Page 2 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
He’d always said that clans were made of people. And that people could change, could be better than their past mistakes. And that sometimes the greatest honor came from healing old wounds instead of letting them fester.
Ian picked up the letter again, reading the king’s words with new eyes. It wasn’t just an appointment – it was an opportunity. A chance to prove that the Wallace name could mean something different, something honest, something honorable.
But it was also his chance for justice. Not the anger-filled, destructive justice of vengeance, but the quiet, restorative justice of setting things right.
Ian folded the letter carefully, his decision crystallizing like frost on a pond. Outside the tavern window, the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson.
Tomorrow, he would begin the journey to Castle Wallace. To the home his grandfather had been denied, that he would reclaim – not through force or political maneuvering, but through the kind of leadership that honored both duty and heart.
Let me be worthy of this,let me be a laird Grandfaither would be proud of and the clan would be proud tae follow.
The letter crinkled sightly in his grip as he tucked it into his sporran, but his hands were steady now. He had a clan to heal, a legacy to rebuild, and a future to forge that would honor both his family’s past, and the people who now depended on him.
CHAPTER ONE
The forest behind the MacAlpin Castle, Scotland, 1659
“Four days, Isolde. Four bloody days without a word.”
Rhona MacAlpin urged her chestnut mare deeper into the borderlands, her voice lost to the wind that whipped through the ancient pines. The forest stretched endlessly before her, shadows dancing between moss-covered trunks as pale morning light filtered through the canopy above. Each hoofbeat carried her farther from the crumbling safety of her father’s keep, and closer to answers she prayed she’d find.
Where are ye, sister?
The familiar ache of worry twisted in her chest as she guided her horse along the narrow deer path. Isolde had vanished after sneaking out to attend the forbidden masquerade at Castle Murray, chasing dreams of catching Laird Ciaran MacCraith’sattention. Four agonizing days of pretending their eldest sister lay abed with fever while their father remained blissfully unaware of the deception.
Rhona’s gloved fingers tightened on the reins. The other sisters – Lorna, Isla, and young Aileen – had begged her not to venture out alone, but someone had to search for Isolde. Someone had to bring her home before their father discovered the truth, and their family’s precarious position crumbled entirely.
If she’s hurt… if something’s happened tae her…
The thought sent ice through Rhona’s veins. She pushed it away, focusing instead on the rhythm of her mare’s gait and the crisp autumn air that bit at her cheeks. Her long, dark ginger braid bounced against her back with each stride. She’d dressed for travel in her plainest brown wool dress and worn riding boots, with her father’s old hunting cloak wrapped about her shoulders for warmth.
A flash of blue caught her eye through the trees ahead – the distinctive colors of Clan MacCraith. Rhona’s heart leaped with hope as she spurred her mare forward, weaving between the towering pines toward the glimpse of tartan.
“Excuse me!” she called out, breaking through the tree line into a small clearing.
But the space stood empty save for a torn piece of fabric caught on a low branch. Rhona dismounted, her boots crunching on fallen leaves as she approached the scrap of blue and silver cloth.
A twig snapped behind her.
Rhona swung around, her hand instinctively moving to the small dagger at her belt. Three men on horseback emerged from the forest, their faces hard as granite beneath shaggy, dirty hair. None wore clan colors she recognized, though their bearing spoke of warriors accustomed to violence.
“Well, well,” the largest man drawled, his scarred face splitting into a cold smile. “What have we here, lads?”
Rhona’s mouth went dry, but she lifted her chin with practiced defiance. “I was just–”
“Aye, what are ye daein’, lass?” The man’s eyes swept over her with calculating interest. “Out here, all alone, searchin’ fer somethin’. Or someone?”
“I’m simply returnin’ home from visiting friends.” The lie came smoothly, though her heart hammered against her ribs. “If ye’ll excuse me–”
“Nae so fast.” A younger man with a jagged scar running from his left ear to his right jaw, urged his horse closer. “Ye wouldnae happen to be a MacAlpin, lass, would ye?”
Ice flooded Rhona’s veins. These weren’t mere bandits seeking coin – they knew exactly who they were hunting.
“I dinnae ken what ye mean.” She backed toward her mare, measuring the distance with desperate calculation.
The tallest of the three laughed, his voice unnaturally deep as it rumbled through the morning air. “Come now, nay need fer games. Red hair, blue eyes, ridin’ alone in MacAlpin territory… I can recognize a MacAlpin sister when I see her.”
Rhona’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “I think ye have me confused with someone else.”
