Now that belief felt dangerously naïve. Whatever pocket of happiness she’d carved for the last twenty-four hours, was soon to disappear.
Behind her, Lachlan stepped closer to the table, his presence steady, unyielding. “If Kerr betrayed us at Falkirk,” he said quietly, “he will no’ stop there. He is being handsomely paid. But for what, I dinna know.”
Isabel turned back toward him, the truth of the letter still pressing heavily against her fingers, and then she let it drop to the tabletop, the news suddenly burning her flesh. “Will there ever be peace?”
She didn’t realize that she’d spoken the words aloud until Lachlan moved closer, not touching her, but near enough that she could feel the solid and steady presence of him.
“Ye will no’ leave the castle alone again.”
Isabel glanced up at him with challenge. “And neither will ye.”
He grinned.
“What happens when he inevitably arrives?” she asked.
Lachlan did not hesitate, his voice deadly as he said, “Then he will no’ leave.”
The certainty in his tone should have reassured her, instead, it made her realize there would be more casualties on both sides. That the MacLeod men she had come to know, her uncle’s men, Lachlan himself, could fall. The only thing certain was that the war would come to an end, and that end was rushing toward them.
20
The first rays of morning battled storm clouds that spit icy tears down onto the fortress. Lachlan made his way along the battlements, nodding at Roy and Caelan who stood sentry above the gate. The two of them looked as exhausted as he felt, their plaid bonnet slowly soaking up the rain.
“I’ll relieve the both of ye for now,” Lachlan said, gazing out at the fog-covered moors, and the shadows in the forest nearly half a mile away. “Cook’s made a honey porridge.”
“Thank ye, my laird.” Caelan wiped water from his eyes and flicked it at Roy, his brother, who chuckled.
“Shall we bring ye up some of Cook’s warm cider?” Roy asked.
“I’ve already had some,” Lachlan patted his stomach. One of the principles he’d always embraced was a well-fed warrior was a well-primed warrior.
He braced his hands against the cold, wet stone, watching the moors on the left, and the sea loch to the right, the inlets and harbors with small villages.
The tide rolled in hard from the north with the start of an incoming storm. Waves struck the shores, rocking small fishing boats and his own ship in port. Gulls circled above the harbor, their cries cutting across the morning stillness in warning.
Lachlan swiped water from his eyes and peered into the foggy depths of Loch Dunvegan. Tiny islands jutted. A thick soup of fog met the water. Even those who had lived and breathed their entire lives along these shores would have trouble telling the difference between land and water in the heavy mist.
A prickle at the back of his neck. A stone in his gut. The sensations of instinct he’d had a thousand times kept him staring hard until the shapes on the horizon could no longer be dismissed. These were not a part of the landscape he’d grown up memorizing. On the pale line where sea met sky, large silhouettes wove in and out of the fog.
Something about them felt wrong. As the sun tore through the clouds, the blurs of movement drew into focus and his suspicion hardened into certainty.
They were too large to be fishing boats and moved slowly. Slow enough that he could not ascertain if this was for the element of surprise or if they wanted to be noticed.
And feared.
But the MacLeods were not easily intimidated.
Lachlan narrowed his gaze slightly, tracking the slow progression of the sails as they edged along the rocky coastline, in and out of the inlets that housed the tiny islands that made up Skye. They did not cut directly toward Dunvegan. Nor did they advance in formation or move with the aggressive speed of raiders.
More than once an errant clan had thought to descend upon his castle. More than once, they’d learned a hard lesson.
The Wolf of Skye took no prisoners.
But these ships merely lingered. Drifted just long enough to observe. At their distance they wouldn’t be able to make out the guards on the wall. But they could ascertain where exactly the castle was located. It was the ship’s unhurried sailing that unsettled him most. Raiders struck fast, not wanting to give their targets a chance to fight back. But a ship on recognizance. They would move slower, sailing close enough to be at a safe distance as they observed. And found the perfect striking point.
“My laird. Do ye see them?” Malcolm asked, leaning on the wall beside him.
“Aye,” Lachlan growled. “There are no’ flying flags, but I’d wager the harvest those ships are up to no good.”
