Page 40 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

T he enemy forces were still in the process of establishing their siege lines when Lachlan's company arrived.

From their hidden position in the treeline, they could see Boyd's alliance spreading across the valley like a slow-moving tide, setting up camps and positioning their equipment for what would clearly be a prolonged assault.

"They're nae fully in position yet," Frederick observed, studying the enemy movements through the gray morning light.

Lachlan could see the truth of it. The ballista was being assembled near what would become the main siege line, but it wasn't operational yet.

Scaling ladders lay in neat piles, waiting to be distributed.

Most importantly, the enemy hadn't yet completed their encirclement of the castle—there were still gaps in their lines that a small, fast-moving force could exploit.

"That's our advantage," he said grimly. "They're nae expectin’ us. They think they have time to prepare properly."

From the castle walls, McLaren banners flew proudly, and Lachlan could see defenders moving along the battlements. Ewan had clearly recognized the threat and was preparing his men to defend the castle.

"We cannae break a siege with fifty men," Frederick said grimly.

"Nay," Lachlan agreed. "But we might nae have to break it. We just have to turn it into somethin’ else entirely. Signal to the castle."

Frederick made the bird sound, and on the castle walls, there was immediate movement as the defenders heard the signals and began preparing for coordinated action.

"Now," Lachlan said, "we show these mercenaries what happens when they threaten McLaren."

The old hunting trail that Erica had described proved to be their salvation.

While the main body of their force remained hidden in the treeline, Lachlan led a small scouting party along the narrow path that wound around the eastern hills.

From this vantage point, they could see the castle's desperate situation more clearly.

The siege had been well-planned. Boyd's allies had positioned themselves to control all the main approaches to the castle, with the bulk of their forces concentrated near the main gate where their ballista could do the most damage.

But like many besieging armies, they had focused their attention on the obvious threats and left their flanks less heavily guarded.

"There," Lachlan said, pointing to a section of the siege line where the spacing between enemy positions was wider. "That's where we hit them."

"Signal arrows?" Frederick asked, checking his quiver.

"Aye. Three shots straight up when we're in position. Ewan will be watchin’ for them."

They made their way carefully down the hillside, using every bit of cover the terrain offered. The rain that had been threatening all day finally began to fall, which would make their approach more difficult but would also help mask any sounds they might make.

As they drew closer to the castle walls, Lachlan could hear the sounds of active siege work—the thunk of axes against wood as scaling ladders were prepared, the shouted orders of sergeants organizing their men, the creak of rope and timber as the ballista was adjusted for better targeting.

But he could also hear something else: the defiant calls of McLaren defenders on the walls, led by Ewan's familiar voice shouting encouragement to his men.

"Hold the walls, lads! They want our castle? Make them pay for every stone!"

The sound of the old man's voice, strong and determined despite the odds, filled Lachlan with fierce pride. Ewan was doing exactly what needed to be done—keeping morale up and making the attackers work for every advantage.

"Ready?" he asked Frederick, who nodded and drew his bow.

The signal arrows arced high into the gray sky, three bright points of light against the clouds. On the castle walls, Lachlan saw movement as the defenders prepared for coordinated action.

"Now we find out if yer wife's huntin’ trail knowledge is as good as she claimed," Frederick said with grim humor.

"She kens this land well enough," Lachlan replied with complete confidence. "If she says we can flank them from the ridge, then we can."

The path up to the ridgeline was every bit as treacherous as Erica had warned.

In places, it was barely wide enough for a single horse, with loose stone that threatened to send riders tumbling down the steep slope.

The rain made everything slippery, and more than once, Lachlan had to dismount and lead his horse around particularly dangerous sections.

But the trail held, and as they climbed higher, Lachlan could see the tactical situation spreading out below them like pieces on a chessboard.

The besieging forces had arranged themselves in a rough semicircle around the castle's main approaches, but their attention was focused inward, toward the walls they were trying to breach.

