Page 55 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
The two forces met in a crash of steel and fury that sent chilling echoes rolling across the Highland hills. Ian’s blade found its first target within seconds – a raider who’d been threatening an elderly woman. The man’s surprised cry was cut short as Wallace steel opened his throat, and Ian was already moving to his next opponent before the body hit the ground.
Around him, his warriors fought with the controlled savagery of men protecting their own. These weren’t just villagers to them – these were their people, their responsibility, their sacred trust. Every blow they struck carried the weight of that oath, every parry was a promise that the house of Wallace would never abandon those under its protection.
Killian’s war hammer caught a raider in the ribs with a sickening crunch, the man’s scream cut short as he crumpled to the ground. To Ian’s left, young Callum fought with desperate courage, his sword coming up inside the man’s guard, his dirk finding the gap between the raider’s ribs with lethal precision.
“Behind ye, me laird!” Killian’s warning came just in time. Ian spun, his sword deflecting a thrust aimed at his spine, the impact sending shockwaves up his arm. His attacker was young, desperate, with wild eyes that spoke of a man with nothing left to lose. They exchanged a flurry of blows, steel ringing against steel, before Ian’s superior skill triumphed. His blade found the raider’s sword arm, severing muscle and sinew, the man’s weapon cluttering uselessly to the earth beneath their feet.
The tide of battle shifted like Highland weather. What had begun as a desperate defense was now transforming into systematic destruction. The raiders’ confidence shattered like spun glass against stone as they realized they faced not panicked villagers, but seasoned warriors with bloodthirst in their eyes and vengeance in their hearts.
A crossbow bolt whistled past Ian’s ear, close enough that he felt the fletching brush his ear. He traced its path back to a raider onthe chapel roof, already reloading. “Archer!” Ian bellowed, and one of his men sent a confident arrow through the sniper’s chest, the body tumbling from the thatched roof to land in a broken heap below.
The smell of blood and smoke filled the air, mixing with the desperate cries of the wounded and the dying. MacPherson raiders who had swaggered into the village with dreams of easy plunder now found themselves trapped in a nightmare of Wallace steel and fury.
The battle was fierce but brief. The raiders had expected easy prey, not a coordinated assault by seasoned warriors. Within minutes, half their number lay dead or dying, and the survivors were backing toward the forest edge with desperation clearly written across their faces.
“Yield!” Ian roared, his sword point at the throat of what appeared to be the raiders’ second-in-command. “Yield, and ye might live tae see another sunset, ye bastard!”
The man’s eyes darted frantically between Ian’s blade and the forest. Around them, the sounds of battle were fading away as the last pocket of resistance crumbled. “We yield!” he gasped. “Quarter! We ask fer quarter!”
Ian’s green eyes were cold as he studied the surviving raiders. Seven men remained standing, their weapons lowered in surrender. Not nearly enough to account for the damage they’d tried to inflict, but enough to serve his purposes.
“Ye’ll get yer quarter,” he said, his voice carrying the promise of steel. “But first, ye’ll answer some questions. Who sent ye? What were yer orders?”
The man’s jaw tightened stubbornly. “I dinnae ken what ye mean. We just–”
His words ended in a strangled gasp as Ian’s blade moved with viper-quick precision, opening a shallow cut along his throat. Not deep enough to kill, but certainly deep enough to make than man’s mortality suddenly very real.
“Try again,” Ian suggested pleasantly. “Considerin’ that me patience is wearin’ thin.”
“Lachlan MacPherson!” The man blurted out, his face pale as fresh snow. “He sent us tae raid the village. Tae burn the grain stores. Said it would show Wallace weakness tae the people!”
Of course he did.
Ian felt his suspicions crystallize into certainty. This whole attack had been calculated – not just to damage Wallace resources, but to test his response. To see how quickly he would react, how many men he would bring, how much he valued his people’s safety.
And perhaps tae see if he could capture her.
The thought sent fresh ice shooting through his veins. His gaze swept the village square, taking in the scattered belongings and frightened faces of the villagers.
Where is she? Where is Baird?
He should have seen them by now, should have spotted that distinctive red hair amongst the crowd.
“Killian!” he called to his second-in-command. “Secure the prisoners. Leave one tae carry a message back tae his master.”
“Aye, me laird. What message?”
Ian’s smile was sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. “Ye tell Lachlan MacPherson that the next time he sends raiders intae Wallace lands, I’ll personally deliver their heads tae his doorstep.”
As his men moved to secure the prisoners, Ian began scanning the perimeter more systematically. The initial rush of battle – an intoxicating combination of adrenaline and fury – was fading, replaced now by a gnawing anxiety that clawed at the inside of his chest like a caged beast. The villagers were emerging from their hiding places, but he still saw no sign of the healer or the woman who’d seemingly managed to steal his peace of mind.
“Agnes!” he called to the flour-dusted woman. “Have ye seen Baird?”
“Aye, me laird!” Agnes pointed toward the far end of the village. “Last I saw, he was tendin’ tae young Gerald near the well. But that was before the raiders came…”
Ian spurred Dubh forward in that direction, his warrior’s instincts screaming that something was not right. Within minutes, he found Baird kneeling beside a wounded villager, his weathered hands working with deadly precision to bind a sword gash. He looked up as Ian approached, relief flooding his features.
“Me laird! Thank the saints ye came so quickly.” Baird’s voice was steady, but Ian caught the underlying strain. “The lads fought well, but we were outnumbered.”
