Page 39 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

" S how me again," he said to the messenger, who stood swaying with exhaustion but determined to give every detail. "The pattern of attacks. Which farms were hit first?"

The man leaned over the map, his mud-stained finger tracing a route across McLaren territory. "Here, this farm. Then two days later, this croft, and this mornin’..." He paused, his voice breaking slightly. "This mornin’ it was here. I saw the smoke meself as I rode here."

Lachlan studied the marked locations, his jaw tightening as he recognized the strategic thinking behind the strikes.

"He's nae choosin’ randomly," Lachlan said grimly, tracing lines between the attack sites. "These farms all control key routes between villages. Cut these supply lines, and ye isolate entire communities."

"Aye," Frederick agreed, moving to stand beside his laird. His weathered face was grim as he studied the pattern. "Make them feel abandoned by their lady, helpless against the attacks. Classic siege mentality but applied to scattered settlements instead of a single castle."

"Clever bastard," Lachlan muttered, then looked up as Erica entered the room.

She'd changed from her peaceful afternoon dress into riding leathers and a practical wool tunic, her hair braided back for travel.

The transformation from the woman he'd left embroidering flowers to this focused commander never failed to impress him.

"What have we learned?" Erica asked without preamble, moving to stand across the table from Lachlan. Her eyes immediately went to the marked map, reading the tactical situation with the quick intelligence he'd come to expect from her.

"Look at the pattern.," Lachlan replied, pointing to the marked attacks. "He's systematically cuttin’ off communication between the villages."

Erica leaned over the map, her dark hair catching the lamplight as she studied the markings. "If he controls these routes, he can prevent word from spreading about his attacks. Keep people isolated and afraid, make them think they're the only ones sufferin’."

"Exactly. And worse—" Lachlan traced a line connecting the attacked farms "—he's movin’ steadily toward Thornfield village. The largest settlement outside the castle itself."

"How many people live there?" Frederick asked, though his expression suggested he already knew the answer would be troubling.

"Nearly two hundred," Erica replied, her voice tight with growing concern. "Families who've supported McLaren for generations. Craftsmen, farmers, merchants—people with nowhere to flee if Boyd's men reach them."

"He willnae reach them," Lachlan said with cold certainty. "Nae if we move fast enough."

The messenger cleared his throat nervously. "Beggin' yer pardon, m'lady, but there's more. Ewan sent specific word about Boyd's men—they're nae just raiders or angry farmers with pitchforks."

"What do ye mean?" Erica asked sharply.

"They're organized, m'lady. Disciplined. They move in formation, use hand signals, coordinate their attacks like proper soldiers. Someone's been trainin’ them, and trainin’ them well."

Lachlan felt his blood run cold. Highland farmers, even angry ones, didn't fight in formation. They charged with passion and fury, not tactical precision. "How organized are we talkin’ about?"

"Professional, m'laird. They hit their targets with military efficiency and withdraw before anyone can mount a proper response. Ewan said he's never seen anythin’ like it from irregular forces."

"Mercenaries," Frederick said grimly. "Has to be. Boyd's hired professional fighters, men who ken how to wage real war."

"With what coin?" Erica demanded, her voice rising with disbelief. "The man was a councilman, nae a wealthy laird. He had comfortable circumstances, but nothin’ like the resources needed to hire mercenaries."

Lachlan met her eyes across the table, and she saw the same dark suspicion reflected there that was growing in her own mind. "Unless someone else is fundin’ this rebellion."

The implications hung heavy in the room like smoke from a dying fire. If Boyd had backing from another clan, this wasn't just about McLaren succession—it was about Highland politics on a much larger scale. Someone wanted to see McLaren fall, and they were willing to fund a war to make it happen.

"How many men can we field immediately?" Erica asked, her voice steady despite the growing scope of the threat they faced.

"Fifty mounted fighters," Lachlan replied, his mind already running through their available forces. "All experienced, well-armed, and provisioned for extended campaign. But if Boyd has mercenaries backing him..."

"We'll need every advantage we can get," she finished. "What about approachin’ from the north? Could we flank his main force instead of meetin’ them head-on?"

Lachlan studied the map more carefully, impressed by her tactical thinking. "Possible, but extremely risky. We'd be ridin’ blind through territory he kens better than we do. If he has scouts positioned properly..."

"Nae necessarily." Erica leaned closer to the map, her finger tracing a thin line that wound through the hills above McLaren territory.

"There's an old huntin’ trail here, runs along the ridge above Thornfield.

Me father used to take me that way when I was young, said it was the best route for watching the village approaches without being seen. "

"How old is this trail?" Frederick asked practically. "If it hasnae been maintained..."

"It's overgrown now, certainly, but it was carved deep into the hillside by generations of hunters. We'd have to go single file in places, and it would be slow going, but it's definitely passable for mounted men who know what they're doing."

Lachlan could see the tactical possibilities opening up. "If we could coordinate with Ewan from below..."

"A pincer movement," Erica said, her eyes lighting up with the same strategic fire he'd seen when she dealt with clan politics. "Hit them from two directions simultaneously, force them into the open where our mounted advantage would count for something."

"Aye, but the timin’ would have to be absolutely perfect," Frederick warned. "If one force arrives too early or too late, Boyd's men could defeat us piecemeal."

"Then we signal," Lachlan said, his finger finding a high point on the map. "Beacon fires on this ridge here. Ewan can watch for them from the village, coordinate his attack with ours."

The plan was taking shape, but Lachlan could see the risks multiplying with every detail they added. If Boyd really had professional backing, if his force was larger than they estimated, if the coordination failed at the crucial moment...

