When the sun bled into the horizon and supper was finished, Michael rose from the table, bowed, and excused himself with talk of letters to Clan Grant. No one questioned it; to them, he was only a weary envoy eager for rest. But as the castle drifted into uneasy sleep, he slipped from his chambers, his cloak drawn tight, moving through the narrow postern gate that opened into the forest beyond the castle’s curtain walls.
Slipping past the guards was no easy task; Laird Campbell had posted several of them around the walls, his security tight, but not impenetrable. All lairds, in Michael’s opinion, suffered from the same affliction—they assumed their men would remain alert and hardworking in the dark and the cold, with nothing but a flash of ale to keep them company. In truth, the night did more than hide him in its darkness. It also made the guards weary, less careful. In times like these, when an attack was not imminent, the boldest of them even allowed sleep to claim them, and it was one of those weak points that Michael exploited to disappear into the dark.
The night air was biting cold against his skin, scented with pine and smoke from the hearths. He moved silently between the trees, a shadow in the dark, his every sense sharpened. The moon hung low, silvering the branches above him, and in the distance, an owl called—a signal.
Michael called back and stepped into the clearing. Two shadows waited there, tall and still as the trees themselves, which were then followed by three more.
Tòrr was the first to emerge, broad-shouldered and sighing in relief when he spotted Michael. “Ye took yer time, braither,” he said, clasping Michael’s forearm in a rough greeting.
Daemon followed—a mirror image of Tòrr, though leaner and—generally, at least—louder in his manners. Now, he grinned at Michael, pulling him into a loose embrace.
“Had tae wait till the guards fell asleep,” Michael said, lowering his hood. “The Campbells are restless. The laird’s been actin’… strange.”
“Strange how?” asked Tòrr, folding his arms.
“Increased security… too many guards, too many rotations,” said Michael. “There’s always weak points, o’ course, but this isnae a man who thinks o’ peace. I dinnae ken if he’s waitin’ fer somethin’ tae happen, if he’s plannin’ somethin’ or if he’s simply paranoid.”
“Maybe it’s because he’s tryin’ tae wed the lass off tae Cody Grant,” said Tòrr. “Maybe he thinks someone will take the chance tae attack afore he can.”
“Someone is tryin’ tae dae that,” Daemon pointed out. “Us.”
“There will be nay attack until Alyson is safe,” Tòrr said. “We’ve established that. If we get the chance tae disrupt this deal, then we will, but Alyson is our objective here. Let us nae forget that.”
Daemon glanced between Tòrr and Michael, his gaze scrutinizing. “Am I the only one who thinks this could be our chance? We killed the Grant envoy fer this. An’ now, there’s nae one of us left unseen by Campbell. We willnae have another chance, an’ we’ll certainly lose this one if we dinnae act fast. The real Grants will be here soon. We must have Alyson out o’ that cell afore they dae.”
“I agree with Tòrr,” said Michael. “I want tae put an end tae this alliance afore it starts, but I willnae risk Alyson’s life. We still dinnae ken what he plans tae dae with her. The more we delay an’ the more we take risks like what we’re suggestin’, the more dangerous this will be fer her.”
“I’d never let anythin’ happen tae Alyson, ye ken that,” said Daemon. “But once we have her, the work isnae done.”
“Ye’re right,” said Michael. “But first, we must have her. An’ how dae we dae that when there’s guards everywhere? I could slip out o’ there tonight but there’s nae tellin’ what will happen on the morrow or the overmorrow. The dungeons are heavily guarded. I’ve been there.”
“Ye’ve seen her?” asked Daemon.
“Och aye,” said Michael with a small nod. “She’s weary but alive. I dinnae ken how much longer she can last.”
His mind drifted back to Alyson locked in that cell, in the dark, surrounded by silence and guards and mildew. He rememberedthe way she had spoken to him—so softly, so hesitantly at first, as though she thought he was nothing but a hallucination.
“So if ye think ye cannae smuggle her out o’ there an’ we cannae attack the castle, what other way is there?” asked Daemon. “Time is runnin’ out. We must act fast if we are tae act at all.”
The three of them fell silent, each man considering their options. This could have never been a plan thought out in advance—they simply hadn’t had enough information, enough knowledge of Clan Campbell and its keep to decide what they would do before Michael had to head out to act as the Grant envoy.
And now, there was little time to think.
Tòrr was the first to break the silence.
“There’s another way, ye ken.”
Michael’s head tilted to the side in curiosity, and from the sharp look in his brother’s eyes, he was already convinced he wouldn’t like what he would hear.
“What way?”
“We take the lass.”
Michael’s breath caught in his throat and he had to stop himself from reacting immediately, refusing to do such a thing. Still, hisbody betrayed him, and he took a step forward as if to physically stop Tòrr from doing such a thing, and in the process, earned a curious look from both of his brothers.
“It…” he started, but then his voice trailed off as he tried to come up with a good enough excuse. He cleared his throat and tried again, lifting his head as if in challenge. “It’s a cruel plan. Surely, ye can see that.”
“We’ve done worse afore,” said Tòrr. “Besides, we’re nae killin’ the lass. We’re only… borrowin’ her.”