"Look at them," one of his men said with disgust. "They're so sure of themselves they're nae even postin’ proper sentries."

It was true. The enemy commanders had grown overconfident, assuming that their overwhelming numbers and siege equipment made them invulnerable to counterattack. They had forgotten one of the fundamental rules of warfare: never assume your enemy can't surprise you.

From the castle walls, the sound of fighting had grown more intense.

Lachlan could see grappling hooks flying up toward the battlements, followed by the dark shapes of men attempting to scale the walls.

The defenders were fighting hard, pushing back the assault with spears and swords, but he could see that they were being pressed.

"We need to move," he told his men. "Ewan cannae hold them much longer."

The attack, when it came, was swift and devastating.

Lachlan led his men down from the ridge in a thunderous charge that caught the besiegers completely by surprise.

The morning air filled with the clash of steel and the screams of horses as Highland warriors crashed into the enemy's unprotected flank.

"For McLaren!" Lachlan roared, his sword cutting down the first enemy soldier to turn and face him.

The cry was taken up by his men as they carved through the siege lines like a blade through cloth. These were professional fighters, men who had trained together for years and knew how to coordinate their attacks for maximum effect.

But the mercenaries were professionals too, and they recovered quickly from their initial surprise. Lachlan found himself facing a grizzled sergeant with scars across his face and the kind of practiced sword work that spoke of decades of experience.

"Highland dogs!" the man snarled, his blade weaving a pattern of steel that forced Lachlan to give ground.

"Aye," Lachlan replied grimly, "and we bite."

The fight was fierce but brief. Lachlan's superior reach and the momentum of the charge gave him the advantage he needed, and his sword found the gap between the sergeant's helmet and mail shirt.

Around him, the battle was spreading as more enemy soldiers turned to face this unexpected threat. But the damage to their siege lines had already been done. Without the coordinated pressure on the walls, Ewan was able to launch his own counterattack from the castle.

"There!" Frederick shouted, pointing toward the main gate. "Ewan's makin’ his move!"

The castle gates burst open, and McLaren defenders poured out, led by Ewan himself with his sword raised high. The coordination wasn't perfect—they were operating on improvised signals rather than detailed planning—but it was effective enough.

Caught between two forces and with their siege equipment abandoned or overrun, Boyd's alliance began to crumble. Lachlan could see officers trying to rally their men, but the psychological advantage had shifted decisively. What had been a confident siege was rapidly becoming a desperate retreat.

"Boyd!" Lachlan called out, spotting the man who had started this whole conflict. The former councilman was near the ballista, sword in hand, trying to organize a fighting withdrawal. "Boyd! Face me!"

The older man turned at the sound of his name, his face twisted with rage and desperation. "Kinnaird! This isnae yer fight!"

"It became me fight when ye threatened me McLaren people." Lachlan's voice hardened as he spurred his horse toward the man. "Because that means ye're threatenin' me, too."

Boyd was no match for Lachlan in single combat, but he fought with the fury of a man who knew he was facing his final moments. Their swords met in a series of ringing clashes that sent sparks flying in the gray morning light.

Boyd's blade swept low, aiming for Lachlan's thigh, but the younger man twisted in his saddle and parried with a force that nearly knocked the weapon from Boyd's grip.

"Ye're stronger than I imagined, lad," Boyd snarled, circling his mount as he sought an opening.

"That's laird to ye. And ye're too slow for someone seekin' a battle," Lachlan replied, his sword moving in tight, controlled arcs that kept Boyd at bay.

The older warrior pressed forward with desperate aggression, raining down blow after blow, but each strike met steel instead of flesh.

Sweat beaded on Boyd's forehead despite the cool air, and his breathing grew labored.

Lachlan, by contrast, seemed to fight with effortless precision, each movement calculated to wear down his opponent.

Boyd feinted left, then drove his sword toward Lachlan's ribs, but the blade found only empty air as Lachlan leaned back and delivered a punishing counterstroke that opened a gash along Boyd's sword arm.

