Page 103 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

Around him, MacLeod warriors assembled with grim efficiency—archers taking positions on the walls, men-at-arms forming defensive lines at key choke points, cavalry preparing to meet the MacKenzie advance before it could reach the outer gates. Three separate invasion forces meant splitting their own strength, but the Covenant brothers had brought enough warriors to make the math work.

Barely.

“Calum, take the northern approach with yer MacKinnon forces!” Euan swung into his saddle, the familiar weight of armor and weapons settling over him like a second skin. “David, ye’ve got the eastern landing! Archibald, with me—we’ll hit the main force head-on!”

“Aye!” The Covenant brothers scattered to their assigned positions, their own warriors following like well-oiled machines.

Euan wheeled his destrier toward the main gates, where the largest concentration of MacKenzie forces advanced. Through the gatehouse, he could see them coming—hundreds of warriors in clan colors, weapons gleaming, their formation professional enough to make his gut clench.

These weren’t farmers pressed into service. These were trained soldiers. Mercenaries, probably. Men who fought for coin rather than loyalty, which made them both predictable and dangerous.

“Hold position!” he commanded the men at the gates. “Let them come tae us! Make them fight uphill, make them work fer every bloody inch!”

The first MacKenzie warriors hit the outer defenses with a crash of steel on steel that Euan felt in his bones. His archers continued their deadly rain from above, thinning enemy ranks. And again, more kept coming. They surged up the approach road like a dark tide, and even with high ground advantage, the sheer numbers were overwhelming.

“Now!” Euan kicked his destrier forward, leading twenty mounted warriors through the gates in a devastating charge.

They hit the MacKenzie front line like a battering ram.

Euan’s sword sang as it cleared its sheath, the blade catching morning light before it descended in a brutal arc that split a man’s helmet and skull together. His destrier trampled another, iron-shod hooves crushing bone. Around him, his warriors carved through enemy forces, their charge breaking the MacKenzie advance before it could gather momentum.

But the enemy adapted quickly. Spears appeared, thrusting at horses’ bellies. Grappling hooks flew, trying to drag riders from saddles. Euan felt his destrier stumble as a spear grazed its shoulder, felt the animal’s fear and pain transmitted through the saddle.

He rolled as the horse went down, hitting the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth. A MacKenzie warrior loomed over him, sword raised for a killing blow⁠—

Archibald’s massive blade took the man’s head off in one clean sweep.

“Up!” The big warrior hauled Euan to his feet with one hand. “We’re too exposed here! Fall back tae the gates!”

Euan wanted to argue. He wanted to press the attack, to drive these bastards back into the sea. But tactical sense overrode pride. They were outnumbered, surrounded, and losing horses faster than they could afford.

“Retreat!” The command tasted like bile. “Fall back tae defensive positions!”

His warriors disengaged, forming a fighting withdrawal that cost MacKenzie forces dearly for every foot of ground gained. Euan fought rear guard alongside Archibald, their blades working in practiced harmony born of years of training together. When a MacKenzie warrior got past Archibald’s guard, Euan was there. When two attacked Euan simultaneously, Archibald’s blade removed the threat before it could land.

They reached the gates with half their cavalry and all their infantry intact. As the portcullis crashed down, sealing them inside, Euan allowed himself one breath of relief.

Then the battering ram hit the gate.

The impact shook stone walls. Dust rained from ancient mortar. On the battlements above, archers redoubled their efforts, but the MacKenzie forces had brought shields—professional siege tactics that spoke of planning and preparation.

“They’re nae raiders,” Niall observed grimly from beside him. “Keith brought a bloody army.”

“Aye.” Euan wiped blood from his sword. “And he’s committed tae breaking us.” He looked around at his defenders, at warriors already showing signs of exhaustion though the battle had barely begun. “We need tae hold until reinforcements arrive. If the king got our letter⁠—”

“That’s a big if.” Archibald leaned on his sword, breathing hard. “And even if he did, crown forces take time tae mobilize. We might be on our own fer days.”

Another impact against the gate. Wood groaned but held.

Euan’s mind raced through options. They couldn’t hold the outer defenses indefinitely—not against those numbers. Eventually, the gates would break. Eventually, MacKenzie forces would pour into his courtyard.

When that happened, he had to be ready.

“Prepare fallback positions,” he ordered. “Inner walls, keep defenses, anywhere we can bottleneck them. We’ll make them bleed fer every inch of ground. And someone check on the women and children—make sure they’re secured in the keep’s center.”

Moyra had to stay safe.

Because if Keith’s forces broke through, if they reached the keep itself, his wife would be the primary target. And Euan would be damned if he let that bastard anywhere near her.