Page 46 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"We should reach the river crossing by noon," he said over his shoulder, the first words spoken since dawn. "From there, it's but two hours to the MacAlpin castle."
"Aye." Her voice carried forward, carefully neutral. "The eastern path would be quicker."
"The eastern path crosses Wallace territory."
"Only fer half a league."
"Half a league is enough fer trouble."
A stubborn silence followed, though he could practically feel her biting back a retort. In his mind's eye, he could see her expression without turning—that proud tilt of her chin, the fire in her eyes that sparked whenever he issued a command.
The trail narrowed as they entered a dense stretch of ancient pines. Ciaran slowed his stallion, allowing Isolde to draw alongside where the path widened briefly.
"There's something amiss," he said quietly, nodding toward the forest floor. "Look there."
Boot prints marked the soft earth—too many for hunters, too orderly for travelers. Military formations had passed this way, and recently.
Isolde's expression darkened. "Wallace?"
"Could be." He scanned the surrounding trees. "They passed yesterday, by the look of the tracks. Heading toward MacAlpin lands."
"Me sisters—" Alarm flashed across her face.
"Are safe at yer faither's keep," he said firmly. "These men are nae enough tae take a fortified castle."
Her fingers tightened on her reins, knuckles whitening. "Then they'll target what they can reach. The villages. The farms."
They pressed forward with renewed urgency, following the boot prints until they vanished where the soil turned rocky. Once again, an unsettling silence hung over the forest—no birdsong, no rustling creatures. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
As they emerged from the tree line, Ciaran spotted an abandoned farmstead ahead. The door hung from broken hinges, windows dark and empty. No smoke rose from the chimney, no livestock moved in the paddock.
"They left in haste," he observed, dismounting to examine the ground. Fresh wheel tracks cut deep furrows into the mud—a cart heavily laden, departing at speed. "Recently."
"Fleeing from what?" Isolde slid from her saddle, moving toward the cottage.
"Dinnae go inside," Ciaran warned, but she had already pushed past the broken door.
Her sharp intake of breath drew him after her. The cottage interior was intact but abandoned mid-meal—bowls still on the table, bread half-sliced. Whatever had driven the family away had come suddenly, leaving them no time even to gather provisions.
As they stepped back outside, something caught his eye on the horizon—a dark smudge against the clear blue sky. At first, he thought it merely a rain cloud gathering, though the air felt too dry. As they crested the next ridge, the smudge grew larger, more distinct.
Not a cloud. Smoke.
Ciaran reined in his stallion sharply, Isolde's mare nearly colliding with him at the sudden halt.
"What is it?" she asked, breathless from their hard ride.
He stared at the thickening plumes that stained the sky. His stomach tightened in grim recognition.
"There's a village burning," Ciaran said, already wheeling his horse around.
They rode hard toward the smoke, the horses' hooves pounding against the earth like war drums. Ciaran led the charge, his face set in grim determination. The stallion's muscles bunched and stretched beneath him, each powerful stride bringing them closer to the growing pall of black smoke.
The smell reached them first—acrid smoke that stung their eyes and caught in their throats. As they crested the final hill, the devastation spread before them in all its horror.
What had once been a thriving village of perhaps twenty stone cottages now burned fiercely, thick black smoke billowing into the morning sky. Thatched roofs blazed like torches, collapsing inward with terrible groans that carried over the crackling flames.
"Keep close, Isolde, remain behind me." Ciaran barked the orders without looking back, fully expecting Isolde to obey.
