Page 93 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
The keep's great hall was filled with women, children, and wounded men who couldn't fight. Isolde moved among them, offering water and gentle words, trying to keep the fear from her own voice even as the sounds of battle raged outside the thick stone walls.
"Me lady," whispered Morag, "dae ye think?—?"
Her words were cut off by the sound of heavy boots on the stairs. Everyone in the hall went silent, looking toward the door with wide, frightened eyes. It might be Ciaran, Isolde told herself. It might be one of their own men bringing news.
But when the door burst open, the man who strode through bore the black and silver plaid of Clan Wallace.
Isolde's blood turned to ice as she recognized the face she'd seen in nightmares for months. Douglas Wallace himself stood in the doorway, his sword bloodied, his eyes wild with the desperate fury of a man who knew he was losing.
"Well, well," he said, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on her. "Lady Isolde MacAlpin.”
She stepped backward instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. The other women pressed against the walls, clutching their children, as Wallace's eyes fixed on her with predatory satisfaction.
"Stay back!" Isolde warned, but her voice sounded thin and desperate even to her own ears.
Wallace laughed. "I think nae, lass. Ye've caused me considerable trouble."
More of his men poured into the room behind him—four, maybe five armed warriors against a room full of women and wounded men. Morag tried to move in front of Isolde, her face fierce despite her age.
"Leave her be, ye bastard!"
"One more step and I'll cut yer throat," Wallace snarled, his blade flashing toward the old woman. The cook froze, her hands shaking.
"Please," Isolde said, her heart hammering against her ribs. "These people have done naething tae ye. Let them be."
"Oh, I will. It's ye I want, Lady Isolde." His smile was cold as winter stone. "Ye see, I may be losing this battle, but I'm nae leaving empty-handed. Ye're me guarantee of safe passage."
"I'll nae go with ye willingly."
"I wasnae asking fer yer willing cooperation."
Isolde backed toward the far wall, her mind racing. There had to be something she could do, some way to fight. But Wallace was already moving, faster than she'd expected, and suddenly his arm was around her throat, dragging her backward against his chest.
"Let me go!" She clawed at his arm, trying to break free, but his grip was iron-strong.
"Fight all ye like, lass. It willnae change anything." His dagger appeared at her throat, the cold steel pressing against her skin. "Now, which of these other lovely ladies shall accompany us? The young one there looks promising."
"Nay!" Isolde's struggle became more desperate as she saw him gesture toward Aileen, who stood frozen with terror in the corner. "Leave me sister alone!"
"Sister, is it? Even better." Wallace signaled to one of his men. "Take her."
"Dinnae touch her!" Isolde threw her weight backward, trying to knock Wallace off balance, but he was ready for it. The dagger pressed deeper, and she felt a thin line of blood trickle down her neck.
"Try that again and ye'll bleed out on this floor," he hissed in her ear.
Two of Wallace's men seized Aileen despite her struggles, their hands rough as they dragged her toward the door. The other women in the room pressed even more back against the walls, clutching their children and whimpering with fear.
"Please," one of the wounded men tried to stand. "Take me instead?—"
"Sit down before I finish what me blade started," Wallace snapped, and the man collapsed back onto his makeshift bed.
Isolde felt tears of rage and helplessness burning her eyes as she watched her youngest sister being manhandled by Wallace's thugs. This was her fault. If she'd never tried to escape that first night, if she'd never fought back?—
"Moving out!" Wallace commanded. "The castle's lost, but we have something we can still use."
As they dragged her toward the door, Isolde caught one last glimpse of the terrified faces watching from the hall. Some of the women's eyes were bright with tears, and Morag was clutching a young mother's hand so tightly her knuckles were white.
"Tell Ciaran—" Isolde started to call out, but Wallace's hand clamped over her mouth.
