Page 19 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
T wo days earlier
Duart Castle, The Isle of Mull
Sipping his fine Bordeaux wine, Laird Alexander MacDougall gazed from the narrow window in his bedchamber. Mist swirled heavily over the waters of the Sound of Mull, dark clouds hovering overhead. For some, this may have been a portent of foreboding, but the great laird paid no heed to the weather, his thoughts elsewhere. Calculating. Ruthless. Bold.
So, me men have located the little minx who was hidden fer so many years .
He gave a soft, satisfied, laugh. She may have thought she'd evaded him, but the rough men he’d employed had successfully tracked her. First to the Priory on Iona, where the Prioress, Mother Una, had kept her presence secret for years.
The Abbot at the Iona monastery had been informed of Una’s perfidy and he would make certain that punishment would ensue.
Even though she had been located at last, Alexander burned with frustration that, thanks to the Laird Tòrr MacKinnon, the Lady MacInnes had managed to evade his men and help her escape. That upstart laird would pay dearly for his defiance in transporting the lass to that cursed place, Castle Dùn Ara. So close. Hardly more than a day’s ride from Duart.
He experienced a flash of annoyance at having let her escape his clutches. But now, nothing would stand in his way. She would be his.
All he had to do was arrange for her delivery.
His mind roamed over images that made his breath hitch in his throat. The Lady Lyra MacInnes kneeling at his feet in this very chamber. Submissive. Abject. Available to his every pleasure.
On the other hand, mayhap she’d be feisty. A struggling lass always provided more value and enjoyment than the passive ones.
He gave a satisfied grunt. The MacKinnon would pose no opposition. A new laird, untried and without strong allegiances, would never dare defy the power of the MacDougall Clan.
Quaffing the last of his wine, he strode to his carved oaken desk, opened the drawer and took out parchment, ink and quill. He would make his demand and if, perchance, the young pup, Laird Tòrr, should disobey, he would discover that to defy the MacDougall came at a very high price.
His message was an ultimatum to the MacKinnon.
Give the lass tae me men, dinnae resist, and all will be well. Resist and feel me wrath.
He smiled. He looked forward to resistance. His men would cut a ruthless path through the feeble MacKinnon Clan and any allies who were fool enough to follow them.
He’d see to it that the castle was destroyed, stone by stone, that Laird Tòrr’s ships would be burned, his peasants disbursed and starving, their animals slaughtered, and their cottages and all their paltry possessions destroyed.
He hummed a pleasant tune as he wrote. The prospect of hanging MacKinnon from a gibbet in his own courtyard had great appeal. He looked forward to the foolish lad’s resistance.
He took out his sealing wax, melted it over a candle, dropping the molten wax on to the folded parchment, and pressed it with his seal, the Clan crest and its motto: Buaidh no Bas. Conquer or Die.
There would be no second chance.