Their breathing uneven, their bodies still connected in a way that could not be undone. And even as the quiet settled back around them, even as the danger beyond the walls remained, everything between them had changed.
When the sun began to set and the world beyond them came back to the present, Isabel lay beside him, her gaze fixed on the narrow window as the sky softened toward evening. The gray of day had given way to something warmer, streaks of gold and fading blue stretching across the horizon. The wind still pressed steadily against the glass, carrying with it the restless sound of the sea loch. For a time, she did not move. The stillness felt fragile, as though even the smallest movement might break whatever had settled between them, and she found herself reluctant to disturb the cocoon they’d created. Surprisingly, they had yet to be disturbed, but she knew that tranquility would be brief as they were still preparing for an imminent battle. This momentary reprieve had been unexpected and a gift.
The warmth of his presence remained at her back, steady and undeniable, his soft breath at her neck a constant she had not expected to find comfort in, grounding her in a way that felt both new and deeply unsettling, as though something inside her had changed without her even realizing it was happening. For a moment, she allowed herself to lean into that feeling—to believe in it, however briefly. To believe that this, whatever it was between them, might exist outside the reach of everything waiting beyond the walls of Dunvegan. That her uncle wouldn’t be furious and possibly punish them both severely.
Isabel exhaled slowly, the breath leaving her as her gaze remained fixed on the fading light beyond the window. The sense of stillness in the room no longer felt like safety—it felt temporary, like a pause between heartbeats. The battles had not been left behind but followed them here. The enemy threading their way into this place just as surely as they had threaded their way into her thoughts.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze sliding toward Lachlan. He lay beside her, close enough that she could still feel the warmth of him, the reality of him, and for a moment she studied him in silence, as though weighing something she had not yet spoken aloud.
“We are no’ safe here,” she said quietly.
Lachlan’s eyes blinked open. He did not answer at once, but she saw the truth of it settle in his expression even before he spoke. This place, for all its strength, for all its distance from the Bruce and the battles waged in his name, was not beyond reach.
And that made everything between them—this fragile, undeniable connection they had chosen to step into—something far more precarious than either of them had been willing to admit.
Because it was no longer only a matter of desire. Or even choice. It was something that could be used against them. Something that could be taken away.
By enemy or ally.
22
Lachlan had learned long ago not to trust the quiet moments before a storm, the stillness filled with an ominous foreboding.
The sea beyond the cliffs of Dunvegan lay gray and restless, its surface shimmering beneath a low, heavy sky that pressed down like a warning. The wind carried the sharp scent of salt and distant rain across the land, threading through stone and timber alike, slipping beneath cloaks and into bone.
Behind the castle walls, the clan had already begun their morning work, but not with the usual jovial tones, rather they each had a pinched look on their face, stopping to listen every now and then.
Warriors filled the training yard with the dull, rhythmic clash of wooden blades, not wanting to dull the edges of their battle swords. Their maneuvers were precise, disciplined, honed by years of repetition. Near the clustered crofts, children ran between doorways, their small forms darting in and out of sight. The lack of laughter revealed the weight of what gathered beyond the horizon.
At some point today, Lachlan would need to issue an order for the women and children to cluster in the cellar inside the castle walls, in the disastrous case the enemy breached their keep.
Lachlan walked the length of battlements, trailing his fingers against the same cold stone he’d touched as a child. Zeus followed the line of his trailing hand, overseeing the yard as though it were he in charge.
His gaze fixed on the narrow path that wound toward the south, the sun having barely yet risen as it was just nearing dawn. He had watched that path for longer than he cared to admit, his attention returning to it again and again, measuring the time, marking the absence. Waiting for the moment Caelan, Angus and Finley barreled down the road, the enemy on their heels.
The warriors who rode under Lachlan’s command had earned their place through skill and survival, their reputations were as well known as his own. Men called him the Wolf of Skye—but wolves did not run alone, and those who rode at his side were no less dangerous for it. The lack of Caelan, Angus and Finley’s returns did not bode well. Something, or someone, stood in their path.
Soft footsteps sounded behind him, and he knew who it was before she spoke, her floral scent was an intoxicating balm.
“Ye’ve been standing here for nearly an hour.” Isabel’s voice carried a steadiness that he found soothing.
He glanced at her, taking in the length of her in the golden light of a sunrise, the simple gown she wore that hid the gloriousness of her body beneath. Despite the heaviness of the impending battle, he smiled. “Ye noticed.”
“Ye’re difficult no’ to notice,” she replied, stepping beside him, and placing her hand briefly over his on the stones. “They have no’ returned?”
Lachlan shook his head, his gaze returning to the horizon. Before he could form words, the horn from the outer watchtower blared. The sound cut through the morning like a blade, silencing the yard below in an instant.
Lachlan straightened at once, every part of him on high alert, and ready for action.
A rider broke into view along the narrow road, his horse lathered and hard-breathed from the climb, hooves striking sharp against the packed earth as his rider urged it forward. The wind blew his long red hair from his queue. Caelan.
Two more followed close behind, riding flank to flank, their pace controlled but relentless. The white streak on the muzzle of the left horse gave away Finley’s mount, which could only mean Angus beside him. Between them, lashed across a saddle like spoils taken in a hunt, a man sagged forward, his body bound and barely upright. His head lolled with the movement of the horse, dark hair plastered to his face with sweat and dirt, his boots dragging dangerously low with each jolt of the path as though he lacked the strength to hold himself steady.
Lachlan let out a curse, already moving.
He did not wait for Isabel, but he felt her fall in beside him all the same as he descended the stone steps two at a time, the wind rushing past them as the tension of the morning broke into full alarm.
By the time they reached the courtyard, the men had crossed over the drawbridge and were dismounting.
