Page 91 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
The second war horn's call seemed to shake the very stones of the castle, and within moments the peaceful dawn was shattered by the sound of running feet and shouted orders.
"I swear I'll keep ye alive even if that’s all I can dae today," Ciaran growled fiercely.
"Ye can dae much more, me laird. Now go save a clan."
Ciaran nodded, already moving, pulling on his clothes with the swift efficiency of a man accustomed to waking to battle.
"Stay in the keep," he shouted to Isolde as he buckled on his sword belt, his voice transformed from lover to commander in the space of a heartbeat. "Promise me."
She wanted to argue, to insist she could fight alongside him, but the look in his eyes stopped her. This wasn't about her capabilities—it was about his ability to focus on the battle ahead without worrying about her safety.
"I promise," she said, though the words tasted like ash.
He kissed her once more, fierce and quick, then was gone, leaving her alone with the scent of him on her skin and the sound of organized chaos beyond the walls
From her window, she could see men racing to their positions on the battlements. The courtyard filled with purposeful movement as the final preparations were made—oil heated to boiling, arrows distributed, weapons checked one last time.
Ciaran appeared in the courtyard below, and even from a distance she could see how his presence steadied the men around him. He moved from group to group, checking positions, offering encouragement, transforming a collection of frightened individuals into something resembling an army.
"MacAlpin! MacCraith!" His voice carried clearly in the crisp morning air. "Today we stand together not as separate clans, but as one people defending our homes, our families, our way of life!"
The men straightened as he spoke, hands tightening on weapons, jaws setting with determination.
"Wallace thinks his numbers make him invincible," Ciaran continued, climbing onto a wooden crate so all could see him. "But he doesn't understand what he faces. He doesn't know that every man here fights not just for his own life, but for the lives of those he loves most in this world!"
A cheer went up from the assembled defenders, and Isolde felt her heart swell with pride. Whatever else happened, her man would lead them with honor.
"They may take our walls," Ciaran shouted over the growing noise, "but they'll pay in blood fer every stone! They may breach our gates, but they'll find warriors waiting who willnae yield an inch without a fight! And if we fall—if we all fall together—then let it be said that we made Wallace's victory so costly he'll think twice before threatening another Highland clan!"
The cheers were deafening now, and Isolde could see the transformation in the men's faces. Fear was still there, but it was tempered now by purpose, by the knowledge that their cause was just and their leader worthy of following to the very gates of hell.
There were so many of them. Row upon row of armored men, cavalry units flanking foot soldiers, banners streaming in the morning breeze. The sight of them made her stomach clench with terror, but also with a fierce, protective rage. These menhad driven her people from their homes, had taken young Rhona prisoner, had come to destroy everything she held dear.
The first flight of arrows darkened the sky like a cloud of locusts, and the siege of MacAlpin castle began.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The first flight of arrows whistled overhead like a deadly rain, and Ciaran threw himself behind the stone battlements as iron points sparked off the walls around him. The sound was deafening—hundreds of shafts striking stone, wood, and flesh in a percussion that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle.
"Return fire!" he bellowed, and the MacAlpin archers rose as one, their bowstrings singing in deadly harmony. Twenty-three arrows arced out over the walls, and Ciaran had the satisfaction of seeing several Wallace men topple from their horses. But for every enemy that fell, ten more seemed to take their place. The valley below swarmed with armored figures, and the sight of them made his blood run cold.
"Me laird!" a man called from the eastern wall. "They're bringing up ladders!"
Ciaran sprinted along the battlements, ducking another volley of arrows, and peered over the wall. Sure enough, dozens ofscaling ladders were being carried forward under the protection of raised shields. Behind them came men with grappling hooks and ropes, while others pushed a massive battering ram toward the main gate.
"Archers!" he shouted. "Target the ladder bearers!"
A hail of arrows rained down from the castle walls, finding gaps in the enemy's shield wall. Men cried out and fell, but still the ladders came. Too many to stop them all with arrows alone.
The first ladder slammed against the wall directly in front of him, and Ciaran grabbed a long pike, using it to push the ladder away from the stones. It toppled backward, sending three men tumbling to the ground, but another immediately took its place.
As the second ladder struck the wall, a Wallace warrior's head appeared at the top. Ciaran met him with his sword, steel ringing against steel as they fought on the narrow walkway. The man was skilled, but Ciaran had the advantage of solid footing. With a powerful thrust, he sent the attacker plummeting back down to the courtyard below.
"Finlay!" he called to his lieutenant, who was coordinating the defense of the northern wall. "How dae we stand?"
"Holding fer now, but barely!" came the reply over the clash of steel and shouts of fighting men. "They're testing us all along the perimeter!"
A hand appeared at the top of the wall beside him, followed by a helmeted head. Ciaran's sword swept out in a vicious arc, taking the man clean off the ladder, but already another was climbing to take his place. This was how sieges were won and lost—not in grand gestures, but in these desperate individual contests repeated a hundred times along the walls.
