"That's generous, Yer Grace."
"I'm motivated." Ashcombe paused at the door. "I purchased that girl legally, Graham. I have contracts, witnesses, documentation. The law is on my side. MacDougal is a thief, pure and simple. And thieves need to be taught lessons."
"He'll learn, Yer Grace. I'll make sure of it."
Ashcombe left without further pleasantries, climbing into his waiting carriage with relief.
The interior was clean, comfortable, lined with proper upholstery rather than Graham's rough Highland fabrics. His servants had wine that was actually drinkable, and they knew better than to speak unless spoken to.
As the carriage rolled away from Graham's holding, Ashcombe pulled out the miniature portrait he'd commissioned after purchasing the girl. The artist had worked from the auctioneer's description—dark hair, grey eyes, delicate features. The reality had been even better than the painting.
She'd been magnificent on that auction platform. Terrified but fighting, defiant even in chains. The kind of spirit that would be so satisfying to break.
And she would be broken. Eventually.
MacDougal had merely delayed the inevitable. The man could play at being heroic all he wanted, but ultimately, the law favored Ashcombe.
Property rights were sacred in England, and English law extended to contracts made on English soil, which that auction house technically was. Run by English merchants on territory leased from Scottish landholders.
"Your Grace?" His secretary leaned forward from the opposite seat. "Shall I draft the letters to your solicitors in London? Regarding the legal claim?"
"Yes. Detail everything—the purchase, the witnesses, the contract with Graham. I want documentation prepared forwhen we eventually involve the Crown." Ashcombe tucked the miniature back into his coat. "Though I doubt it will come to that. Once MacDougal sees his villages burning and his people suffering, he'll hand her over rather than watch them die for his principles."
"And if he doesn't, Your Grace?"
"Then we escalate." Ashcombe's voice was perfectly calm. "We keep escalating until he breaks or until I'm forced to involve the Crown officially. Either way, I get what's mine."
The secretary made notes, his quill scratching across parchment. "Shall I also draft letters to your contacts in Edinburgh? In case we need to apply political pressure?"
"Let's see how Graham's raids proceed before sending them. No point in wasting political capital if simple violence will suffice." Ashcombe watched the darkening countryside roll past his window. "Though do prepare the letters. If MacDougal proves more stubborn than anticipated, we may need to remind him that English influence extends quite far into the Highlands when properly motivated."
They rode in silence for a while, the carriage swaying gently on the rough roads.
Ashcombe found his thoughts drifting to the girl—Mhairi, Graham had called her. Wondering what she was doing, whether she thought herself safe in MacDougal's castle, whether she'd forgotten that she was still, legally and morally, his property.
"She should have been mine weeks ago," he murmured.
"Your Grace?"
"Nothing." Ashcombe straightened in his seat. "Just thinking aloud. How long until we reach the border?"
"Another three hours, Your Grace. We should arrive at the inn by midnight."
"Good. I want to be back in England by tomorrow evening. This Scottish air doesn't agree with me. I will probably have to return to this godforsaken place sooner than I would have wanted…" Though in truth, it wasn't the air, it was the entire country. Barbaric, backwards, full of men who thought honor and loyalty mattered more than law and property. “But if that is the case, it will be for a very good reason,” he added with a smirk.
MacDougal would learn differently soon enough.
They all would.
As the carriage continued south toward England, Ashcombe allowed himself a small smile. Let Graham conduct his raids. Let him steal women and burn villages. Let MacDougal scramble to protect people he couldn't possibly save.
And when the laird finally broke, when he finally realized the futility of his resistance, Ashcombe would be there. Waiting. Ready to claim what was rightfully his.
The girl had cost him ninety scots and considerable inconvenience. Before this was over, she'd pay back every penny, and more, in the years of service she'd provide.
After all, Ashcombe was a patient man. And patient men always got what they wanted in the end.
The carriage rolled on through the darkness, carrying him back toward civilization.
