Page 93 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
"We could send word to me allies first. Clan Morrison owes me a favor from the border disputes. Clan Campbell has marriage ties to Kinnaird. With their forces added to ours, we'd have overwhelmin’ superiority."
"And arrive in three days to find McLaren burned to the ground and me people scattered or dead," Erica cut him off firmly. "Aye. I agree with ye. But, in the meantime, our people are dyin’ now, today.."
Lachlan nodded, knowing she was right even as every tactical instinct screamed warnings about the odds they would be facing.
"Then we go with what we have and trust in our own abilities," he replied.
Ten minutes later, they rode through the gates toward McLaren territory. The ride began at a punishing pace, their column of fifty mounted fighters eating up the miles between castles with grim efficiency. Lachlan pushed the speed ruthlessly, knowing that every hour they delayed might mean more deaths among Erica's people.
The weather was turning against them as well—gray clouds gathering overhead and a sharp wind that spoke of rain to come. Bad weather would slow their progress and make the old hunting trail even more treacherous, but it might also provide cover for their approach.
Hours into their journey, smoke on the horizon told them they were already too late to prevent more attacks.
"That's comin’ from the farmland near the border," Erica said, her voice tight with controlled fury as she watched the black column rising into the gray sky. Her hands clenched white-knuckled on her reins, and Lachlan could see the war between tactical necessity and personal loyalty playing out on her face.
"How far off our route?" Lachlan asked, though he could already guess the answer would complicate their timing.
"Two miles to the east. We could reach it in twenty minutes if we push hard."
Lachlan weighed the options rapidly. They needed to reach the village before Boyd's main force could consolidate their position, but if MacLeod's family was under attack right now, if there were survivors who needed immediate help.
"Frederick!" Lachlan called to his captain, who immediately spurred his horse closer. "Take ten men and swing wide toward the burnin’ village. Scout Boyd's positions, but don't engage unless you have no choice. If ye see his force movin’ toward the village, send a rider back immediately."
"Aye, m'laird!" Frederick saluted crisply and began selecting his men.
As Frederick's group split off and disappeared over a distant hill, Lachlan led the remaining fighters toward the rising smoke. The smell reached them first—burning wood and thatch, but underneath it something else that made his stomach clench with dread.
What they found when they crested the hill above the farm made his blood run cold and his hand instinctively move to his sword hilt.
The farmhouse was still burning, the flames licking hungrily at the thatched roof while smoke poured from the shattered windows. But the attack was clearly over—no sounds of fighting, no movement except the dance of flames. Bodies lay scattered inthe yard like broken dolls, and Lachlan's experienced eye could tell immediately that this had been a massacre.
The attackers hadn't been content with simply killing the defenders. Women and children lay among the fallen men, cut down as they fled or tried to hide. This was butchery meant to send a message of terror.
"Bastards," one of his men breathed, his young face pale with shock.
But Erica was already moving, spurring her horse down the slope toward the carnage with the fearless determination of a born leader. "There might be survivors!" she called back. "We have to check!"
Lachlan followed immediately, his warrior's instincts scanning for threats even as his heart ached for what they were witnessing.
They found an old man still alive, barely, crawling away from his burning home with a sword wound in his side that painted a dark trail behind him on the blood-soaked earth. His gray hair was matted with blood, and his breathing came in labored gasps, but his eyes were still fierce with the stubbornness that had kept him alive this long.
"M'lady," he gasped as Erica leaped from her horse and knelt beside him in the mud. "Thank... thank God ye came. Thought... thought I'd die alone."
"Ye're nae going to die," Erica said firmly, though Lachlan could see the tears she was fighting back. "We'll get ye help."
"How many attackers were there?" Lachlan asked, kneeling on his other side while keeping his voice gentle despite the urgency of the situation.
"Twenty... maybe twenty-five. All mounted, all armed like proper soldiers."
Distant hoof sounds from the distance made them look up. Even at a distance, Lachlan could see it was one of Frederick's men, and the way he was pushing his lathered horse meant only one thing: catastrophic news that couldn't wait.
"M'laird!" the rider called as he reached them, his horse trembling with exhaustion and foam flecking its sides. "Captain Frederick sends urgent word! You must ken immediately!"
"What is it?" Lachlan demanded, though every instinct told him he wasn't going to like the answer.
"It's nae just mercenaries, m'laird. There are at least three different clans represented in that force."
Erica felt the ground seem to shift beneath her feet. "Three clans? Which ones?"
