Page 38 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
" L ady Isolde! Lady Isolde, wake up!"
The urgent shouting pierced through Isolde's fitful sleep, accompanied by frantic pounding on her chamber door. She bolted upright, her heart racing as the banging continued.
"What is it?" she called, scrambling from her bed and pulling on her robe.
"Please, me lady!" It was young Jamie, the housekeeper's son who also kept the stable, his voice cracking with panic. "Yer faither needs ye in the great hall. There's been an attack!"
Isolde's blood turned to ice. She flung open the door to find Jamie's face streaked with tears, his clothes disheveled as if he'd run the entire way from the stables.
"What kind of attack?" she demanded, already moving toward her wardrobe.
"Wallace's men, me lady. They hit three villages at dawn. The scout just arrived—he's bleeding something fierce, but he wouldnae let anyone tend him until he spoke with the laird."
Her hands trembled as she pulled on her dress. Three villages. The systematic nature of it made her stomach lurch. This wasn't random, it was calculated destruction.
"How bad?" she asked, though she dreaded the answer.
Jamie's face crumpled. "Bad, me lady. Real bad. Me cousin lived in Glenbrook..." His voice broke, and he couldn't finish.
Isolde placed a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. "Go tell me faither I'll be there shortly. And Jamie—send word tae prepare the great hall fer the wounded. We may have survivors coming."
As the boy ran off, Isolde finished dressing with shaking hands. In the growing light of dawn, she could see smoke rising in the distance—dark columns against the pale sky that confirmed her worst fears.
She made her way quickly through the castle corridors. The great hall was already bustling with activity when she arrived. Her father stood near the massive fireplace, his face grim as he spoke with a blood-stained scout who swayed on his feet from exhaustion.
"Faither?" she called softly.
Alistair's head turned, and she saw something in his eyes she'd never seen before—true fear.
"Isolde," he said heavily. "Ye need tae hear this."
The scout straightened as much as his injuries would allow. "Lady Isolde, I bring dark tidings from the southern villages."
"Tell me," she said, though every instinct screamed that she didn't want to know.
"Glenbrook, Millhaven, and Oakenford," the scout began, his voice hoarse. "Wallace's men hit them just after dawn. Nae tae steal, me lady. They slaughtered the livestock where they stood. Left the carcasses tae rot rather than take them fer food."
Isolde's hand flew to her throat. "The people?"
"Those who could run, ran. Those who couldn't..." The scout's voice broke. "They showed nay mercy, me lady. Nae tae the old, nae tae the sick. And the children they took with them."
The words hit her like physical blows. Children taken. Innocents murdered. Systematic destruction of food stores that would mean starvation for those who survived.
"How many men did Wallace have?" Alistair asked grimly.
"More than a hundred me laird. Well-armed, well-organized. They ken exactly where tae strike fer maximum damage."
Isolde sank into a nearby chair, her legs suddenly unable to support her. "He's trying tae destroy us completely."
Her father's jaw tightened. "Aye. He means tae starve us intae submission—or intae our graves."
The first refugees arrived before the sun had fully risen, their desperate voices carrying across the courtyard like the cries of wounded animals.
Isolde stood at the great hall's entrance, watching as families stumbled through the gates, mothers carrying wailing children, old men leaning heavily on walking sticks, children with tear-streaked faces clinging to their fathers' hands.
"Morag!" Isolde called to the cook, who had appeared at her elbow. "We'll need every pot ye have. These folk havenae eaten in hours."
"Aye, me lady," Morag said grimly, already rolling up her sleeves. "But our stores?—"
"We'll make dae," Isolde said firmly, though her heart sank at the reminder. "What we have, we share."
She moved quickly through the growing crowd, her hands gentle as she guided the most wounded toward makeshift beds they'd arranged near the great hearth. An old woman with a gash across her forehead caught Isolde's arm with surprising strength
"They killed me grandsons," the woman whispered, her eyes wild with grief. "Cut them down like they were nothing more than weeds. Me sweet laddies..."
Isolde's throat tightened, but she kept her voice steady. "Ye're safe now. I promise ye, ye're safe here."
But even as she spoke the words, she knew they might be lies. If Wallace could destroy three villages in one morning, what was to stop him from taking their castle?
"Me lady!" A young mother approached, her infant crying weakly in her arms. "Me bairn hasnae eaten since yesterday. Have ye any milk tae spare?"
