Page 50 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"Isolde!" Ciaran shouted in warning, unable to reach her in time.
She pivoted smoothly, dropping her bow and drawing a dagger from her belt in one fluid motion. As the rider bore down upon her, she ducked beneath his swing and plunged her blade into his horse's flank. The animal screamed, rearing up and throwing its rider before bolting away.
The fallen man scrambled to his feet, sword still in hand as he advanced on Isolde. Ciaran fought desperately to reach her, cutting down another Wallace soldier who blocked his path.
"Ye MacAlpin bitch," the man snarled, closing in on Isolde. "Wallace has plans fer ye."
Isolde backed against the oak trunk, her dagger seeming pitifully small against the man's broadsword. Yet her eyes showed no fear, only calculation. As he lunged, she twisted sideways, letting his blade embed itself in the ancient oak. Before he could wrench it free, she struck, driving her dagger into the exposed gap beneath his arm.
The man's eyes widened in shock. He stumbled back, blood already soaking through his tunic.
"Seems your laird's plans will have tae wait," Isolde said coldly.
Across the village square, the battle reached its peak. Three Wallace men lay dead or dying. Two more fought against the villagers, who, despite their lack of training, made up for it with desperate courage.
Ciaran engaged the leader—the scarred man who wore Wallace's colors most prominently. Unlike the others, this one had skill to match Ciaran's own. Their dirks clashed in a deadly dance, neither gaining advantage until Ciaran feinted low, then changed direction at the last moment. His blade caught the man across the jaw, opening a deep gash that matched his existing scar.
The leader staggered back, blood streaming down his face. His eyes found Ciaran's, hatred burning in their depths.
"Ye'll die fer this, MacCraith," he spat.
"Nae today," Ciaran replied, pressing his advantage with a series of swift strikes that forced the man further back until he stumbled over a fallen comrade.
Ciaran's blade point rested at the man's throat. "Yield."
For a moment, it seemed the leader would refuse, choosing death over surrender. But survival instinct won out, and he dropped his dirk.
"Tell yer maister," Ciaran said, his voice carrying across the now-quiet battlefield, "that Laird MacCraith wants him off MacAlpin land. If he chooses tae stay, he'd best prepare fer battle."
The scarred man's eyes widened at the formal declaration. "Ye'd go tae war fer the MacAlpins?"
"I've just done so," Ciaran replied, gesturing to the fallen Wallace men around them. "This was just the beginning."
He stepped back, allowing the leader to rise. "Take yer wounded and go. Tell Wallace what ye saw here today. Tell him tae stay away from MacAlpin territory."
The leader managed a hateful glare before gathering his remaining men. Two Wallace soldiers were dead, three badly wounded, and the rest bloodied but able to ride. They retreated slowly up the ridge, carrying their fallen comrades.
As the last rider disappeared over the hilltop, a cheer rose from the village defenders. Villagers, who moments before had fought for their lives and the lives of their families now embraced each other, relief and pride mingling on their faces.
Ciaran turned to find Isolde watching him, her expression unreadable but her eyes alight with something that stirred his blood more than battle ever could. She stood tall despite her exhaustion, bow still in hand, the villagers around her looking at her with newfound respect.
The cheers gradually subsided as they surveyed the aftermath of battle. Bodies of Wallace's men lay scattered among the barricades, but the victory had come at a cost. Two village defenders lay still, never to rise again. Several more villagers nursed wounds—a gash across a shoulder here, a broken arm there.
"Get the wounded to the healer's cottage!" Floyd bellowed, taking charge of the aftermath. "Milly, bring yer herbs! Ronan, Angus—carry Malcolm inside, that leg needs binding." He pointed to the fallen villagers. "Cover our dead with clean blankets. They died as heroes and will be honored as such."
Ciaran nodded at how efficiently he led the tiny village, watching as Fergus approached him, extending an outstretched hand."We owe ye our lives, Laird MacCraith. Without yer leadership, we'd have been slaughtered tae the last bairn."
"Ye fought bravely," Ciaran replied, clasping the older man's arm. "All of ye."
Isolde stepped forward, her voice carrying across the village square with quiet authority. "The MacAlpin clan stands with ye. I swear by me maither's memory, nothing like this will happen again. We have a laird, and his protection will be restored tae these lands."
Floyd turned his weathered face toward her, studying her features as she continued retrieving arrows from the battlefield with methodical precision. His eyes widened in sudden recognition.
"By the saints," he breathed. "Lady Isolde MacAlpin." He dropped to one knee, head bowed. "Forgive me fer nae recognizing ye sooner, m'lady."
The other villagers followed suit, murmuring in astonishment as they realized the daughter of their laird stood among them.
Isolde looked uncomfortable with the display. "Please. There's nay need fer such formality when we've just fought side by side."
