He could live with that.
“When?” Sholto asked.
“Soon. The weather’s turning worse, which works in our favor. First we get the lass here.” Dugan’s smile turned cunning, “Then her lover will follow, and if we’re verra lucky, we might get two Grants for the price of one.”
Something cold moved through Sholto’s chest. Killing some young warrior in his prime was one thing. But Connor Grant was a legend, an old man who’d fought in wars before Sholto was born. “That’s—”
“Brilliant.” Dugan’s eyes gleamed with ambition. “Can you imagine? Dugan, the man who killed Connor Grant. Or at the verra least, who was there when the old legend finally fell. My name would echo in every tavern, every mercenary camp, every lord’s hall from here to the Borders.”
He began pacing again, energy crackling off him like lightning. “Every petty lord with a grudge will want to hire me. Every ambitious merchant will pay for my protection. I’ll build a company that rivals any in Scotland—nay, in all of Britain.”
His voice dropped, taking on an almost reverent quality. “Do you understand what I’m offering you, Sholto? Not just your petty revenge on one girl. But a chance to be part of something that will be remembered. A chance to matter.”
Sholto didn’t care about mattering. He cared about the smell of fear, the satisfaction of breaking something that had dared to wound him. But he understood ambition well enoughto recognize it in others. And ambitious men were useful—they planned, they organized, they got things done.
“You really think you can kill a Grant?” Sholto asked.
“I think I can kill anyone if the price is right and the planning is sound.” Dugan turned to face him fully. “Grants bleed like anyone else. They die like anyone else. They just have more coin.”
He moved back to the table, pulling out a rough map he’d been working on. “And once they are grieving, we move on to taking over their castle on Mull. Duart Castle sits on a promontory. Good defensive position, which is why the MacDougalls chose it. But it also means limited escape routes. If we come at them from the land side with enough men, we can bottle them up. Force them to either fight or surrender.”
“They’ll fight,” Sholto said with certainty. “Men like that don’t surrender.”
Sholto studied the map, but his mind was elsewhere. On golden braids and blue eyes. On the sound a blade made sliding between ribs. On the way Brynja would look when she realized she’d lost.
“I want her alive,” he said. “At least at first.”
Dugan glanced up, his expression calculating. “How long do you need?”
“Long enough to make sure she understands what it cost her to cross me.” Sholto’s voice was flat, emotionless. “Long enough to hear her beg. To break that spirit that made her think she could put a dagger in my leg and walk away.”
“Fine. Just don’t let your…plaything interfere with the larger plan.” Dugan rolled up the map. “I’ll start gathering men. Good fighters who won’t balk at attacking Grants.”
Sholto’s jaw clenched. “When this is over—when I have her—I’ll be the man who broke the girl who thought she couldwound me. I’ll be the man who taught her what happens when you cross the wrong person.”
“Small ambitions for a small man.” But Dugan’s tone was almost cheerful now as he counted coins. “Still, small ambitions are easier to achieve than large ones. You might actually succeed.”
They worked in silence for a while, Dugan calculating, Sholto brooding. Outside, the storm was building, dark clouds rolling in from the west.
Finally, Dugan straightened, closing the chest. “One or two more days before we grab the girl. Then we’ll bring her here. By then I’ll have the men and supplies. Then we wait for the Grants to arrive. Have you found out their number yet?”
“Nay, I haven’t been able to get over to Craignure yet. On the morrow I’ll go.”
“Good. I need to know how many men to hire. Find out.”
“And if the Grants have more men than we thought? If we can’t separate the grandson or Connor?”
“Then we adapt. I didn’t survive ten years as a mercenary by being inflexible.” Dugan’s smile was cold. “But one way or another, I will have my reputation. And you will have your revenge. The only question is how many Grants have to die to make it happen.”
He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. “Oh, and Sholto? Stop patrolling the coast in that damned boat. You’re warning her we’re coming. Let her think she’s safe. Let her relax into that false security. It’ll make the surprise so much sweeter.”
Then he was gone, leaving Sholto alone with his thoughts and his aching leg.
Sholto returned to the window, staring out at the gathering storm. Two days. In two days, he’d have his hands on that golden-haired bitch. He’d show her what happened to womenwho thought they could fight back. Who thought they were stronger than the men who owned them.
His hand went to his thigh one more time, pressing against the scar. She’d marked him. Left her signature on his flesh like some kind of brand.
Soon, he’d return the favor. And his mark would be permanent.
