It should have been simple. Political. Efficient.
But instead, his men lay dead, sprawled in the mud like cattle left to rot. His plan had unraveled. And worst of all, HalvardMacLeod was now aware—aware and furious, if Bowen knew anything about that barbarian.
Bowen’s jaw ticked again, rage coursing through him and threatening to bubble over.
He swept the clearing, his voice low and cold. “Where is the surviving one? Does anyone know?”
There was no answer—only the rustle of wind through the trees.
Bowen kicked a fallen sword aside, irritation burning hotter under his ribs. The surviving man should have circled back by now. If he was alive, he should have reported. He should have?—
A crack of twig snapped faintly from the right and Bowen turned sharply, his hand reaching for the hilt at his hip.
“Show yourself.”
A young soldier, one of his newer acquisitions, stepped out from the tree line—pale, nervous, shaking slightly. “M-my lord,” he stammered, his eyes darting to the corpses.
Bowen straightened. “Report.”
“The last man, sir, the one you ordered to withdraw if the others fell… he never returned to the meeting point.”
Of course, he hadn’t.
Bowen exhaled sharply through his nose. “He’s been taken.”
“Then… then he’ll talk.”
Bowen slowly pivoted to face the trembling soldier. “What makes you think my man will talk? What makes you think he won’t stay loyal to me? Is that what you would do in his place?”
The soldier blanched, looking at Bowen with wide eyes. He trembled where he stood, much like the leaves in the trees surrounding them. Bowen moved past him, his boots crushing damp leaves as he walked toward the far side of the clearing. He paused near the footprint of a horse—deep, wide, unmistakably Highland.
MacLeod’s.
Bowen crouched, brushing his fingers over the imprint. A thin, vicious smile cut across his face.
“So, you interfered,” he whispered. “Again.”
Wind whipped at the edges of his cloak. Clouds drifted across the moon, swallowing the light, plunging the clearing into deeper shadow.
Bowen stood. The soldier shifted anxiously. “My lord, shall we regroup? Withdraw to the coast until new instructions come?”
Bowen turned slowly. His voice was a blade drawn across whetstone.
“No.”
“My lord?”
“No more hired hands,” Bowen hissed. “No more messengers. No more bumbling incompetence.” He swept his hand toward the dead. “This is what happens when delicate tasks are left in the hands of incompetent men.”
The soldier swallowed hard. “What will you do?”
Bowen’s expression sharpened into something predatory. There was only one solution to all this and, as always, he was the one holding the key to it.
“I will go myself.”
The boy stepped back. “Into MacLeod territory?”
“Is that fear I hear?” Bowen asked, raising a curious eyebrow.
