Page 41 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)
CHAPTER THIRTY
A scream pierced the air from the tower above, sharp and final.
Erica's hands stilled for only a heartbeat on the bloodied bandage she was wrapping around a young lad's shoulder.
She knew that sound—knew what it meant. Lachlan was dispensing justice to the traitors who had opened her gates to Boyd's forces.
Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to focus on the lad's pale face. "There now," she murmured, her voice steady despite the bile rising in her throat. "That should hold until the wound heals proper."
Death was a necessity she understood, even if she couldn't stomach witnessing it herself. These men—her men—had bled defending McLaren's honor while others sold it for coin. They deserved her full attention, not her squeamishness over justified executions.
She moved to the next wounded warrior, checking his fevered brow and adjusting his pillow.
The great hall had been transformed into a makeshift infirmary, pallets spread across the stone floor where her people recovered from Boyd's assault.
Each man she tended represented loyalty that couldn't be bought or broken.
"Me lady," croaked a weathered man, catching her wrist as she passed. "The screamin'... it's done then?"
"Aye," she said simply. "Justice has been served."
He nodded grimly and released her. "Good. Traitors deserve nay better."
When she was certain every wounded man was as comfortable as possible—wounds cleaned, fever-breaks administered, blankets tucked close—Erica finally allowed herself to seek out Lachlan.
She found him in the private sola, washing blood from his hands in a basin.
Frederick and Ewan stood nearby, their expressions grim.
"It's done? All of them?" she asked quietly.
"Aye." Lachlan dried his hands, his jaw tight. "They'll nae trouble ye any more. And if any man still has thoughts of betrayal, tonight’s demonstration will be a lesson."
Before she could respond, a commotion arose in the courtyard. Through the window, she saw riders approaching under various clan banners—not attacking, but riding hard with urgent purpose.
"Messages," Frederick muttered. "Word travels fast."
Within minutes, her steward announced the arrivals: "Me lady, urgent dispatches from Clan Stewart, Clan MacLeod, and... Clan Ross."
Erica's blood chilled. Ross was one of the three clans allied with Boyd.
Lachlan stepped closer to her as the messengers entered, a subtle but clear statement of unity. The first messenger, bearing Stewart colors, bowed respectfully to both of them.
"Lady McLaren, Lord Cameron. Me laird sends word that he stands ready fer emergency council. He can be here within two days if ye call fer it."
The MacLeod messenger stepped forward next. "Me laird offers the same, me lady. These attacks on neighborin' clans concern us all."
Then came the Ross messenger, younger than the others, his nervousness obvious. He bowed to Lachlan, then began to address him, ignoring Erica.
"Lady McLaren receives respect just as much as I do," Lachlan's voice cut sharp as winter wind. "Ye'll address yer betters proper, lad."
The boy's face flushed red. "Forgive me, me lady. Me laird, me lady... me laird sends word that perhaps it's time fer talks. That this conflict has gone far enough."
Erica exchanged a glance with Lachlan. Ross breaking from the alliance? Or was this a trap?
"And what exactly does yer laird propose?" she asked carefully.
"He... he says the other two clans are pushin' fer somethin' he never agreed on. That if there could be guarantees... arrangements made..."
"Speak plain, boy," Lachlan growled.
"He wants out of Boyd's alliance," the messenger blurted. "But he needs assurance that he willnae be punished fer his part in it. And that his lands will be protected if the other two turn on him."
The room fell silent. Frederick was the first to speak.
"Could be genuine. Could be they're realizin' Boyd is finished and want off the sinkin' ship."
"Or it's a ploy," Lachlan said grimly. "Draw us into false negotiations while they regroup."
Erica studied the Ross messenger's face. Fear was genuine—she'd learned to read such things in her father's court. But fear of what?
"Tell yer laird," she said finally, "that Lady McLaren is willin' fer preliminary talks. But they'll be held here, in me hall, under me terms. And he comes himself—nay more messengers."
"Aye, me lady."
As the messengers departed, Lachlan turned to her with approval in his eyes. "Well handled. But we need more than just Ross defectin'. We need?—"
A new commotion arose outside, this one different—celebratory shouts mixed with concern. Frederick moved to the window and cursed.
"What is it?" Erica demanded.
"Riders approachin' from the north. Flyin' MacKenzie colors... but they're escortin' someone under a flag of parley." His expression darkened. "And from what I can see... it's nae good news they're bringin'."
