Page 23 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

"As did ye," she replied softly. "These people..." she gestured to the villagers gathered in small groups, some weeping, others silent with shock, "they're me faither's responsibility. Me responsibility."

Ciaran crouched beside her, his voice low. "Wallace is growing bolder. He means tae take everything."

She nodded, her shoulders slumping with the weight of his words. "I should have been here. I should have?—"

"Dinnae," Ciaran interrupted, covering her small hand with his larger one. The touch sent an unexpected warmth through him despite his exhaustion. "It’s nae yer duty to protect them. Ye’re nae laird."

For a moment, they simply sat in silence. Ciaran found himself wanting to pull her into his arms, to offer strength and comfort. The intensity of this desire unsettled him.

The moment shattered as a young boy ran toward them, pointing back toward the road they'd traveled earlier.

"Riders coming! Men with weapons!"

Ciaran was on his feet in an instant, hand moving to the dirk at his side. "How many?"

"Eight, maybe ten," the boy gasped.

"Wallace's men," Isolde said, rising beside him. "Come tae see their handiwork."

Cold fury replaced his exhaustion. Ciaran turned to her, already formulating a plan.

"Get the women and bairns into the stone church.

It's the only building that willnae burn easily.

" To the men gathering around them, he continued, "Any of ye who can fight, take up what weapons ye have. The rest, help move the injured."

"Ye cannae face them alone," Isolde protested, her eyes fierce with concern.

"I'm nae alone," Ciaran replied, nodding to the village men who were already retrieving axes and scythes. "And I willnae let Wallace's dogs terrorize these people further."

Isolde wanted to argue—he could see it in the stubborn set of her jaw. But the approaching hoofbeats left no time. Instead, she squeezed his hand once, fiercely. "Dinnae die, ye stubborn man. We have unfinished business, ye and me."

A smile tugged at his lips despite the danger. "Aye, lass. That we dae." He watched her turn away, gathering women and children with natural authority.

As Ciaran positioned himself at the village entrance, flanked by determined farmers with makeshift weapons, he felt a strange calm descend. These were not his people by birth or clan, yet he stood ready to defend them with his life.

A horn blast split the air, high and clear from the ridge above the village. Every head turned toward the sound.

Silhouetted against the morning sun, a line of mounted men appeared on the hilltop. Ten men. Their formations were tight, disciplined—trained men.

Ciaran assessed the village defenders with a quick glance. Two men with hunting bows, three with pitchforks, one with a rusted sword that had likely hung above a hearth for decades. The rest clutched axes meant for chopping wood, not men. His jaw tightened. Most of the fighting would fall to him.

"Form a line here," he commanded, gesturing to where the village path narrowed between two stone cottages. "They'll have tae come through single file if they want tae reach the square."

The villagers scrambled to follow his orders, moving carts and debris to create a makeshift barricade.

"Ye," Ciaran pointed to a lad of perhaps fifteen summers, "take the women and children deeper into the church. Bar the door from within."

"You three," he continued, addressing the men with pitchforks, "guard the side path by the smithy. If they try tae flank us, sound the alarm."

He positioned the bowmen on either side of the barricade, where they'd have clear shots at approaching riders. "Hold yer arrows until they're close enough that ye cannae miss. We've precious few tae waste."

Isolde appeared at his side, her face grim, in her hands, a bow taken from a wounded defender. Her fingers notched an arrow with practiced ease.

"Isolde! I told ye tae take shelter," Ciaran growled, even as a part of him admired her courage.

“I told ye I've nay braithers," she replied, her eyes fixed on the ridge. "I'm nae accustomed tae hiding when trouble comes."

Ciaran watched as she adjusted the sword in her hand, her movements showing more comfort with the weapon than he'd expected after their brief training session.

There was no mistaking it, she had taken well to his instruction, but clearly had some prior experience. The lass had learned quickly, perhaps not formally, but through necessity.

"Isolde, I dannae think ye can hold yer ground against a mounted attacker," he said, reassessing her completely.

"Aye, I can." she answered simply. "Ye taught me well. And I've had practice before, though not with proper technique... and if this fails, I have me knife. That I can dae much damage with. But I willnae cower while these men attack innocent people."

A flicker of respect passed through him. "Alright. Take position by that old oak yonder. Ye'll have a clear view of the approach."

