“She’s worth naethin’ dead. But alive?” He turned to face his second-in-command. “Alive, she’s leverage. Against Finnian. Against the king if it comes tae that. And against Erik Thorsen.”
“And if she refuses tae cooperate? If she truly has fallen fer the Norse bastard?”
Something cold and vicious coiled in Duncan’s gut. “Then we make certain she has nay choice. A woman’s will can be… persuaded.”
Gregor shifted uncomfortably. “Me laird, if ye’re suggestin’—”
“I’m suggestin’ naethin’ that ye need tae concern yerself with.” Duncan’s voice went soft. Deadly. “Yer job is tae follow orders. Tomorrow night, when Finnian brings Claricia tae that gate, we take her. Quietly if possible. By force if necessary. The old man tries tae interfere, ye silence him.”
“Kill him, me laird?”
“I said silence, nae slaughter. Though if he’s foolish enough tae fight…” Duncan shrugged. “Accidents can happen easily in the dark.”
Gregor studied him with his one good eye. “Ye’ve changed, me laird. The man I swore tae serve wouldnae have?—”
“The man ye swore tae serve was a fool who believed honor and duty would build him a legacy.” Duncan’s laugh was bitter as wormwood. “That man’s dead. Killed by a king’s decree and a Norse savage’s ambition. What’s left is whatever’s necessary tae survive.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant crash of waves against stone. Finally, Gregor nodded slowly.
“I’ll ready the men. How many d’ye want fer the actual raid?”
“Ten. Twelve at most. More than that risks drawin’ attention.” Duncan returned to the maps, mind already three steps ahead. “The rest stay here with the ships. Once we have Claricia, we sail immediately. Nae back tae MacRae lands—too obvious. We head south, tae the isles where clan law still holds more weight than the Crown’s commands.”
“And Erik will follow.”
“Aye.” Duncan’s smile was a blade in the darkness. “He’ll follow. Probably with warriors. Which is exactly what I’m countin’ on.”
Gregor frowned. “I dinnae understand.”
“We take Claricia, but we dinnae run far. Just far enough tae draw Erik away from his castle, his lands, his advantages.” Duncan’s finger traced a route on the map. “We lead him tae ground ofmechoosin’. Somewhere his Norse tactics won’t help him. Somewhere I can gut him like the animal he is.”
“Ye mean tae kill him yerself?”
“Ineedtae kill him meself.” Duncan’s voice went rough with emotion he’d kept leashed fer too long. “D’ye ken what it’s been like? Watchin’ from afar as he beds the woman who was meant tae be mine? Hearin’ tales of how she smiles at him, defends him, falls fer his savage charm?” He slammed his fist on thetable. “She wasmine,Gregor. Mine by right, by betrothal, by every law that matters. And hetookher.”
“The king?—”
“The king can burn in hell alongside Erik Thorsen.” Duncan’s eyes gleamed with something darker than ambition, something that tasted like madness and desperation mixed.
Gregor nodded slowly, then turned to leave
After Gregor left, Duncan stood alone in the flickering lantern light, staring at the maps that had consumed his every waking thought fer weeks. Tomorrow night. One more day of playing the concerned former betrothed. One more day of hiding his true intentions behind masks of honor and duty.
Then the mask could come off. Entirely. Then he’d show Erik Thorsen—show all of them—what a truly desperate man was capable of.
Outside, the wind picked up, carrying with it the salt-tang of the sea and the distant cry of gulls. Duncan poured another measure of whisky, this time letting the burn settle in his chest like cold iron.
Claricia,yeshould’ve stood beside me as Lady MacRae. Instead ye’re playin’ wife tae a savage.
The betrayal of it—herchoosingErik, her apparent happiness—cut deeper than any wound. It wasn’t just about the alliance anymore, or even the gold he’d lost. It was about being humiliated in front of every clan chief who mattered. About watching his birthright crumble while the Wolf of Skye claimed everything he had worked for.
But nae fer much longer.
He raised his cup in a solitary toast to the empty tent. “Slainte mhathtae tomorrow night, then.”
The whisky went down smooth, warming him from the inside out. And for the first time in weeks, Duncan MacRae smiled—a smile that held no humor, no joy, only the cold promise of violence to come.
The following night, everything would change.
