Page 30 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“ T here! By the grain stores!”
Ian’s shouted command cut through the thunder of hoofbeats as he and his band of warriors crested the hill overlooking Kilcairn.
The village spread below them in a hellish scene – overturned market stalls, scattered belongings, and the acrid smell of smoke rising from multiple fires.
But it was the cluster of armed men near the stone storage buildings that drew his attention like iron to a lodestone.
The raiders had clearly expected an easy victory over helpless villagers, but they’d underestimated the courage of simple Highland folk who were loyal to their laird.
A ragged line of framers, craftsmen, and the young soldiers, had formed a protective barrier around the grain stores, wielding everything from pitchforks to hammers against the attackers.
Their bravery was admirable, but Ian could see they wouldn’t hold much longer.
“Archers, take position on the ridge!” he commanded, his voice carrying the authority of a man born to lead. “Cavalry, with me! We hit them fast and hard!”
Dubh surged forward beneath him like a creature of legend, his powerful stride eating up the ground between hilltop and village. Behind Ian, twenty Wallace warriors followed him like the wrath of God himself, their war cries echoing off the stone cottages as they thundered toward battle.
The raiders turned at the sound of their approach, their confident expression shifting into alarm as they recognized the Wallace colors. These weren’t the handful of young soldiers they’d expected to face. This was a veteran war party led by a laird with vengeance burning in his eyes.
“Form up!” one of the raiders shouted, clearly their leader. “’Tis only twenty men!”
Only twenty, Ian thought grimly as he unsheathed his sword, the steel singing as it cleared the scabbard.
Ye poor fool. Ye have nae idea what ye’ve brought down upon yerselves.
The two forces met in a crash of steel and fury that sent chilling echoes rolling across the Highland hills.
Ian’s blade found its first target within seconds – a raider who’d been threatening an elderly woman.
The man’s surprised cry was cut short as Wallace steel opened his throat, and Ian was already moving to his next opponent before the body hit the ground.
Around him, his warriors fought with the controlled savagery of men protecting their own.
These weren’t just villagers to them – these were their people, their responsibility, their sacred trust. Every blow they struck carried the weight of that oath, every parry was a promise that the house of Wallace would never abandon those under its protection.
Killian’s war hammer caught a raider in the ribs with a sickening crunch, the man’s scream cut short as he crumpled to the ground.
To Ian’s left, young Callum fought with desperate courage, his sword coming up inside the man’s guard, his dirk finding the gap between the raider’s ribs with lethal precision.
“Behind ye, me laird!” Killian’s warning came just in time.
Ian spun, his sword deflecting a thrust aimed at his spine, the impact sending shockwaves up his arm.
His attacker was young, desperate, with wild eyes that spoke of a man with nothing left to lose.
They exchanged a flurry of blows, steel ringing against steel, before Ian’s superior skill triumphed.
His blade found the raider’s sword arm, severing muscle and sinew, the man’s weapon cluttering uselessly to the earth beneath their feet.
The tide of battle shifted like Highland weather.
What had begun as a desperate defense was now transforming into systematic destruction.
The raiders’ confidence shattered like spun glass against stone as they realized they faced not panicked villagers, but seasoned warriors with bloodthirst in their eyes and vengeance in their hearts.
A crossbow bolt whistled past Ian’s ear, close enough that he felt the fletching brush his ear.
He traced its path back to a raider on the chapel roof, already reloading.
“Archer!” Ian bellowed, and one of his men sent a confident arrow through the sniper’s chest, the body tumbling from the thatched roof to land in a broken heap below.
The smell of blood and smoke filled the air, mixing with the desperate cries of the wounded and the dying. MacPherson raiders who had swaggered into the village with dreams of easy plunder now found themselves trapped in a nightmare of Wallace steel and fury.
The battle was fierce but brief. The raiders had expected easy prey, not a coordinated assault by seasoned warriors. Within minutes, half their number lay dead or dying, and the survivors were backing toward the forest edge with desperation clearly written across their faces.
“Yield!” Ian roared, his sword point at the throat of what appeared to be the raiders’ second-in-command. “Yield, and ye might live tae see another sunset, ye bastard!”
