Page 66 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

He followed his men on foot, sword drawn despite the way his side screamed with each step. The archer was trying to retreat, scrambling up the rocky slope toward better cover.

"Cut him off!" Lachlann ordered.

Two of his men broke left, moving faster over the uneven terrain. The archer saw them coming and changed direction⁠—

Straight into Malcolm's path.

The boy, barely eighteen and eager to prove himself, didn't hesitate. He tackled the archer from the side, both men going down in a tangle of limbs and curses.

By the time Lachlann reached them, Malcolm had the man pinned face-down with a knee in his back.

"Got him, me laird!"

Lachlann studied the archer as his men hauled the man to his feet. Young, maybe twenty-five. Dark hair, lean build. And wearing Torquil's colors.

"Check him fer weapons."

They found two daggers and a dirk, all of which were confiscated.

"Bind his hands," Lachlann said, his free hand still pressed to his side. The pressure was starting to make his arm shake. "We're takin' him back to the castle."

"Me laird, yer wound, it’s bleeding."

"I'm fine." He wasn't, but that could be dealt with later. "Get him secured. Now."

His men worked quickly, binding the archer's hands behind his back and tying him to a horse. The man didn't struggle, didn't speak, just watched Lachlann with cold calculation.

Lachlann ignored him, focusing instead on staying upright as he mounted his own horse. The movement sent fresh agony lancing through his side, but he gritted his teeth and swung into the saddle.

"Move out," he ordered. "Quick pace but steady. I dinnae want tae lose our guest."

They set off at a controlled canter, the archer secured between two guards. Lachlann rode near the front, his left hand clamped over the wound while his right held the reins.

Blood continued to seep between his fingers. Not dangerously fast, but enough to make his shirt stick to his skin, enough to leave dark stains on his saddle.

Just get home. Then ye can bleed.

The journey back felt longer than the ride out had been. Every jolt of the horse sent fresh waves of pain radiating from his side. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air.

"Me laird," Malcolm ventured after a few miles. "Should we slow down? Yer wound, we could tie it with cloth."

"Is fine." Lachlann's jaw clenched. "We keep movin'."

Because slowing down meant more time bleeding. Meant more time for infection to set in. Meant more time away from Alba, who was probably already worried sick.

She told ye tae be careful.

Well, he'd tried. Not his fault some bastard had decided to use him for target practice.

The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and crimson. Appropriate, Lachlann thought darkly, given how much blood he was currently losing.

"Castle ahead, me laird!"

Relief flooded through him at Malcolm's call. There, rising against the darkening sky, were the familiar walls of home.

"Signal them," Lachlann ordered. "Let them ken we're comin' in with a prisoner."

One of his men raised a horn, blowing the pattern that indicated successful patrol returning with a captive. Moments later, an answering call came from the walls.