Isolde nodded once, moving with purpose toward the massive tree. An older woman hurried forward, pressing a quiver of arrows into her hands with a whispered blessing.

Ciaran turned his attention back to the riders, who had begun to descend the ridge in a controlled trot. Their leader, a tall man with a scarred face, wore Wallace's colors boldly across his chest.

"Floyd," Ciaran addressed the village elder who had joined him. "When the fighting starts, keep the men together. Dinnae let them charge out—make Wallace's dogs come tae us."

"Aye, me laird," the old man replied, though he was not Ciaran's subject.

From her position, Isolde caught Ciaran's eye.

In that moment, everything between them distilled into a single look—trust, determination, and an unspoken promise to protect what mattered.

He gave her a small nod, and she returned it, a silent understanding passing between them that transcended words.

The riders reached the bottom of the hill, rearranging themselves into an attack formation. The first black arrows arced down from the hilltop, thudding into the earth nearby.

"Those bastards," the old villager spat, crouching beside them, behind an overturned cart. "They've come tae finish what they started."

Ciaran drew his sword, the familiar weight centering him as he prepared for what was to come. "Aye," he agreed grimly. "But this time, they'll find the ending changed."

Ciaran raised his sword above his head. "Fer the MacAlpin clan!" he roared.

"Fer the MacAlpins!" The villagers took up the cry, their voices uneven but determined.

"Fer our homes!" bellowed Floyd, raising his axe.

"Fer our children!" A woman's voice joined from near the church.

The cries blended together, swelling into a ragged chorus of defiance that rose to meet the approaching riders. The thunder of hooves grew louder, the ground trembling beneath their feet. Dust rose in clouds around the charging horses.

Fifty paces.

Forty.

Thirty.

Ciaran tightened his grip on his dirk, muscles tensing in preparation. Beside him, a farmer clutched his pitchfork with white-knuckled hands, muttering a prayer. To his left, a grizzled man with one eye nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring back to his cheek with practiced steadiness.

The riders' faces became visible now—hard men with cold eyes, some grinning in anticipation of easy slaughter. Their leader, face bisected by an old scar, shouted commands as they adjusted their formation to funnel through the narrow path.

"Hold!" Ciaran commanded the archers. "Nae yet!"

Twenty paces.

"Now!" Ciaran shouted.

The battle began.

The first rider crashed against their barricade, his warhorse rearing as it met the unexpected obstacle. Before the man could recover, Isolde's arrow found its mark, striking him in the shoulder with enough force to unseat him. He tumbled to the ground, crying out in pain and surprise.

"Hold the line!" Ciaran commanded as two more riders approached.

The narrow path had done its work, forcing Wallace's men to approach in pairs rather than overwhelming the defenders with numbers.

Ciaran met the first with a sweeping parry that turned his opponent's blade aside, following with a precise thrust that found the gap between helmet and mail. The man fell without a sound.

Behind him, a villager with a woodcutter's axe swung wildly at the second rider, missing but causing the horse to shy away in panic.

"Aim fer the horses!" Floyd shouted to the bowmen. "Bring them down!"

Another arrow whistled past Ciaran's ear—Isolde again, her aim true as she struck a rider in the thigh. The man cursed violently but kept his seat, spurring his mount forward.

Ciaran stepped into the path of the wounded rider, his dirk a blur of deadly precision. Ciaran found an opening and struck a killing blow.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a Wallace man break through the side path, having circled around the barricade. The rider charged directly toward the oak where Isolde stood, his sword raised high.

"Isolde!" Ciaran shouted in warning, unable to reach her in time.

She pivoted smoothly, dropping her bow and drawing a dagger from her belt in one fluid motion. As the rider bore down upon her, she ducked beneath his swing and plunged her blade into his horse's flank. The animal screamed, rearing up and throwing its rider before bolting away.

The fallen man scrambled to his feet, sword still in hand as he advanced on Isolde. Ciaran fought desperately to reach her, cutting down another Wallace soldier who blocked his path.

"Ye MacAlpin bitch," the man snarled, closing in on Isolde. "Wallace has plans fer ye."

Isolde backed against the oak trunk, her dagger seeming pitifully small against the man's broadsword.

Yet her eyes showed no fear, only calculation.

As he lunged, she twisted sideways, letting his blade embed itself in the ancient oak.

Before he could wrench it free, she struck, driving her dagger into the exposed gap beneath his arm.