The man’s eyes darted frantically between Ian’s blade and the forest. Around them, the sounds of battle were fading away as the last pocket of resistance crumbled. “We yield!” he gasped. “Quarter! We ask fer quarter!”
Ian’s green eyes were cold as he studied the surviving raiders. Seven men remained standing, their weapons lowered in surrender. Not nearly enough to account for the damage they’d tried to inflict, but enough to serve his purposes.
“Ye’ll get yer quarter,” he said, his voice carrying the promise of steel. “But first, ye’ll answer some questions. Who sent ye? What were yer orders?”
The man’s jaw tightened stubbornly. “I dinnae ken what ye mean. We just–”
His words ended in a strangled gasp as Ian’s blade moved with viper-quick precision, opening a shallow cut along his throat. Not deep enough to kill, but certainly deep enough to make than man’s mortality suddenly very real.
“Try again,” Ian suggested pleasantly. “Considerin’ that me patience is wearin’ thin.”
“Lachlan MacPherson!” The man blurted out, his face pale as fresh snow. “He sent us tae raid the village. Tae burn the grain stores. Said it would show Wallace weakness tae the people!”
Of course he did.
Ian felt his suspicions crystallize into certainty. This whole attack had been calculated – not just to damage Wallace resources, but to test his response. To see how quickly he would react, how many men he would bring, how much he valued his people’s safety.
And perhaps tae see if he could capture her.
The thought sent fresh ice shooting through his veins. His gaze swept the village square, taking in the scattered belongings and frightened faces of the villagers.
Where is she? Where is Baird?
He should have seen them by now, should have spotted that distinctive red hair amongst the crowd.
“Killian!” he called to his second-in-command. “Secure the prisoners. Leave one tae carry a message back tae his master.”
“Aye, me laird. What message?”
Ian’s smile was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. “Ye tell Lachlan MacPherson that the next time he sends raiders intae Wallace lands, I’ll personally deliver their heads tae his doorstep.”
As his men moved to secure the prisoners, Ian began scanning the perimeter more systematically.
The initial rush of battle – an intoxicating combination of adrenaline and fury – was fading, replaced now by a gnawing anxiety that clawed at the inside of his chest like a caged beast. The villagers were emerging from their hiding places, but he still saw no sign of the healer or the woman who’d seemingly managed to steal his peace of mind.
“Agnes!” he called to the flour-dusted woman. “Have ye seen Baird?”
“Aye, me laird!” Agnes pointed toward the far end of the village. “Last I saw, he was tendin’ tae young Gerald near the well. But that was before the raiders came…”
Ian spurred Dubh forward in that direction, his warrior’s instincts screaming that something was not right.
Within minutes, he found Baird kneeling beside a wounded villager, his weathered hands working with deadly precision to bind a sword gash.
He looked up as Ian approached, relief flooding his features.
“Me laird! Thank the saints ye came so quickly.” Baird’s voice was steady, but Ian caught the underlying strain. “The lads fought well, but we were outnumbered.”
“Where is she?” Ian asked without preamble. “Where’s Rhona?”
Baird’s hands stilled on the bandage. “I… we were separated when the attackers came. Last I saw she was with one of the village children – a wee boy wailin’ his head off. I shouted fer her tae get tae safety, but I dinnae…”
Safety.
The word mocked Ian like a curse. In a village under attack, where was safety? Where would a woman with no weapon but her courage take a terrified child?
“Which direction?” Ian’s voice was sharp with barely controlled urgency.
“Toward the grain stores, I think. But me laird, that was where the heaviest fightin’–”
Ian was already moving, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum while his instincts screamed in warning.
The grain stores were exactly where the raiders had focused their attack – not because they particularly cared about destroying food supplies, but perhaps because they’d been looking for something. Someone.
They knew she was here. They knew exactly where tae find her.
The thought sent him urging Dubh faster through the village streets, past splintered wood and scraps of torn fabric, pools of spilled ale mixing with blood in the dirt.
A merchant’s stall still smoldered nearby, filling the air with the putrid smell of burning wool and scorched grain.
Other warriors were helping villagers restore order, but Ian’s focus was laser-sharp on one singular objective: finding Rhona before anyone else did.
He found Gavin and Malcolm near the blacksmith’s shop, both nursing minor wounds but otherwise intact. “The lady?” he said without preamble. “Have ye seen her?”