Page 117 of A Highland Bride Disciplined

Even in Campbell’s rough tongue, the backhanded compliment struck deep.

Kian gave a short nod. “I daenae want our work undone. Or Scarlett’s.”

At her name, all three men exchanged a look he caught and pretended not to.

Hamish cleared his throat. “Scarlett will rage. She’ll argue. She’ll pace holes in yer stone. But she’s nae a fool. She kens the clan cannae bleed for pride alone. Stand firm and she’ll stand by ye, in time.”

“Aye,” Campbell said dryly, “and if she does choose to bleed, she’ll make sure it’s someone else’s.” He grinned, wolfish. “Ye married a firebrand. Be proud of it.”

Tam finally spoke again, tone measured. “We’ll need men on the walls, bows strung but low. Cordons set behind the gate. If he smells a trap, he’ll bray like a mule. If he smells weakness, he’ll bray louder. Either way, we’ll ken what sort he is afore sunset.”

“Do it,” Kian said.

“And the plan for when battle ensues?” Hamish offered, and the wordinevitablywas ever present even in the silence.

“Ye’ll take Scarlett, Hamish. Campbell will follow while his men take the east flank, and assault whatever forces Roderick brings that lurk in the shadows of the woods.”

“My men will stay on me. I’ll keep Scarlett safe. It’ll be on ye to kill the pup, Kian,” Hamish’s words were ruthless in meaning but landed soft as a feather.

“Aye,” Kian said, his eyes connecting with his wife’s father at the unsaid addition to the plan.I’ll keep Scarlett, and Elise, safe.

The meeting broke swiftly. Campbell striding for the yard, Hamish for the chapel, Tam already barking orders before the door had shut behind him.

Alone, Kian sagged into the ledger chair out of habit. But instead of lists and figures, a scrap of parchment caught his eye. It was more notes from the village. Widows need oats, a baker proud of pies, a bridge sagging. On the backside of the parchment lay a hastily drawn drawing of the village merchant stands with the words,Does not make sense,underlined furiously. He smoothed out the folds, traced the slant of her ink, then folded it careful and tucked it into his coat with a smile. Something about it steadied him.

Word had gotten out quickly that the McTavish pup was to arrive at sundown. By late afternoon the keep was cloaked in the hush before a storm. Even Morag swept softer, like her broom might wake the hills. The men moved sharp but quiet, checking bowstrings and buckles.

Kian mounted the gate-walk as the sun began to slip, Tam a shadow at his shoulder. Down the road, a smear of color crested the rise. A McTavish green, veined with arrogant red. Two riders led the line — Roderick at the fore, polished and proud, a single guard trailing. Behind, perhaps twenty more waited in loose array.

“Too many for truce,” Tam muttered.

“They’ll stop short,” Kian said. “Let them.”

And they did.

Tam’s grip tightened around his hilt as he nodded firmly toward a guard, dressed in full black attire, standing by near the far buttress of the keep. Kian’s eyes followed the man as he moved stealthily through the brush and into the shadows of the forest surrounding them, and then he looked over at his man with a raised eyebrow.

“Ye cannae expect for me to nae plan for the worst. It’sjustsurveillance.”

Kian nodded, and the two men stopped walking as the McTavish horses approached.

Roderick raised a hand, drawing rein with a flourish. Even from the wall, Kian could see the smug curl of his mouth. Hope or hunger, perhaps both, lit his eyes.

“Laird Crawford!” he called, voice smooth as butter. “I come as asked.”

“As told,” Kian returned, flat.

The McTavish heir’s smile sharpened. “Then by all means, let us conduct our business.”

Tam shifted beside him, eye narrowed. “Smug enough to choke on his own reflection,” he muttered.

Kian kept his gaze steady, his voice colder than the stone beneath his boots. “Let him have his moment,” he said.

Then he lifted his hand, signaling for the portcullis teeth to lower.

“Bring her,” he told Tam.

Scarlett’s hands wouldn’t stop trembling.