passed through the castle gates, the courtyard erupted in celebration. Servants, guards, and clan members who'd been waiting inside came pouring out, their faces bright with joy at seeing their lady returned.

"Lady Erica!"

"She's home!"

"Our bonnie lass is back!"

The crowd surged forward, but unlike the respectful distance maintained by his own people, these folk treated Erica like beloved family.

The older women were particularly free with their affections, reaching out to touch her hair, her hands, her face with the familiarity of those who'd helped raise her.

"Och, look at ye," crooned an elderly woman with silver hair. "So bonnie, so healthy-lookin'. That husband of yers is feedin' ye well, I can see."

"Aye, and look here," said another, bold enough to pat Erica's stomach with a knowing smile. "Is that a wee bulge I'm seein' already? Or just good highland cookin'?"

Erica's cheeks flamed red. "Agnes, ye daft old woman?—"

"Nothin' wrong with a lass puttin' on a bit of weight when she's well cared for," Agnes continued with a wink. "Shows her man kens his duties."

Lachlan watched this intimate display with fascination. At Kinnaird, such familiarity with the laird's person would be unthinkable. But here, these people clearly saw Erica not just as their leader, but as their cherished daughter returned home.

He dismounted from his horse, intending to help Erica down, when suddenly the attention of the elderly women shifted to him with alarming intensity.

"Och, and this must be yer husband!" Agnes exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as she took in Lachlan's tall frame and broad shoulders. "Just as bonnie as we were told!"

Before Lachlan could react, weathered hands were reaching for him—touching his hair, pressing against his arms to test the muscle beneath his shirt, examining him like a prize stallion brought to market.

"Look at the size of him!" another woman declared, actually squeezing his bicep through his sleeve. "Strong as an ox, this one is."

"And that hair," cooed a third, bold enough to run her fingers through the dark strands that had escaped his leather tie. "Dark as midnight and thick as wool."

Lachlan stood frozen, every instinct screaming at him to step back, to assert his authority, to remind these people that he was a Highland laird who commanded respect.

But the sheer delight on their faces, their obvious joy in welcoming him as part of their extended family, left him utterly disarmed.

"Yer bairns will be very handsome," Agnes announced with authority, patting his chest approvingly. "Tall too, with this height."

"Oh aye," agreed another. "Dark-haired beauties, the lot of them."

"Strong lads who'll be able to protect the clan, and lasses who'll break hearts across the Highlands."

Lachlan maintained a stony face as more hands explored his person with the casual familiarity one might show a beloved nephew. His desperate gaze found Erica, silently pleading for rescue, but she was watching the entire spectacle with barely contained amusement.

Her dark eyes sparkled with mirth as she took in his obvious discomfort, one hand pressed to her lips to hide her smile.

"Very broad shoulders," one of the women was saying, actually measuring the span with her hands. "Perfect for carryin' babies."

"And look at those hands—big enough to hold triplets!"

Triplets? Highland gods, rescue me from these women.

Finally, when he thought he might actually flee from these well-meaning matrons, Erica took pity on him.

"Enough, all of ye," she laughed, though her face remained flushed with amusement. "Let me at least get inside before ye start planin' christenin's and namin' all our future children."

The women reluctantly stepped back, but not before Agnes gave Lachlan one final pat on the arm.

"Ye've done well for yerself, lad," she said with approval. "And ye'll do right by our lass, or ye'll answer to all of us."

As the crowd began to disperse, Lachlan moved quickly to Erica's side, his face still burning with embarrassment.

"Do they do that to everyone?" he muttered.

"Have I ever brought a man home?" Erica replied, her eyes still dancing with laughter. "Congratulations, husband. Ye've been officially adopted by the McLaren matrons."

"Christ preserve me," he said under his breath, which only made her laugh harder.

The crowd parted reluctantly, still calling out greetings and blessings as the couple made their way toward the main doors. But they'd barely stepped inside the great hall when a thin, sharp-featured man emerged from the shadows with obvious agitation.

"Lady McLaren!" The man strode forward with barely concealed anger, his attention focused entirely on Erica while completely disregarding Lachlan's presence. "Ye must put a stop to this madness immediately."

Erica's demeanor shifted instantly from warmth to cool authority. "What madness might that be, Councilman Boyd?"

"That guard of yers—Ewan—he's thrown out half the men I brought in to strengthen the defenses. Good men, experienced fighters, and he's sendin' them away like common beggars!"

"Then I'm sure he had good reason," Erica replied calmly. "Ewan has me complete trust in all matters of security."

"But these are men I personally vouched for?—"

"And Ewan is me captain of guards, with full authority to determine who serves in that capacity." Erica's voice carried the ring of final authority. "If he deemed them unsuitable, then unsuitable they are."

Boyd's face flushed with frustration. "Lady McLaren, ye must reconsider me request."

"I must do nothin' of the sort. Now, if ye'll excuse me. I only just arrived and—" Erica turned as if to walk away, clearly considering the matter closed.

But Boyd, in his agitation, reached out and grabbed her wrist to stop her.

"Now see here, ye cannae just?—"

The rest of his words died as Lachlan's hand fell to his sword hilt with a soft, menacing scrape of steel. The Highland laird's voice, when it came, was deadly quiet.

"Ye better let her go right now, or ye'll end up without an arm."

Boyd went white as sheep's wool, his gaze finally taking in the tall, dangerous man beside his lady. The threat in Lachlan's blue eyes was unmistakable, and Boyd's hand fell away from Erica's wrist as if burned.

Instinctively, Erica stepped closer to her husband's side, the movement small but significant. She was choosing her alliance, making it clear where her loyalty lay.

"Councilman Boyd," she said, her voice now carrying ice-cold authority, "yer services are nay longer necessary to Clan McLaren. I suggest ye vacate the premises within the hour."

"Ye cannae dismiss me—I've served this clan for?—"

"Guard!" Erica called out sharply.

A McLaren warrior appeared immediately, his hand already on his weapon as he took in the tense scene.

"Please escort Councilman Boyd from the castle and ensure he gathers his belongings promptly," Erica commanded. "He is nay longer welcome here."

The guard nodded crisply. "Aye, m'lady. Come along, sir."

As Boyd was led away, still sputtering protests, Lachlan kept his hand on his sword until the man was completely out of sight. Only then did he relax his stance, though his eyes remained watchful.

"Well," he said quietly to Erica, "that was educational."

"More than ye might think," she replied grimly. "If Boyd was bringin' in his own men and tryin' to override Ewan's authority, he was likely preparin' for somethin' more than just border defense."

Lachlan's expression darkened as the implications sank in. "Ye think he was plannin' a take over?"

"I think," Erica said carefully, "that some people assumed a new bride would be too distracted to pay attention to what was happenin' in her own castle."

"Clearly they were wrong." Lachlan muttered drily.