Lorcan nodded. “Aye, sir. Scouts tracked them this morn. They should reach Kincaid lands within days, if nae tomorrow.”
Ewan clicked his tongue in mock sympathy. “Ach. Pity if they dinnae make it.”
Lorcan shifted uneasy weight from one foot to the other. “Ye want an ambush, then?”
Ewan’s eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction. “What Iwantis tae remind Baird Kincaid of his place. He thinks himself strong again. He thinks the Fletchers’ riches will patch over the cracks in his walls.”
Lorcan hesitated. “And the councilman inside the castle… he failed?”
“Aye.” Ewan’s jaw tightened with disdain. “Filib was taken. Confessed, nay doubt. The fool let sentiment and old ghosts rule him.”
He paced across the room, and each one of his steps was predatory.
“I will nae allow Baird Kincaid tae regain strength,” he said, as his voice found a slow, dangerous rhythm. “He has humiliated this clan too many times. Insults at Councils. Slights in treaties. His faither spitting on mine before witnesses.” He slowly smiled, but there was nothing kind in the expression. “Nay more.”
Lorcan cleared his throat. “Then… ye want the supplies gone? Or taken?”
“Burned,” Ewan answered without hesitation. “Scattered tae ash so the wind may carry proof of Sinclair justice.”
The captain nodded stiffly. “It will be done.”
Ewan stepped closer, lowering his voice to a silken threat. “Make certain ye leave survivors. Let them run home and tell their lairdexactlywho stole his lifeline.”
Lorcan swallowed. “Aye, me laird.”
“Good.” Ewan waved him off with a flick of his fingers. “Send fer the rest of the captains. We strike within the day.”
Lorcan bowed and retreated, pulling the door shut behind him.
Ewan stood alone once more, with his arms folded behind his back. He imagined it clearly: the Fletcher caravan in flames, Kincaid men dead or dying, grain blackened to nothing, and Baird Kincaid’s carefully rebuilt hope crumbling to dust.
A cruel smile returned to his lips.
“Let the laird come undone,” he murmured. “Let the Highlands remember the name Sinclair.”
He leaned toward the window. “Round two begins, Kincaid. And this time… ye willnae rise so quickly.”
“Ye’ve gone quiet, Davina,” Baird said, lifting a brow as he reached for his cup the following morning. “That usually means ye’re thinking something dangerous, something that might get me in the deep waters of the loch again.”
Davina bit back a smile. “Dangerous? I was merely wondering if ye always scowl at yer porridge like that, or if today is special.”
His mouth twitched in an effort to suppress a smile. “It’s lumpy.”
“It is nae,” she teased, nudging his boot beneath the table.
He shot her a look, one that promised he knew exactly what she was doing, and that he wouldn’t stop her. After everything that had happened, it felt almost miraculous to sit there like that, simply sharing food and warmth, in something dangerously akin to peace.
He took another spoonful of porridge, as though proving something to her or perhaps to himself. Davina hid a smirk behind her cup.
“Better?” she asked.
He huffed a soft breath. “Marginally.”
“We could order the cook tae start making it with honey,” she suggested.
“That would only encourage ye,” he countered.
“And what, precisely, would I be encouraged tae dae?”
