Page 48 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
She nodded, her shoulders slumping with the weight of his words. "I should have been here. I should have?—"
"Dinnae," Ciaran interrupted, covering her small hand with his larger one. The touch sent an unexpected warmth through him despite his exhaustion. "It’s nae yer duty to protect them. Ye’re nae laird."
For a moment, they simply sat in silence. Ciaran found himself wanting to pull her into his arms, to offer strength and comfort. The intensity of this desire unsettled him.
The moment shattered as a young boy ran toward them, pointing back toward the road they'd traveled earlier.
"Riders coming! Men with weapons!"
Ciaran was on his feet in an instant, hand moving to the dirk at his side. "How many?"
"Eight, maybe ten," the boy gasped.
"Wallace's men," Isolde said, rising beside him. "Come tae see their handiwork."
Cold fury replaced his exhaustion. Ciaran turned to her, already formulating a plan. "Get the women and bairns into the stone church. It's the only building that willnae burn easily." To the men gathering around them, he continued, "Any of ye who can fight, take up what weapons ye have. The rest, help move the injured."
"Ye cannae face them alone," Isolde protested, her eyes fierce with concern.
"I'm nae alone," Ciaran replied, nodding to the village men who were already retrieving axes and scythes. "And I willnae let Wallace's dogs terrorize these people further."
Isolde wanted to argue—he could see it in the stubborn set of her jaw. But the approaching hoofbeats left no time. Instead, she squeezed his hand once, fiercely. "Dinnae die, ye stubborn man. We have unfinished business, ye and me."
A smile tugged at his lips despite the danger. "Aye, lass. That we dae." He watched her turn away, gathering women and children with natural authority.
As Ciaran positioned himself at the village entrance, flanked by determined farmers with makeshift weapons, he felt a strange calm descend. These were not his people by birth or clan, yet he stood ready to defend them with his life.
A horn blast split the air, high and clear from the ridge above the village. Every head turned toward the sound.
Silhouetted against the morning sun, a line of mounted men appeared on the hilltop. Ten men. Their formations were tight, disciplined—trained men.
Ciaran assessed the village defenders with a quick glance. Two men with hunting bows, three with pitchforks, one with a rusted sword that had likely hung above a hearth for decades. The rest clutched axes meant for chopping wood, not men. His jaw tightened. Most of the fighting would fall to him.
"Form a line here," he commanded, gesturing to where the village path narrowed between two stone cottages. "They'll have tae come through single file if they want tae reach the square."
The villagers scrambled to follow his orders, moving carts and debris to create a makeshift barricade.
"Ye," Ciaran pointed to a lad of perhaps fifteen summers, "take the women and children deeper into the church. Bar the door from within."
"You three," he continued, addressing the men with pitchforks, "guard the side path by the smithy. If they try tae flank us, sound the alarm."
He positioned the bowmen on either side of the barricade, where they'd have clear shots at approaching riders. "Hold yer arrows until they're close enough that ye cannae miss. We've precious few tae waste."
Isolde appeared at his side, her face grim, in her hands, a bow taken from a wounded defender. Her fingers notched an arrow with practiced ease.
"Isolde! I told ye tae take shelter," Ciaran growled, even as a part of him admired her courage.
“I told ye I've nay braithers," she replied, her eyes fixed on the ridge. "I'm nae accustomed tae hiding when trouble comes."
Ciaran watched as she adjusted the sword in her hand, her movements showing more comfort with the weapon than he'd expected after their brief training session.
There was no mistaking it, she had taken well to his instruction, but clearly had some prior experience. The lass had learned quickly, perhaps not formally, but through necessity.
"Isolde, I dannae think ye can hold yer ground against a mounted attacker," he said, reassessing her completely.
"Aye, I can." she answered simply. "Ye taught me well. And I've had practice before, though not with proper technique... and if this fails, I have me knife. That I can dae much damage with. But I willnae cower while these men attack innocent people."
A flicker of respect passed through him. "Alright. Take position by that old oak yonder. Ye'll have a clear view of the approach."
