Page 29 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)

Tristan blinked, clearly caught off guard by the directness of the question. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, and when he spoke, his voice was gentle, yet firm. “I guess they see opportunity slippin’ away while ye honor scruples they consider… impractical.”

“Och, well… tell them I’ll meet with them later,” he said, though the words tasted like ash in his mouth. “We have more pressin’ concerns now.”

“Aye, me laird. Though… if I may speak freely, they’re getting’ restless. They think ye’re bein’ too soft about it.”

Ian turned from the window, his green eyes flashing with dangerous fire. “Too soft? They think keepin’ a woman from her family fer three months, holdin’ her prisoner against her will, and pressurin’ her intae marriage is soft ?”

Tristan held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I’m only tellin’ ye what I hear, me laird. They see the MacCraith-MacAlpin alliance and they worry about bein’ left behind. They think if ye dinnae act soon–”

“I ken what they think.” Ian said, the words coming out sharp and harsh before he forced himself to moderate his tone.

Tristan was only the bearer of bad news, and a loyal one at that.

“But I’ll nae force her intae anythin’. If she chooses tae marry me, it’ll be because she’s makin’ the choice freely. ”

“And if she continues tae refuse, me laird?”

The question hung in the air between them, rancid like smoke from a funeral pyre.

Ian had been avoiding thinking about that possibility too much, but it lurked in the back of his mind like a rabid wolf waiting to strike.

If Rhona refused him, what then? Could he really just let her go, knowing it would most definitely mean war between their clans?

Would he be able to sacrifice his people’s safety for one woman’s freedom?

When did her welfare start matterin’ more than clan politics? Since when is protectin’ one stubborn lass more important than years of careful strategy?

“Then we’ll face that choice head on when we come tae it, as we dae with everythin’,” he said finally.

A sharp knock on the solar door interrupted his dark thoughts. “Enter,” he called, grateful for the distraction.

Duncan MacLeod stepped into the room, his thin face grave as a tombstone. “Me laird, forgive the interruption, but we’ve received word from the village watch.”

Ian’s heart stuttered like a horse missing its step. “What kind of word?”

“Raiders, me laird. Attackin’ Kilcairn.” Duncan’s voice was carefully neutral, but Ian caught a flicker of something in his eyes – calculation, perhaps, or opportunity. “The messenger says they’re tryin’ tae burn the grain stores.”

For a split second, Ian felt only mild concern. Village raids were becoming depressingly common, and while he regretted any loss of life or property, his men could handle a simple attack. “Send a patrol,” he said. “Twenty men should be sufficient tae–”

“Me laird,” Duncan dared, his voice carrying a note that made Ian’s blood run cold. “As ye ken, Baird and the MacAlpin lass are in the village. They went this mornin’ with the healin’ supplies.”

Ian’s world titled sideways, as if the very ground beneath his feet had suddenly shifted like loose scree on a mountainside.

He had become so distracted with Lachlan’s schemes and the Council’s ever-growing pressure that it had slipped his mind entirely that they had gone to the village.

Rhona. She was there, in the middle of a raid, with only a handful of young soldiers and an ageing healer to protect her.

The realization hit him like a cannon blast to the torso. Every instinct he’d developed over years of warfare screamed of danger, but this was different – this was personal in a way that made rational thought nearly impossible.

“How many raiders?” His voice came out deadly quiet, the calm before a Highland storm.

“The messenger wasnae certain, me laird. Perhaps a dozen. Maybe more.”

A dozen men against six young soldiers.

The odds were grim enough to make Ian’s chest tighten with something approaching panic. This wasn’t a random raid for supplies or coin. This was Lachlan MacPherson making a deliberate move, using the chaos of battle to achieve what diplomacy couldn’t.

“The grain stores,” Ian said slowly, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “They’re nae after grain. They’re after cover.”

Understanding dawned in Tristan’s eyes. “A distraction.”

“Aye. And a bloody good one at that. Set fire tae the stores, create chaos and confusion, then grab what they really came fer while everyone’s fightin’ the flames…” Ian’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. “Lachlan’s been plannin’ this.”

He means tae take her.

The realization hit Ian like an axe to the chest, stealing his breath and sending rage coursing through his veins like molten steel.

