Page 31 of To Win a Highlander’s Heart

Satisfied with Isolde’s answer, Alastair turned to face Orrick. “Will you step into the role the three of us are destined to play as Guardians of the Isles? Our people need us.”

What could he say that wouldn’t make him look or feel like a coward? He gave Alastair a tight nod. God help him, against his better judgement, he was headed into battle once more.

Chapter Eleven

The late-morning sun washed the front courtyard in hues of gold and grey. Isolde watched as the men departed. The thunder of hoofbeats echoed in the emptiness of her heart as the castle’s men hurried to engage the enemy. Alastair had taken a hundred and sixty warriors with him to fight two potential clans but also perhaps the English. Now that the English were back, they could not be discounted as a potential threat. This was what she’d trained for her whole life—helping to protect the people of Scotland—but she would be denied that honour because of her inability to shoot her arrows as she had before.

Isolde stood with her back straight, not moving until the gates were closed and the drawbridge closed. The joy she had experienced over the last several days ebbed from her as she curled her empty left hand at her side. Her quiver and bow were safely tucked upstairs in her bedchamber. She’d have no need of the weapon here, inside the mighty walls of Dunvegan. Or perhaps ever again if her arm did not heal well. She could feel the cool aloofness she’d been forced to wear as a cloak in the wilderness come over her once more. An outcast was what she was, and it was time for her to own up to that fact. Whether she was ready or not, it was time to leave and resume her shadowed life.

She could be gone before Orrick and his brothers returned. And this time, no one would ever find her again—not animal, man, or the English. Her experiences over the last year had taught her many things about being invisible. It was time to put those skills to use.

As she headed inside the castle, her heart would have been heavy had she allowed emotion to slip through her newly erected barrier. It would be best if she left a note for Gwendolyn and Alastair, thanking them for her care. And a separate note for Orrick, explaining her decision. Then she wouldn’t have to say goodbye. Isolde could leave, and eventually they would forget all about her.

She, however, would remember Orrick for the rest of her life, and especially the kiss they’d shared earlier. Just the thought of him brought a curl of heat to her core. The feel of his hands in her hair and tracing the curves of her back, his lips sliding against her own, the taste of him on her tongue, were all branded into her memory.

After gathering paper, ink, and a quill, Isolde hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber. The sooner she left, the better it would be for them all.

Isolde had just finished with her letters when a frothy grey mist slithered beneath the doorway. The mist gathered, then coalesced into the shape of a woman, her image growing more solid with each passing moment.

The castle is in danger.

The words resounded in Isolde’s head as she stared at the woman before her. Even in her ghostly form, Isolde could see fear in Orrick’s mother’s eyes. “What do you mean, in danger?”

Someone comes. There is anger in his heart. And someone inside these walls will unknowingly betray the clan.

Isolde tensed, wondering how the woman could know such things. But who was she to argue with someone from the spirit realm? “Why come to me? Alastair left guards behind.”

You pretend you do not, but you care about this castle and her people. You might make the difference in the heat of the moment.

Frustration swelled. “Your son has deemed I am not healed and am unsafe to battle around his people.”

What were you just telling my son, Orrick? ‘If the cause is just . . .’

A commotion sounded from outside in the courtyard below. Isolde hurried past the apparition to the window. She threw back the shutters to see Lieutenant Collins and his men advancing over the drawbridge. Her heart sank. Who had allowed them to enter while the laird and his men were away?

Isolde closed the shutters and turned to stare at the Grey Lady, trying to decide what to do. Should she sound the alarm and gather the remaining soldiers? Or was Lieutenant Collins here for peaceful reasons? She discarded the thought immediately. From her experiences, she knew the man did not have a peaceful bone in his body. He was up to something—and that something had been perfectly timed so that Alastair and his brothers would be away from Dunvegan.

Isolde returned her gaze to the ghost. “You are right to come to me. I must stop the lieutenant, even if it means exposing my presence here.”

A loud bang sounded belowstairs, a sound that was much closer than it should have been. Swallowing the tightness constricting her throat, Isolde grabbed her bow and strung it, then threw her quiver over her shoulder and headed for the door.

She made it to the landing of the stairs and was surprised to see four English soldiers halfway up the steps with their swords at the ready.

“Where is the laird’s wife?” yelled the man in the front.

Isolde didn’t think. She let instinct take over. She had arrow to string and flying before the men took another step. The arrow hit the first Englishman in the chest. He reared back then tumbled down the stairs. A second, third, and fourth arrow followed, all hitting their targets with a precision she had not been able to find earlier that day, despite the trembling in her bow hand. Four more men came up behind those who had fallen. With a roar of outrage, they charged.

Isolde drew her arrows and sent them flying, eliminating three of the newest targets as they advanced. But one man surged closer while she’d been firing at the others. He was too close to strike with an arrow, so instead, she gripped her bow and struck him in the head with the upper limb. When he clutched his head, bellowing in pain, she kicked him in the gut as hard as she could, sending him tumbling down the stairs. He landed at the bottom of the staircase and lay motionless.

Behind her, Rowena and Gwendolyn burst from their chambers. “What is going—” Rowena’s words died on her tongue as four more Englishmen charged up the stairs. She grabbed Gwendolyn by the arm and thrust her pregnant sister-in-law behind her back. “Merciful heavens!”

Staying focused on the attackers, Isolde drew an arrow and fired, then another. She would soon be out of arrows. What then? No sooner had the thought occurred to her, when a chill slithered across Isolde’s flesh and a scraping sound came to her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Grey Lady advancing, moving a broadsword across the floor with her mind. In that moment, Isolde was extremely grateful that the ghost was on her side.

Isolde fired off her last two arrows, then bent to retrieve the sword. To Rowena and Gwendolyn she said, “Go back in your chamber and bolt the door. Lady Janet, keep them safe,” she said to the ghost as she picked her way down the stairs over the fallen men.

Three more men entered the open doorway and charged up the stairs. One man was faster than the others. She recognised him as Silas from her time amongst them. He paused for a moment when he saw her. “You’re alive?” A heartbeat later his features hardened. “Where is the laird’s wife?”

“I’ll never tell.”