Page 96 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin

"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.

CHAPTER THIRTY