Page 49 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
Isolde nodded once, moving with purpose toward the massive tree. An older woman hurried forward, pressing a quiver of arrows into her hands with a whispered blessing.
Ciaran turned his attention back to the riders, who had begun to descend the ridge in a controlled trot. Their leader, a tall man with a scarred face, wore Wallace's colors boldly across his chest.
"Floyd," Ciaran addressed the village elder who had joined him. "When the fighting starts, keep the men together. Dinnae let them charge out—make Wallace's dogs come tae us."
"Aye, me laird," the old man replied, though he was not Ciaran's subject.
From her position, Isolde caught Ciaran's eye. In that moment, everything between them distilled into a single look—trust, determination, and an unspoken promise to protect what mattered. He gave her a small nod, and she returned it, a silent understanding passing between them that transcended words.
The riders reached the bottom of the hill, rearranging themselves into an attack formation. The first black arrows arced down from the hilltop, thudding into the earth nearby.
"Those bastards," the old villager spat, crouching beside them, behind an overturned cart. "They've come tae finish what they started."
Ciaran drew his sword, the familiar weight centering him as he prepared for what was to come. "Aye," he agreed grimly. "But this time, they'll find the ending changed."
Ciaran raised his sword above his head. "Fer the MacAlpin clan!" he roared.
"Fer the MacAlpins!" The villagers took up the cry, their voices uneven but determined.
"Fer our homes!" bellowed Floyd, raising his axe.
"Fer our children!" A woman's voice joined from near the church.
The cries blended together, swelling into a ragged chorus of defiance that rose to meet the approaching riders. The thunder of hooves grew louder, the ground trembling beneath their feet. Dust rose in clouds around the charging horses.
Fifty paces.
Forty.
Thirty.
Ciaran tightened his grip on his dirk, muscles tensing in preparation. Beside him, a farmer clutched his pitchfork with white-knuckled hands, muttering a prayer. To his left, a grizzledman with one eye nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring back to his cheek with practiced steadiness.
The riders' faces became visible now—hard men with cold eyes, some grinning in anticipation of easy slaughter. Their leader, face bisected by an old scar, shouted commands as they adjusted their formation to funnel through the narrow path.
"Hold!" Ciaran commanded the archers. "Nae yet!"
Twenty paces.
"Now!" Ciaran shouted.
The battle began.
The first rider crashed against their barricade, his warhorse rearing as it met the unexpected obstacle. Before the man could recover, Isolde's arrow found its mark, striking him in the shoulder with enough force to unseat him. He tumbled to the ground, crying out in pain and surprise.
"Hold the line!" Ciaran commanded as two more riders approached.
The narrow path had done its work, forcing Wallace's men to approach in pairs rather than overwhelming the defenders with numbers. Ciaran met the first with a sweeping parry that turned his opponent's blade aside, following with a precise thrust thatfound the gap between helmet and mail. The man fell without a sound.
Behind him, a villager with a woodcutter's axe swung wildly at the second rider, missing but causing the horse to shy away in panic.
"Aim fer the horses!" Floyd shouted to the bowmen. "Bring them down!"
Another arrow whistled past Ciaran's ear—Isolde again, her aim true as she struck a rider in the thigh. The man cursed violently but kept his seat, spurring his mount forward.
Ciaran stepped into the path of the wounded rider, his dirk a blur of deadly precision. Ciaran found an opening and struck a killing blow.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a Wallace man break through the side path, having circled around the barricade. The rider charged directly toward the oak where Isolde stood, his sword raised high.
