Page 97 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
Ascream pierced the air from the tower above, sharp and final. Erica's hands stilled for only a heartbeat on the bloodied bandage she was wrapping around a young lad's shoulder. She knew that sound—knew what it meant. Lachlan was dispensing justice to the traitors who had opened her gates to Boyd's forces.
Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to focus on the lad's pale face. "There now," she murmured, her voice steady despite the bile rising in her throat. "That should hold until the wound heals proper."
Death was a necessity she understood, even if she couldn't stomach witnessing it herself. These men—her men—had bled defending McLaren's honor while others sold it for coin. They deserved her full attention, not her squeamishness over justified executions.
She moved to the next wounded warrior, checking his fevered brow and adjusting his pillow. The great hall had been transformed into a makeshift infirmary, pallets spread across the stone floor where her people recovered from Boyd's assault. Each man she tended represented loyalty that couldn't be bought or broken.
"Me lady," croaked a weathered man, catching her wrist as she passed. "The screamin'... it's done then?"
"Aye," she said simply. "Justice has been served."
He nodded grimly and released her. "Good. Traitors deserve nay better."
When she was certain every wounded man was as comfortable as possible—wounds cleaned, fever-breaks administered, blankets tucked close—Erica finally allowed herself to seek out Lachlan. She found him in the private sola, washing blood from his hands in a basin. Frederick and Ewan stood nearby, their expressions grim.
"It's done? All of them?" she asked quietly.
"Aye." Lachlan dried his hands, his jaw tight. "They'll nae trouble ye any more. And if any man still has thoughts of betrayal, tonight’s demonstration will be a lesson."
Before she could respond, a commotion arose in the courtyard. Through the window, she saw riders approaching under variousclan banners—not attacking, but riding hard with urgent purpose.
"Messages," Frederick muttered. "Word travels fast."
Within minutes, her steward announced the arrivals: "Me lady, urgent dispatches from Clan Stewart, Clan MacLeod, and... Clan Ross."
Erica's blood chilled. Ross was one of the three clans allied with Boyd.
Lachlan stepped closer to her as the messengers entered, a subtle but clear statement of unity. The first messenger, bearing Stewart colors, bowed respectfully to both of them.
"Lady McLaren, Lord Cameron. Me laird sends word that he stands ready fer emergency council. He can be here within two days if ye call fer it."
The MacLeod messenger stepped forward next. "Me laird offers the same, me lady. These attacks on neighborin' clans concern us all."
Then came the Ross messenger, younger than the others, his nervousness obvious. He bowed to Lachlan, then began to address him, ignoring Erica.
"Lady McLaren receives respect just as much as I do," Lachlan's voice cut sharp as winter wind. "Ye'll address yer betters proper, lad."
The boy's face flushed red. "Forgive me, me lady. Me laird, me lady... me laird sends word that perhaps it's time fer talks. That this conflict has gone far enough."
Erica exchanged a glance with Lachlan. Ross breaking from the alliance? Or was this a trap?
"And what exactly does yer laird propose?" she asked carefully.
"He... he says the other two clans are pushin' fer somethin' he never agreed on. That if there could be guarantees... arrangements made..."
"Speak plain, boy," Lachlan growled.
"He wants out of Boyd's alliance," the messenger blurted. "But he needs assurance that he willnae be punished fer his part in it. And that his lands will be protected if the other two turn on him."
The room fell silent. Frederick was the first to speak.
"Could be genuine. Could be they're realizin' Boyd is finished and want off the sinkin' ship."
"Or it's a ploy," Lachlan said grimly. "Draw us into false negotiations while they regroup."
Erica studied the Ross messenger's face. Fear was genuine—she'd learned to read such things in her father's court. But fear of what?
"Tell yer laird," she said finally, "that Lady McLaren is willin' fer preliminary talks. But they'll be held here, in me hall, under me terms. And he comes himself—nay more messengers."
