Chapter 4 4

The first light of dawn barely touched the sky when Isolde was awakened by the sound of Maeve knocking briskly at her door. The previous day's training had left her muscles aching, but there was no room for complaint. Stretching stiffly, she dressed in the practical garments Maeve had laid out-soft woolen trousers and a tunic, far removed from the silks and velvets of her former life.

"The laird asked me to bring you to the stables," Maeve announced, her tone bright. "It seems today you'll learn more than swordplay."

The air outside was biting, a cold wind whipping down from the hills. Isolde pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she followed Maeve to the stables, her breath forming clouds in the frigid morning. Lachlan was already there, standing beside a large, midnight-black stallion that pawed impatiently at the ground.

"Good, you're awake," he said without preamble. "We ride at first light. I want to see what you're made of beyond the castle walls."

Isolde stepped closer, eyeing the stallion warily. "And where exactly are we going?"

"To the south," he replied, tightening the straps on his saddle. "The Campbells have been seen near the border, and it's time I assess the situation for myself."

"You mean to take me into a potential skirmish?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Lachlan turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "You wanted to prove yourself, did you not? Consider this an opportunity."

Maeve helped Isolde mount a smaller, more docile mare, and within minutes they were riding out of the castle gates. The morning was still and eerily quiet, save for the steady rhythm of hooves on frozen ground.

The landscape stretched out before them, rugged and untamed. Snow clung stubbornly to the peaks in the distance, while the rolling hills were dotted with patches of heather and bramble. Lachlan led the way, his presence commanding even in silence.

Riding beside him was a challenge, both physically and mentally. The mare was well-trained, but Isolde lacked the confidence and ease Lachlan displayed in the saddle. She gripped the reins tightly, focusing on keeping her seat as the path grew steeper.

"You've ridden before," Lachlan observed after a time, his voice breaking the silence.

"Not often," she admitted. "And never across terrain like this."

His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he turned his attention back to the trail. "You're doing well enough. For now."

They rode for hours, stopping only briefly to rest the horses and share a modest meal of bread and dried meat. Lachlan remained distant, speaking only when necessary. Isolde tried to engage him in conversation, but his answers were curt, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

By midday, they reached a small outpost near the southern border. The men stationed there greeted Lachlan with deference, their expressions lighting up at the sight of their laird. Isolde noted how they glanced at her with curiosity but said nothing.

"The Campbells were seen near the ridge three days past," one of the guards reported. "A small group, no more than six. They didn't cross the border, but they lingered longer than usual."

Lachlan nodded, his jaw tightening. "And there's been no sign of them since?"

"None, but they're testing us, my lord. That much is clear."

Lachlan's gaze swept the horizon, his eyes narrowing. "We'll ride to the ridge and see for ourselves. Keep the men on alert."

The journey to the ridge was treacherous, the path winding sharply upward through rocky terrain. Isolde's mare stumbled more than once, and she had to fight to keep her balance. Lachlan, ever watchful, slowed his pace to ensure she kept up.

When they reached the ridge, the view took Isolde's breath away. The land stretched out below them, a patchwork of fields and forests divided by a winding river. It was beautiful, yet the tension in Lachlan's posture reminded her of the danger that lurked beneath the surface.

"There," Lachlan said, pointing to a cluster of trees in the distance. "That's where they were seen."

Isolde followed his gaze, her heart pounding. She couldn't see any movement, but the idea of being so close to enemy scouts sent a shiver down her spine.

"Why do they do it?" she asked. "Why provoke you without committing to an attack?"

"They're testing our strength," he replied. "Looking for weaknesses. It's a game of patience, and they're hoping we'll slip."

A sudden movement in the trees caught her eye, and she gasped. "Lachlan, there-did you see that?"

He followed her gaze, his expression sharpening. Without hesitation, he urged his stallion forward, motioning for her to stay close. They descended the ridge carefully, the horses picking their way through the loose stones.

The forest was quiet, the stillness unsettling. Lachlan dismounted, signaling for Isolde to do the same. She followed him into the trees, her heart racing with every step.

"Stay close," he murmured, his voice low. "And keep your eyes sharp."

The undergrowth rustled faintly, and Lachlan drew his sword. Isolde's hand went instinctively to the dagger Maeve had given her that morning. It felt small and inadequate, but the weight of it was oddly comforting.

A figure darted between the trees ahead, and Lachlan moved swiftly, his sword cutting through the air. The man-a Campbell scout-dodged the strike and turned to flee.

"Stop him!" Lachlan barked.

Before she could think, Isolde stepped forward, throwing her dagger with all the strength she could muster. It struck the scout in the leg, and he fell with a cry of pain.

Lachlan was on him in an instant, disarming the man and pinning him to the ground. The scout glared up at them, his face twisted in defiance.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that," Lachlan said, his voice cold. "But you'll find no mercy here."

The scout spat on the ground, his silence defiant. Lachlan's men arrived moments later, securing the prisoner and dragging him back toward the outpost.

Isolde stood frozen, her hands trembling. She had acted without thinking, and the realization of what she had done hit her like a wave.

"You did well," Lachlan said, his voice pulling her from her thoughts.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "I didn't think-I just acted."

"That's how you survive," he replied, his expression softer than she had expected. "Instinct can be the difference between life and death out here."

They rode back to the castle in silence, the weight of the day settling heavily over them. Isolde replayed the events in her mind, unsure of how she felt about the role she had played. Lachlan's approval was a small comfort, but it didn't erase the unease that lingered.

When they arrived, the castle was bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Isolde dismounted and handed the reins to a stable hand, her legs unsteady from the long ride.

Lachlan paused before heading inside, his gaze meeting hers. "You've shown courage today, Isolde. Perhaps you're more suited to this life than I thought."

The words carried a weight she didn't fully understand, but she nodded, too tired to respond. Maeve met her in the courtyard, ushering her inside with a concerned look.

That night, as she sat by the fire in her chamber, Isolde felt the first stirrings of something unfamiliar-a sense of belonging. It was faint and fragile, but it was there, rooted in the harsh beauty of the Highlands and the challenges that came with it.

Her place here was not yet certain, but she was beginning to see the path she had to walk. It would be difficult and fraught with trials, but for the first time, she felt ready to face it.