"Ye think ye've won?" Boyd gasped as Lachlan's superior skill began to tell.

"There are others! Others who will never accept her rule! "

"Then they can join ye in hell," Lachlan said coldly, and his next stroke ended Boyd's rebellion permanently.

With their leader dead and their siege broken, the remnants of the attacking force scattered.

Some tried to retreat in good order, others simply fled.

The warriors of Morrison, Ross, and MacGrath had come expecting easy victory against a weakened clan, not a pitched battle against determined defenders and Highland cavalry.

"Let them go," Lachlan ordered as some of his men made to pursue the fleeing enemies. "We've won what we came for."

The courtyard of McLaren Castle was a mixture of celebration and sorrow as the defenders tallied the cost of their victory. Ewan approached with a broad grin on his weathered face, despite the blood seeping from a cut on his forehead.

"Perfectly timed, m'laird," he said, clasping Lachlan's hand firmly. "Another hour and they might have had the walls."

"How bad are our losses?" Erica asked, appearing from the castle where she had been organizing the defense of the inner keep.

Ewan's expression grew somber. "Twelve dead, m'lady. And twice that number wounded, some seriously. Good men, every one of them."

Twelve families that would mourn tonight, and many more would tend wounded husbands, fathers, and sons. The price of victory was always paid in blood, but that didn't make it any easier to bear.

"They died defendin’ their home," Lachlan said quietly. "There's honor in that."

"Aye," Erica agreed, but her voice was thick with grief. "But honor doesnae bring them back to their families."

As the sun finally broke through the clouds, Lachlan stood with Erica on the castle walls and surveyed the scene below. The siege was broken, Boyd was dead, and McLaren territory was secure once again.

But the cost had been high. Too high.

"We won," Erica said softly, but there was no triumph in her voice.

"Aye," Lachlan replied, pulling her close against his side. "But winnin' and losin' aren't always as different as people think."

Below them, men were already beginning the grim work of burying the dead. The victory would be remembered, but so would the price that had been paid for it.

McLaren would survive, but it would be forever changed by this day.

Three hours later, after the report reached him and Erica, Lachlan strode into the stone chamber deep within McLaren Castle, Frederick and Ewan at his shoulders.

Four McLaren men knelt in chains before him—men who had served under Erica's father, men who had sworn oaths to protect their lady, yet had opened the gates for Boyd's forces.

The smell of fear hung thick in the air.

"We found the correspondence hidden in their quarters," Ewan reported, his voice clipped. "Gold from Boyd's coffers. Promises of land once he claimed the McLaren holdings."

Lachlan studied each face in turn. "Who are they? Are they recent recruits?"

"Nay. Seasoned guards, m’laird. These are men who had walked these halls for years, who had eaten McLaren bread and slept under McLaren protection."

These weren't strangers—Their betrayal cut deeper than any enemy sword.

"Look at me," Lachlan commanded.

The eldest conspirator lifted his head. "Me laird, we never meant?—"

"Ye meant exactly what ye did." Lachlan's voice carried no heat, only cold certainty. "Ye opened the gates fer our enemies. Ye put a blade at yer lady's throat fer Boyd's silver."

"We thought... we thought he would win," the man whispered.

"Ye thought wrong."

Lachlan drew his sword in one fluid motion. The steel sang as it cleared the sheath, and all four men flinched at the sound.

"By yer treachery, good men died. By yer betrayal, yer lady nearly fell." He stepped closer, the blade's point hovering inches from the man's throat. "There's nay mercy fer those who sell their honor."

"Please—" another conspirator began.

"Ewan." Lachlan didn't take his eyes off the guard. "Read the charges."

Ewan's voice rang clear and hard: "Treason against Clan McLaren. Conspiracy with enemies of the realm. Betrayal of sacred oaths." He paused. "The penalty is death."

The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Lachlan raised his sword.