The ground drew out beneath their horses, as they left the forest, and rode steadily onward until the horizon widened and the world seemed to open before them. They crossed the breathtaking expanse of land toward Loch Alsh.
Isabel slowed slightly, and though she made no sound, Lachlan heard the faint shift in her breath. Across from Loch Alsh, the craggy swells of the Isle of Skye’s cliffs kissed the horizon. Beyond those cliffs, it was only a few days' ride to his holding—Dunvegan. A castle that loomed against the sky, its walls solid and unwelcoming, its towers fixed like sentinels against both the sea loch and the sky.
There was no bridge to Skye. They would need to take a birlinn across the water, which would be easy, as he and his men had left one behind. She studied the water, and he wondered if she was afraid of the crossing. If she knew how to swim.
A sharp whistle pierced the air.
Lachlan turned his horse immediately, his gaze sweeping the terrain with practiced precision. They were exposed. Loch Alsh at their front, the moors at their back. They could ride hard west toward a thin line of trees or seek refuge with the Mackenzies at Eilean Donan not far from here to the east, their towers visible just above a ridge.
The whistle sounded again, not one of the signals he and his men used. Either the Mackenzies were issuing a warning, or signaling for an ambush, or the English had gotten smarter in the last fortnight.
Eilean Donan Castle was out of the question. He could not trust the Mackenzies intentions, and they would not reach the walls in time. It was not without its own risks, but they’d do best to take their chances defeating the English, or whoever it was, where they stood. The whistle sounded again, and he determined the calls were coming from their back, over the last rise they’d just ridden over.
“Roy, take the women to the trees,” he ordered, his voice steady and decisive. They’d not be completely covered, but at least they’d be out of the way. “Archers nock your arrows. Hold until I give the signal.”
Isabel looked ready to argue, her gaze on his, but something unspoken passed between them. With a single nod in his direction, she turned her mount with Elsa’s and rode hell bent toward the trees with Roy. For a brief moment, Lachlan wished to challenge her in a race, she was an excellent horsewoman, and by God he wanted to be anywhere but here. To kiss her once more…
The rest of his warriors moved without hesitation, spreading into position with the efficiency of men who had fought together long enough to trust instinct over explanation.
The English appeared moments later, their horses barreling down the rise. They slowed as they approached, their unease evident even from a distance. There were seven of them, and eleven MacLeod warriors without Roy.
“Fire,” Lachlan ordered his archers, Mungo, Thomas and Malcolm, who let their arrows fly.
A shout broke the air as the English held up their shields, while the arrows rained down. Steel rang as swords were drawn, but Lachlan was already moving, driving his horse over the moors, back the way they’d come toward the enemy, with controlled aggression. Pain flared sharply in his leg, but he forced it aside, focusing instead on the enemy before him. His sword met the first Englishman in a clean, decisive hit to the chest, sending him from the saddle before he could return a strike.
Lachlan zeroed in on his next target, his blade clashing with force enough to jar his arm, but Lachlan adjusted quickly, striking again with brutal precision.
The fight did not last long. The English were outnumbered and underskilled.
War was seldom the drawn-out clash songs made it to be. It was quick. Violent. Decided in moments. The English faltered under the sudden assault, their formation breaking as uncertainty took hold. One fled outright. Another followed, wounded and struggling to remain in the saddle. Mungo and Thomas, made quick work with their bows, felling the Sassenachs. Within seconds, the road belonged to Lachlan’s men once more.
Silence returned in fragments, broken only by the sound of retreating hooves and the harsh rhythm of breath.
Lachlan did not move immediately. He watched the road, his gaze fixed on the direction the English had tried to flee toward, wondering if there was a second round of soldiers readying to attack, but the rise was quiet. The whistling stopped. None of the Englishman wore anything discernable. Wouldn't it be nice if they just had a parchment nailed to their chests that said whose orders they’d followed? He was getting bloody tired of them. Once they crossed Loch Alsh, he hoped the three days’ ride to Dunvegan was uneventful.
“My lady—” Roy’s shout cut through Lachlan’s thoughts.
But Isabel was already at Lachlan’s side. She ignored the bodies strewn about, the men digging shallow graves to bury them.
Her attention went immediately to his leg, her expression tightening as she saw the blood seeping through the bandage. Without waiting for permission, she pressed a cloth against the wound, her movements firm and unyielding.
“Ye’re bleeding,” she said.
“’Tis nothing,” he replied automatically.
“’Tis no’ nothing,” she returned, her tone leaving no room for dismissal as she continued her ministrations. “Ye should no’ have fought. Lift your leg. At least make this easy, ye oaf,” she added, tying a clean cloth around the old.
He met her gaze, the truth rising before he could stop it. “I will always fight if someone threatens ye.”
The words hung between them, heavier than he had intended.
“Ye say that as though ‘tis simple,” she said quietly.
“’Tis.”
“’Tis no’.” Her gaze did not waver. “Ye’re injured. Ye’re being hunted. And still ye act as though throwing yourself into danger is the only answer.”
“Ye’re being hunted, lass. ’Tis the only reason that matters.”
