Page 105 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

The fight was brutal but brief. Langley's men were good, well-trained, well-armed. But David's men were better and they fought with the fury of clansmen protecting their own lands.

David cut down another man, parried another's strike. Something burned across his ribs, a blade slipping past his guard. But he ignored it, focused on the fight.

That time, David fought dirty. He feinted left, then drove his knee into another man’s stomach, followed with a brutal shove that sent him crashing to the ground.

Within minutes, it was over. Three of Langley's men dead, two captured, the rest fleeing.

"After them!" someone shouted.

"Let them go," David countermanded. "We have what we need."

He swung down from his horse, immediately regretting it as pain flared in his side. He pressed a hand to his ribs, felt wetness seeping through his shirt.

"Ye're hurt." Tristan was beside him instantly. "How badly?"

"Nae bad. Just a scratch."

"Let me see."

David lifted his shirt enough for Tristan to inspect the wound. It was shallow, a slice across his ribs that bled more than it hurt. Nothing serious.

"Ye need that cleaned and bandaged," Tristan said.

"I'll have the healer look at it when we get back." David turned to where his men were securing the prisoners. "What dae we have?"

"Two of Langley's, like ye said. One of them's talkin' already."

"Good. Bring them back tae Keppoch. I want tae ken exactly what Langley's plannin'."

The ride back was slower, more cautious. David kept one hand pressed to his ribs, trying to stem the bleeding. It wasn't serious, he'd had far worse, but it was annoying.

And it was a reminder that Langley was still out there. Still sending men. Still trying.

By the time they reached Keppoch, the sun was starting to sink toward the horizon. David went straight to the healer's quarters, ignoring Tristan's suggestion that he should rest first.

"It's just a scratch," he insisted. "Won't take long to clean and bandage."

The healer—an older woman named Moira—took one look at him and shook her head. "Sit. And take off that shirt before ye bleed all over me clean floor."

David obeyed, too tired to argue. Moira cleaned the wound with practiced efficiency, her touch gentle despite her gruff manner.

"It's shallow," she confirmed. "Clean cut. Should heal fine as long as ye keep it clean and dinnae dae anythin' stupid."

"Define stupid."

"Anythin' that involves swordplay, heavy liftin', or vigorously tumblin' yer wife." She gave him a pointed look. "Give it at least a few days."

David felt heat creep up his neck. "Aye. Fine."

She bandaged the wound and sent him on his way with instructions to return if it showed any signs of infection. David thanked her and headed for his study, where his Council was waiting for news.

The meeting was tense. David recounted the ambush, the captured men, what little information they'd gotten from them before leaving the valley.

"Langley's gettin' bolder," Malcolm said. "That's the third patrol he's hit this month."

"He's testin' us," Hamish added. "Seein' how we respond. Lookin' fer weaknesses."

"Then we need to make sure he daesnae find any." David leaned forward. "Double the patrols. I want men on every border, every approach. And I want the prisoners questioned properly. Find out what Langley's plannin'."