Michael's voice cut through the stillness. Tòrr turned to find his brother studying the castle with narrowed eyes.
"What?"
"The gates. They're already open." Michael pointed. "At this hour, they should be closed. Locked. But look, they're wide open like they're expectin' visitors."
Tòrr's gut clenched.
"They ken we're comin'." Michael's hand moved to his sword hilt. "Could be a trap."
"Could be." Tòrr scanned the tree line, the approaches to the castle, looking for signs of an ambush. Nothing. But that didn't mean they weren't there. "We proceed as planned. Stay alert. If this goes sideways, we fight our way out."
"Aye." Michael turned to relay orders to the men, his voice low and urgent.
Tòrr guided his horse back to where Liliane waited among the warriors, her hair hidden beneath a cap, her face smudged with dirt to complete the disguise. She'd bound her chest flat, dressed in trousers and a too-large shirt, and from a distance could pass for a young man. But up close, those eyes gave her away—too bright, too expressive, too distinctly hers.
"We're movin'," he said quietly. "Stay close tae Michael. If I give the signal, ye run. Understood?"
"Understood." But her hand trembled slightly on the reins.
"We'll get her. I promise." He reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "Just stay safe. Please."
She nodded, and he saw her swallow hard. Then they were moving, the column of MacDonald warriors flowing down the hillside like a dark tide, silent except for the muffled sound of hooves on damp earth.
They were halfway across the open ground when the trap sprung.
"Ambush!" The cry went up from one of their scouts, barely a heartbeat before arrows began raining down from the tree line. Tòrr's horse screamed and reared, an arrow buried in its flank. He kicked free of the stirrups and hit the ground rolling, coming up with his sword already drawn.
"Shield wall!" Michael's voice cut through the chaos. "Form up!"
The rest was lost in the thunder of hooves as Munro warriors poured from the forest on all sides. Dozens. This wasn't a border patrol or a small garrison, this was a small army.
They'd been expected. Tòrr roared, cutting down the first man who reached him.
"If it isn’t MacDonald."
The voice froze him mid-strike. Tòrr spun to find Roderick Munro astride a massive warhorse, surrounded by his personal guard. And beside him, looking almost bored with the whole affair, sat Angus Campbell.
"Surprised?" Campbell's smile was cold. "Ye shouldnae be. Did ye really think we wouldnae notice yer men gatherin'?? Yer army marchin' toward our borders?" He gestured at the battlefield. "We've been waitin' fer ye. Preparin’. Rather hopin’ ye'd be foolish enough tae come."Tòrr's blood turned to ice. Beside him, he could hear his men fighting desperately, could hear the ring of steel and the screams of the wounded. Where was Liliane? Had she stayed with Michael?
"Lookin’ fer somethin’?" Munro's voice was thick with triumph. "Or should I say someone?"
He gestured, and two of his warriors dragged a struggling figure forward. The cap had been torn away, revealing golden hair. The dirt couldn't hide those features. And even in men's clothing, there was no mistaking her.
"Liliane!" The name tore from Tòrr's throat.
"Faither, let me go!" She twisted in her captors' grip, her training forgotten in panic. "Ye cannae?—"
"Cannae?" Munro's hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back. "I'm yer faither, girl. I can dae whatever I damn well please with ye."
Red. Everything went red. Tòrr launched himself forward, cutting through the men between him and Munro with single-minded fury. His sword found throats, bellies, any exposed flesh. Blood sprayed across his face and he didn't care, didn't slow, could only see Munro's hand in Liliane's hair, could only hear her cry of pain.
"Tòrr!" Michael's voice, distant. "Wait! It's a trap."
Of course it was a trap. But Tòrr was already committed, already closing the distance, and then Campbell's men were surrounding him, hemming him in, and Munro was backing toward the castle with Liliane held before him like a shield.
"That's far enough, MacDonald." Munro's blade pressed against Liliane's throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "One more step and I open her neck."
Tòrr froze, his sword still raised, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Around him, the battle had stilled as both sides recognized the standoff. His men were outnumbered two to one,hemmed in on all sides. Michael was bleeding from a cut above his eye, surrounded by enemy warriors. And Liliane…
