The prisoner sagged between them, his hands bound, his face pale beneath the streaks of mud and exhaustion. He looked less like a soldier and more like a man who had run too far and been caught too late.
“We found him along the southern coast,” Malcolm said, his voice tight with restrained urgency.
Lachlan stepped closer, his gaze sweeping over the man with cold precision. He wore plain trews and a leine. No tartan. No English garb. “What were ye doing on my land?”
The prisoner rolled his head to look at Lachlan, lips pinched closed in defiance. But there was fear in his eyes so complete it seemed to hollow him out from within. The man’s shoulders remained drawn tight, as though bracing for a blow that had not yet come, and his gaze refused to rest in any one place. Instead, his eyes flickered from man to man, darting across the ring of warriors surrounding him as though searching for a gap, an opening, some impossible path of escape that did not exist. Each time his gaze passed over Lachlan, it faltered, dropping quickly, unable—or unwilling—to hold.
Caelan stepped forward then, breaking the tension with quiet purpose. He held out a small leather pouch, its surface darkened with use, the drawstring pulled tight. “We found this,” he said.
Lachlan took it without removing his attention from the prisoner. He loosened the cord with one hand and tipped the contents into his palm, letting the pieces fall with a soft, unmistakable weight against his skin.
Coins.
They were small and worn from use, their edges dulled, their surfaces marked by time and trade—but there was no mistaking them. Even before he turned one between his fingers, before the faint glint of the stamped mark caught the light, he knew what they were. Silver pennies depicting a long cross on one side and the head of Edward I on the other. Too bad it wasn’t his actual head.
Lachlan’s jaw tightened, the muscle shifting beneath his skin as the quiet tension in the courtyard deepened. Around him, his men did not speak, but he felt the shift in them all the same.
This was no longer a question of trespass. The presence of English coin in a Highlander’s pouch did not happen by chance, nor did it speak of wandering men or opportunistic theft. It spoke of purpose—of direction given and followed with intent. Lachlan closed his hand around the coins, their dull edges pressing into his palm as the truth settled in his mind.
“We also found this on him.” Malcolm withdrew a folded scrap of parchment from within his cloak. It was worn nearly to breaking, the edges softened and darkened with dirt. The surface had been creased again and again as though it had been opened and reopened, studied and restudied, and then hidden in haste.
Lachlan took it without speaking, as he unfolded it with deliberate care. The parchment resisted slightly, the fibers stiff, before giving way beneath his fingers. He smoothed it once against his palm, then lifted it into the light.
The writing was crude. His eyes moved across it quickly at first, then slowed, returning to certain lines, certain symbols, as the meaning began to take shape.
Coordinates.
Below them, rough descriptions of the coastline—jagged outcroppings, narrow inlets, places where ships might anchor unseen or approach without drawing notice. Several points along the cliffs had been marked with small, deliberate strokes, each one corresponding to a place Lachlan knew well enough to picture without needing the map before him.
Lachlan did not move for a moment, the parchment held steady in his hand as the full weight of what it meant settled into place. Around him, the courtyard had gone quiet, though he barely registered it. His focus remained fixed on the page, on the unmistakable intent of such a document.
Whoever had written this had not been guessing. They had known these waters. Knew the land. Knew exactly how to lead the English where they wished them to go.
That confirmed it in a way suspicion never could. This was no single act of desperation or betrayal born in the chaos of battle. It had taken time to gather information, to pass it on, ensuring it reached the right hands. Kerr had not acted in haste. He had planned. And he had continued long after the Battle of Falkirk, feeding the English what they needed to move with purpose instead of guesswork. And it appeared he had a long reach, and many helpers.
“And why,” Lachlan said, his voice low and even, “would the English care about Dunvegan?”
The prisoner faltered. His breath hitched, and for a moment it seemed he might try to hold the answer back. But fear had already taken hold of him too completely for that. His gaze shifted, catching on Isabel where it lingered too long, revealing the truth before he even spoke.
“They want her,” the prisoner’s words were rushed. “Kerr told them she was here.” The man swallowed hard, his voice faltering as he forced the rest out. “He said if they capture her?—”
“He said Bruce will be forced to bargain.”
“And where are the English?”
The man’s lips clamped closed, but all it took was a well-placed squeeze on the neck from Malcolm, the press of a blade in a threat to gut him from stem to sternum. Then he was singing. “They’ll be here in the dead of night. Taking a page from your savage strategies.”
Lachlan held the man’s gaze for a moment longer. Aye, many of the raids had taken place in the dead of night. He supposed it was only a matter of time before the enemy adopted their tactics. He glanced at Isabel who stood ramrod straight, defiance in her gaze, even as her face had gone pale.
This was no longer simply a matter of defending land and people. Kerr had given the English something more valuable than territory. He had given them leverage.
“Light the signal fires.” The command cut cleanly through the stillness, and the men moved at once.
Torches were seized, orders carried, boots striking against stone as the courtyard shifted from watchfulness into action.
“Women and children gather what they need to survive the night in the cellars. Warn the crofters. Tell them to come here, bring their livestock into the bailey for protection,” Lachlan continued, his voice carrying over the rising movement.
More men broke away at once, their pace quickening as they moved to follow orders.