Isolde looked around desperately. They had a few goats, but not nearly enough to feed all these children. "Morag, dae we have any goat's milk?"
"A wee bit," the cook replied, appearing with a small pitcher. "But it'll need tae be watered down if we're tae have enough fer all the little ones."
As the morning wore on, more refugees continued to arrive. The great hall filled beyond capacity, forcing Isolde to open the stables and even some of the storage rooms. Families huddled together wherever they could find space, their few remaining possessions clutched tightly in their arms.
"Lady Isolde," an old man called out, his voice cracked with exhaustion. "Have ye word of other survivors from Oakenford? Me daughter lived there with her husband..."
Isolde knelt beside him, taking his weathered hands in hers. "What was her name? Perhaps someone here has news of her."
"Mhairi. Mhairi Campbell. She had red hair and the sweetest singing voice..."
The hope in his eyes nearly broke her heart. She'd already heard too many stories of families torn apart, loved ones missing or dead, entire communities scattered to the winds.
"I'll ask around," she promised, though she knew the chances were slim.
A commotion near the entrance drew her attention. More refugees were arriving, badly wounded, some carried on makeshift stretchers. A man with burns covering half his face was helped through the doors, his clothes still reeking of smoke.
""Hamish!" she called to an old servant. "We need more clean cloths and fresh water. And see if ye can find any of that salve Margot makes fer wounds."
As she tended to the wounded, Isolde couldn't help but notice how quickly their supplies were dwindling. The bread Morag had baked that morning was already gone, distributed among the hungriest children. The small amount of porridge they'd managed to prepare had barely fed half the refugees.
"Me lady," Morag appeared at her side, her voice low and worried. "We need tae talk."
Isolde followed the cook to a quieter corner of the hall. "What is it?"
"Our stores, me lady. At this rate, we'll be out of grain within the fortnight. The salt pork will last a bit longer, but nae by much. And with winter coming..."
The weight of responsibility settled heavily on Isolde's shoulders. These people were looking to her for salvation, but she had no idea how to provide it. Their own clan was barely surviving, and now they had twice as many mouths to feed.
"We'll manage," she said, though the words felt hollow. "We have tae."
But as she looked around the great hall—at the wounded and the hungry, at the children who'd lost their parents and the parents who'd lost their children—she knew that managing wouldn't be enough. They needed help, and they needed it soon.
The solar had never felt smaller than it did that afternoon, with her father pacing like a caged wolf while his few remaining advisors sat around the worn oak table. Isolde took her place beside him, acutely aware that she was the only woman in a room full of desperate men.
"How many fighting men do we have left?" Alistair asked without preamble.
Old Tavish, their captain of the guard, cleared his throat. "Forty-three able-bodied warriors, me lord. Maybe a dozen more if ye count the lads who can hold a sword but havenae seen real battle."
"Against how many of Wallace's forces?"
"Reports vary, but at least three hundred. Well-armed, well-trained." Tavish's weathered face was grim. "They move like a proper army, nae raiders."
Alistair slammed his fist on the table, making the pewter cups jump. "Damn the man! What daes he hope tae gain by destroying us completely?"
"Fear," Isolde said quietly. "He wants other clans tae see what happens when they oppose him."
Her father turned to her, his eyes blazing. "Then he'll have tae kill every last MacAlpin before we bend the knee."
"Faither," Isolde stood, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "Pride willnae feed the refugees downstairs. It willnae stop Wallace's army when they arrive at our gates."
"What are ye suggesting?" His voice was dangerously low.
"That we seek help. Form alliances. We cannae stand alone against this."
The silence that followed was deafening. Tavish shifted uncomfortably in his chair, while the other advisors exchanged meaningful glances.
"MacAlpins have never begged fer aid," Alistair said finally.
"And MacAlpins have never faced complete annihilation," Isolde countered. "The old ways of thinking willnae save us now."
Her father studied her for a long moment. "Who would ye have us turn tae? Most of our neighbors already despise us and willnae see the need tae face Wallace fer our sake."
Isolde's heart hammered against her ribs. She thought of Ciaran, of the strength she'd seen in him, the resources of his clan. But how could she suggest reaching out to him without revealing the true nature of their connection?
"The MacCraith clan," she said carefully. "They have the men and resources we need, and they willnae submit tae Wallace. I heard word that the laird helped saved our village some days back."