Page 100 of The Laird’s Sinful Claim

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Five men captured. Three more dead." The messenger stood in the doorway of Edmund Langley's tent, his face pale with fear. "The MacDonald has locked down his castle. No one in or out without his permission."

Edmund didn't look up from the map spread across his makeshift desk. His finger traced the outline of Keppoch's walls, marking the weak points he'd identified over weeks of careful observation.

"And the ones still inside?"

"Still hidden, my lord. Waiting for your signal."

"Good." Edmund's smile was cold. "Tell them to remain where they are. No movement. No risks. Let MacDonald think he's routed all my men."

"Yes, my lord." The messenger hesitated. "My lord, if I may—the men are asking when⁠—"

"When we attack?" Edmund finally looked up, his blue eyes hard. "Soon. Very soon. Now get out."

The messenger fled. Edmund returned his attention to the map, his mind churning through possibilities.

Five captured. Three dead. A setback, certainly. But not a disaster.

Because MacDonald didn't know about the others. The ones who'd been planted weeks ago, before the Cèilidh. The servants who'd been bribed. The guards who'd been turned. The men who'd slipped in during the chaos of daily castle life and disappeared into the shadows.

MacDonald thought he was so clever. Thought his heightened security and locked gates would keep Elinor safe.

The fool had no idea Edmund had been planning since the moment the Highland savage had stolen what was rightfully his.

Edmund stood, moving to the entrance of his tent. Outside, his camp sprawled across the valley—two hundred men, all loyal, all ready to fight. Some were mercenaries, bought with gold Edmund had spent years accumulating. Others were men from his own lands, bound to him by oath and tradition.

All of them were ready to die for his cause.

To get her back.

Elinor.

Even thinking her name made something twist in Edmund's chest. A mix of fury and desire and possessive need that had only grown stronger in the weeks since MacDonald had stolen her.

She should have been his. Would have been his, if that bastard border lord hadn't interfered. If Royse hadn't been so greedy, so willing to sell to the highest bidder.

Edmund had offered everything. Marriage. Alliance. Security for both Elinor and her wastrel father.

And Royse had spat on it. Had taken his daughter to that auction like she was livestock and let a Highland savage buy her for coin.

The memory still burned. Standing in that hall, watching MacDonald bid higher and higher. Watching Elinor's face as the numbers climbed. Watching his bride, his rightful bride, be sold to another man.

He'd wanted to draw his sword right there. To cut MacDonald down and take Elinor home where she belonged.

But he'd been outnumbered. Outmaneuvered.

So he'd bided his time. Made plans. Gathered men and resources and information.

And now—now he was ready.

"My lord?"

Edmund turned to find William, his captain, approaching. The man was solid and competent, if lacking in imagination. But he followed orders well, which was all Edmund required.

"Yes?"

"The scouts report MacDonald rode out this morning."