"There's another option," he said quietly.

"What?"

"We could send word to me allies first. Clan Morrison owes me a favor from the border disputes. Clan Campbell has marriage ties to Kinnaird. With their forces added to ours, we'd have overwhelmin’ superiority."

"And arrive in three days to find McLaren burned to the ground and me people scattered or dead," Erica cut him off firmly. "Aye. I agree with ye. But, in the meantime, our people are dyin’ now, today.."

Lachlan nodded, knowing she was right even as every tactical instinct screamed warnings about the odds they would be facing.

"Then we go with what we have and trust in our own abilities," he replied.

Ten minutes later, they rode through the gates toward McLaren territory.

The ride began at a punishing pace, their column of fifty mounted fighters eating up the miles between castles with grim efficiency.

Lachlan pushed the speed ruthlessly, knowing that every hour they delayed might mean more deaths among Erica's people.

The weather was turning against them as well—gray clouds gathering overhead and a sharp wind that spoke of rain to come. Bad weather would slow their progress and make the old hunting trail even more treacherous, but it might also provide cover for their approach.

Hours into their journey, smoke on the horizon told them they were already too late to prevent more attacks.

"That's comin’ from the farmland near the border," Erica said, her voice tight with controlled fury as she watched the black column rising into the gray sky.

Her hands clenched white-knuckled on her reins, and Lachlan could see the war between tactical necessity and personal loyalty playing out on her face.

"How far off our route?" Lachlan asked, though he could already guess the answer would complicate their timing.

"Two miles to the east. We could reach it in twenty minutes if we push hard."

Lachlan weighed the options rapidly. They needed to reach the village before Boyd's main force could consolidate their position, but if MacLeod's family was under attack right now, if there were survivors who needed immediate help.

"Frederick!" Lachlan called to his captain, who immediately spurred his horse closer. "Take ten men and swing wide toward the burnin’ village. Scout Boyd's positions, but don't engage unless you have no choice. If ye see his force movin’ toward the village, send a rider back immediately."

"Aye, m'laird!" Frederick saluted crisply and began selecting his men.

As Frederick's group split off and disappeared over a distant hill, Lachlan led the remaining fighters toward the rising smoke. The smell reached them first—burning wood and thatch, but underneath it something else that made his stomach clench with dread.

What they found when they crested the hill above the farm made his blood run cold and his hand instinctively move to his sword hilt.

The farmhouse was still burning, the flames licking hungrily at the thatched roof while smoke poured from the shattered windows.

But the attack was clearly over—no sounds of fighting, no movement except the dance of flames.

Bodies lay scattered in the yard like broken dolls, and Lachlan's experienced eye could tell immediately that this had been a massacre.

The attackers hadn't been content with simply killing the defenders. Women and children lay among the fallen men, cut down as they fled or tried to hide. This was butchery meant to send a message of terror.

"Bastards," one of his men breathed, his young face pale with shock.

But Erica was already moving, spurring her horse down the slope toward the carnage with the fearless determination of a born leader. "There might be survivors!" she called back. "We have to check!"

Lachlan followed immediately, his warrior's instincts scanning for threats even as his heart ached for what they were witnessing.

They found an old man still alive, barely, crawling away from his burning home with a sword wound in his side that painted a dark trail behind him on the blood-soaked earth.

His gray hair was matted with blood, and his breathing came in labored gasps, but his eyes were still fierce with the stubbornness that had kept him alive this long.

"M'lady," he gasped as Erica leaped from her horse and knelt beside him in the mud. "Thank... thank God ye came. Thought... thought I'd die alone."

"Ye're nae going to die," Erica said firmly, though Lachlan could see the tears she was fighting back. "We'll get ye help."

"How many attackers were there?" Lachlan asked, kneeling on his other side while keeping his voice gentle despite the urgency of the situation.

"Twenty... maybe twenty-five. All mounted, all armed like proper soldiers."

Distant hoof sounds from the distance made them look up. Even at a distance, Lachlan could see it was one of Frederick's men, and the way he was pushing his lathered horse meant only one thing: catastrophic news that couldn't wait.

"M'laird!" the rider called as he reached them, his horse trembling with exhaustion and foam flecking its sides. "Captain Frederick sends urgent word! You must ken immediately!"

"What is it?" Lachlan demanded, though every instinct told him he wasn't going to like the answer.

"It's nae just mercenaries, m'laird. There are at least three different clans represented in that force."

Erica felt the ground seem to shift beneath her feet. "Three clans? Which ones?"

"Clan Morrison's banners, m'lady. And Ross. And..." The messenger swallowed hard. "And MacGrath. They're nae just supporting Boyd—they're actively participatin’ in the assault."

"MacGrath," Lachlan said grimly. "They're known for bein’ opportunists for generations. If they smell weakness..."

"That's nae the worst of it, m'laird," the messenger continued, his young face pale with the magnitude of what he had to report.

"They're nay longer attackin’ random farms. The entire combined force is movin’ on McLaren castle itself.

Captain Frederick estimates they'll reach the walls by tomorrow morning at the latest."

"How many?" Lachlan asked, though he dreaded the answer.

"Near two hundred men, m'laird. All mounted, all well-armed. And our scout got close enough to see they've got siege equipment—rope and grapples, scaling ladders, even what looked like a small ballista."

The scope of Boyd's conspiracy was far beyond anything they'd imagined.

This wasn't just a rebellion by a disgruntled councilman—it was a coordinated invasion by multiple clans, planned and funded and equipped for serious warfare.

Someone had been organizing this for months, possibly even before Erica's marriage to Lachlan.