Of course Lachlan would strike now, when Ian was distracted and Rhona was vulnerable and away from the castle’s protection.

The bastard had probably been watching, waiting for exactly this opportunity.

“Tristan!” Ian barked, his voice cracking like a whip in the solar. “Gather every warrior available. Full battle gear. We ride immediately. And get me Killian!”

“Aye, me laird!” Tristan spun on his heel and raced for the door, recognizing the deadly urgency in his leader’s tone.

Ian was already moving, striding toward the door with such purpose that it made Duncan hastily step aside. “Send word tae the castle guard,” he called over his shoulder. “Full alert. If this is a distraction fer a larger attack…”

But even as he gave the orders, Ian knew his focus was fractured.

Half his mind was on clan security and tactical concerns, but the other half – the half that mattered more than he cared to admit – was consumed with images of Rhona in danger, Rhona facing raiders with only her courage and stubbornness as weapons, Rhona calling his name as enemies closed in around her…

The images that flooded his mind were worse than any nightmare he’d ever had – Rhona’s eyes wide with terror, her hands bound with rope that bit into the skin, her calling his name in desperation.

The thought of Lachlan getting his hands on her, of her being dragged away from everything she was just learning to trust, made Ian’s vison blur with a fury so pure it was nearly blinding.

Hold on, lass, I’m comin’ fer ye.

He took the stairs three at a time, heading for the armory.

The next few minutes passed in a blur of controlled chaos.

Ian strapped on his sword and dirk, grabbed his bow and a quiver of arrows, and checked his armor with the speed and efficiency of long practice.

Around him, the castle erupted into activity as word spread – warriors arming themselves, horses being saddled, weapons being checked with deadly precision.

His robust hands moved automatically, but precise, muscle memory guiding him through preparations he’d made countless times before.

But this time, his mind was elsewhere, weighing the odds that were stacked against them.

Kilcairn was close to Castle Wallace, but a hard ride – would they get there in time, or would they find only smoking ruins and the tracks of horses heading toward MacPherson lands?

The thought of Alec Fraser and the other lads who’d gone with Rhona and Baird made his chest tighten with dread.

They were barely more than boys, eager and well-meaning, but hardly seasoned warriors.

They’d certainly protect her as well they could, but might pay with their lives against a dozen experienced raiders.

Through it all, one singular thought echoed in Ian’s mind like a war drum beating to the rhythm of his heart.

I should have stayed with her.

By the time he reached the courtyard, nearly thirty warriors were mounted and ready, their faces grim with the knowledge that they rode toward battle.

Dubh stomped impatiently, sensing his master’s urgency as Ian swung into the saddle with ease despite the bulky armor weighing down his powerful frame.

The destrier’s muscles bunched beneath him, the animal’s own eagerness for battle matching his master’s need for speed. Around them, the other horses snorted and pawed the ground, their riders checking weapons one final time before they plunged forward into whatever hell awaited them.

“Me laird!” Killian called, guiding his mount closer to Ian’s. “What are yer orders once we reach the village?”

“Find her.” Ian said simply to his second-in-command

“And if MacPherson’s men have already taken her?”

Ian’s green eyes went cold as steel. “Then we follow them tae the threshold of hell itself.”

“Me laird,” Duncan called from the castle steps, his voice carrying clearly across the chaos in the courtyard. “What of MacPherson’s message? What shall I tell the Council about yer response?”

Ian’s hands tightened on the reins until the leather creaked in protest. “Tell them,” he said, his voice carrying the cold promise of violence, “that if Lachlan wants a meetin’ with the Wallace laird, he can find me on the battlefield.”

Without waiting for a response, he spurred Dubh toward the gates, his warriors falling in behind him like the shadow of the grim reaper himself.

The afternoon sun caught the steel of their weapons, turning them into a river of deadly light flowing toward the village and whatever fate awaited them there.

As they thundered across the countryside, their horses kicking up a furious flurry of dust in their wake, Ian found himself praying to whatever gods might be listening for Rhona’s safety, for the chance to reach her in time, and for the strength to protect what mattered most to him in this world.

Let her be safe, let me nae be too late.