Page 13 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"Ye came." She said it simply. "That's what matters."

He didn't answer that.

He wasn't sure she was right but arguing the point in a clearing with her still shaking and Torquil's men not yet a mile away was not the time.

"We need tae move," he said. "He'll be back with more men once he's had that wrist seen tae. Can ye ride?"

"Aye."

He brought his horse from the shadows and lifted her into the saddle before swinging up behind her.

She was lighter than he'd expected, or perhaps he was more aware of it than usual, the particular fragility of a person who had just had a blade at their throat and was pretending they hadn't.

He settled his arm around her waist and urged the horse north toward Oban.

He told himself the arm was practical.

She was exhausted, the path was dark, and if she slipped from the saddle they'd lose time they didn't have. It had nothing to do with the fact that Torquil MacLean had touched her, had dared to put his hands on Calum's sister, and that something in Lachlann's chest had not entirely settled since.

He focused on the road.

They hadn't gone a quarter mile when he pulled up sharply.

Torchlight, through the trees to the north. He sat still and counted. One, two, three separate points of light, spread across the road in a pattern that wasn't accidental.

"What is it?" Alba asked quietly.

"Scouts." He backed the horse into the shadow of the treeline. "He planned fer this. The attack was fast, aye, but that positioning isn't fast. He had men on the roads before he ever made his move."

He turned east, toward the narrower path that ran parallel to the main road.

Alba didn't speak, but he felt her sit straighter in the saddle, felt her reading the situation with the same quiet attention she brought to everything.

They made it perhaps ten minutes before he pulled up again.

More torches. A cluster of men at the crossroads, positioned precisely where someone would need to pass to reach the port.

He turned north. Blocked.

He turned west. Blocked.

He sat still in the darkness for a long moment, his hand resting on the pommel, and worked through it methodically.

Every route to Oban, every path to MacKinnon territory, every road that would take them north, Torquil had thought it through. Had placed his men carefully, covering ground with a thoroughness that spoke of preparation rather than panic.

He'd planned this. All of it. The attack, the blockade, the net drawn tight around every exit from this part of the country.

Lachlann didn't let himself feel the anger yet. Anger was for later. Right now he had to think.

"We cannae get through," Alba said. It wasn't a question.

"Nae tae Oban. Nae taenight." He was already turning the calculation over, examining it from a different angle. "But there's another way."

"What way?"

"Loch Melfort. I left me boat there, I prefer the southern ports, the passes are quieter. We ride hard through the hidden routes, we can reach it before dawn." He paused. "From there, we sail tae Barra."

She turned in the saddle to look at him.