Erica felt her heart sink. MacKenzie was supposed to be neutral in this conflict. If they were involved now...
"The political web just got a lot more tangled," Lachlan said grimly.
Erica settled into her chair as Lachlan spread the correspondence across her father's desk. Frederick and Ewan flanked him, their expressions ranging from satisfaction to outright amazement.
"I've never seen clans fold that quickly," Frederick said, shaking his head. "Lairds practically groveled. They were trippin' over themselves to pledge support."
"It wasnae the battle victories that did it," Ewan observed, sorting through the formal submissions. "It was the moment they realized what standin' against McLaren actually meant."
Lachlan's finger traced across a map of clan territories. "The moment ye mentioned Kinnaird's resources, ye could see the calculations happenin' behind their eyes. None of them wanted to face what Graham is about to face—complete isolation."
"Speakin' of Graham," Erica interjected, "have we heard anythin'?"
"Riders came in an hour ago," Ewan replied. "Graham's laird is requestin' terms for surrender. Seems bein' abandoned by every potential ally has a way of clarifyin' one's position."
Erica leaned back, still hardly believing it. "Three days ago we were preparin' for siege. Now..."
"Now McLaren is the strongest political force in the region," Lachlan finished. "Backed by alliances that would have taken yer father years to build. Leo wouldnae have even done anythin’ this close."
"If he could have built them at all," Ewan added. "Kinnaird's reputation did more in one day than a dozen battles could have accomplished. Neither the lairds nor Boyd realized Laird Galloway would release the full extent of his resources."
"Which brings us to the question," Frederick said carefully, "of what happens next. These clans will honor their agreements as long as they fear the consequences of breakin' them. But fear alone doesnae build lastin' peace."
Lachlan nodded grimly. "We'll need to give them reasons to stay loyal beyond just avoidin' destruction. Trade agreements, marriage alliances, shared interests."
"That's work for the comin' months," Erica said. "For now, it's enough that McLaren lands are secure and our people can sleep without fear."
"More than secure," Ewan said with satisfaction. "Any clan thinkin' of future aggression will have to consider that they're not just facin' McLaren anymore—they're facin' a coalition."
Later that evening, Erica found herself alone with Lachlan on the battlements, looking out over her lands. The torches below cast dancing shadows across the courtyard where, just days before, her people had prepared for what might have been their final stand.
"It feels almost too easy," she said quietly. "Like it should have cost more."
"It did cost," Lachlan replied, his voice thoughtful. "Just nae in the way ye expected. Ye've bound yerself to alliances that will shape every decision ye make goin' forward. And ye've shown every clan in Scotland that McLaren is under Kinnaird's protection."
"Do ye regret that? The bindin', I mean."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying her face in the flickering torchlight. "Nay. But it changes things between our clans permanently. There's nae goin' back to the way it was before."
"I wouldnae want to go back," Erica said, surprising herself with the honesty of it. "These past days... workin' together, fightin' together... it felt right."
"Aye, it did."
The silence stretched between them, comfortable but charged with unspoken possibilities.
"What happens when we reach Kinnaird?" she asked finally.
"Ye'll see how well the council has managed things in our absence, and we'll brief them on these new alliances." He paused. "And ye'll finally get to be a wife, and lady of two clans and also hopefully soon, the mother of heirs for each clan."
"It'll be strange, willnae it? Being there as yer wife, not just an ally in desperate circumstances."
"Aye." His voice was thoughtful. "Everything's been battle and politics since we wed. We've barely had time to... just be married."
Erica felt her heart skip at the quiet intimacy in his words. "And what does that mean, do ye think? Just bein' married?"
"I suppose we'll find out together," he said softly. "Just... us."
Silence stretched as Erica thought about what life would be like without looking over your shoulder or fearing news of the next attack.
"We should go," she said finally. "Dawn comes early."
"Aye."
But neither of them moved, both reluctant to end this moment of quiet honesty before they stepped into whatever waited at home.
"Nay! Get away from me!"
Erica's voice tore through the darkness, her body thrashing against the heavy furs. In her dream, Leo's face loomed above her, twisted with rage and madness, a dirk gleaming in his hand.
"I got ye now," his voice hissed in her mind. "Ye will never be lady of me clan?—"
"Erica! Erica, wake up!"