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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T he wind howled through the gaps in the windows and the door of the inn— The Three Crows , an old, decrepit place in a small town near the borderlands.

The men there were loud, eager for a fight; the women few and scantily dressed, there for the men’s entertainment.

The very air smelled of ale and wine, the table sticky with spilled drink.

It was not the kind of place one expected to find any comfort or peace—only anonymity, the safety of a rambunctious crowd that worked well to hide any conversation, any underlying intention.

Alban Keith sat in the deepest corner of the room, on a creaky chair, shrouded in his own silence. His pale blue eyes scanned the crowd carefully, looking for any newcomers—two men in particular, that he had been waiting for all night.

He had sent messengers to Clan Gunn three days past, with the intention of seeing if Laird Gunn would be willing to part with his new bride.

Valora MacNeacail was integral to his plan to control the northern seas, and without her, any war against Clan Gunn would not be the quick and brutal attack he had envisioned and had worked towards for so long, but rather a drawn-out battle that would drain his resources and threaten to destroy his own clan along with the Gunns.

Alliances were plentiful and strong; and yet none of his allies possessed the kind of sea power that Clan MacNeacail held.

Seasoned seamen as they were, used to the whims of the sea, MacNeacail men were essential if Alban wished to control those lands.

And Valora MacNeacail was essential to their acquisition.

The door to the inn banged open, the slab of wood slamming against the wall.

The hinges creaked like a lament. Outside, a storm raged, the likes of which the land often weathered—heavy rain, a river’s worth of water pouring onto the land.

Alban’s eyes snapped up, but otherwise, his large, wide-shouldered frame remained still.

His gaze tracked the two men that entered—both of them soaked to the bone, cursing loudly as they slammed the door shut behind them. No one paid them any mind.

The men’s boots squelched as they walked on the creaky floor, leaving muddy footprints behind.

Their wool cloaks were heavy with rainwater and their hair dripped on their shoulders, while dirt clung to their skin and the hems of their clothes.

Their beards were scruffy, too long to be considered proper, and their hair was matted where they both had it tied against their napes.

It wasn’t often that Alban saw them in such a state.

Usually, when they came to his study, they were all clean and shaven, in fresh clothes to meet him.

The rest of them, those who had gone straight back to the castle, would soon have the privilege of doing just that—bathing and shaving and changing clothes.

But these two—Donnach and Muir—hadn’t had the same luck.

Alban didn’t need to call them over. The two men spotted him with ease, as they knew he tended to sit in the fringes of the room, where people didn’t bother him and from where he could observe the rest of the patrons.

One never knew where the enemy might lurk.

It was better to have his back against the wall and his eyes on those around him.

When they approached, their expressions pitiful and their eyes full of anger, they both gave Alban a bow.

Muir tore his cloak off and tossed it over the chair, while Donnach only bothered enough to unclasp it as he sat down across from Alban.

From up close, they looked even more miserable than before, and now, under the dim light of the candles that lit up the room, he could see that along with the dirt, blood soiled their clothes and skin.

"What’s this?" Alban demanded, stopping himself just short of slamming his hand down on the table and causing his tankard of ale to spill out its contents. He hadn’t touched the drink—it was only an excuse for him to be there.

Tempting as it was, he preferred to stay alert while outside the safety of his castle’s walls.

The two men glanced at each other from the corner of their eyes. Alban didn’t have any patience for this. Whatever had happened couldn’t have possibly be good, and he couldn’t help but fear these two fools—and perhaps the rest of the fools he had sent to Clan Gunn—had ruined his plans for him.

When neither of the men responded, Alban leaned closer over the table, hissing, "Whose blood is this, ye fools?"

It took the men a few more moments of silence before the braver of the two, Donnach, spoke.

"We were followed," he said without ceremony.

Alban’s shoulders tensed. "Scouts?"

"Aye. Gunn men. Two o’ them," Muir said, his voice low and barely intelligible over the ruckus in the inn. "They tailed us from Halberry Castle. Quiet, but nae quiet enough."

With a sigh, Alban ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing back the strands that had fallen out of the loose tie on the back of his neck.

He couldn’t remember a time that had brought more stress for him than this, and for good reason.

Usually, he took matters into his own hands, but now that it was such a delicate situation, he couldn’t show his face in Clan Gunn lands.

Sending his men to do his bidding was the only good option, though now it seemed they had failed to deliver the results he wanted.

"An’ ye thought the best way tae deal with them was tae kill them?" Alban asked in a furious whisper. "I specifically told ye tae go in peace!"

"We couldnae risk lettin’ them return," said Muir. "They’d have tracked us all the way here, or worse, turned back to their Laird with word o’ where we’d been."

Donnach hesitated for a moment, glancing dubiously at Alban, but then nodded. "We did what had tae be done."

"What had tae be done," Alban echoed bitterly. "An’ now Torrin Gunn has cause tae sharpen every blade between here an’ the Hebrides! I specifically told ye tae maintain the peace. Dae ye nae realize how important that is?"

"They followed us like wolves on a hunt," Muir said. "What else were we supposed tae dae?"

"Dae ye have good reason tae believe they were sent tae kill ye?"

It was clearly not a question either Donnach or Muir had considered before slaughtering the scouts.

For all any of them knew, Laird Gunn had sent his men after them just to make sure they would leave the lands.

And yet, his own men had been the ones to spill the first blood, something that was inevitable on the one hand, but premature on the other.

Alban had always known he would have to be the one to begin this war, but he had never anticipated it would come so soon.

Now, there seemed to be no other option.

"They were scouts, m’laird," said Muir, as though this explained anything. "Why else would they be there?"

"I dinnae ken!" yelled Alban, finally exploding and slamming his hands on the table. The wood was sticky under his hands; the ale spilled from his tankard. "Dae their jobs? Like scouts?"

Silence stretched over the table and along the surrounding ones.

The inn’s patrons were watching—some of them, at least, those who were not too drunk to care about another patron reaching the height of what they must have thought was a drunken stupor.

Some of them, those who were more sober and wiser, shied away from Alban’s table and for good reason.

I cannae believe these two! An’ now everyone is watchin’!

Alban leaned back slowly, giving the people around him a warning look. Only when they looked away did he turn his gaze to the two men before him, eyes narrowing.

"Tell me about the meetin’," he said. "Start from the beginnin’."

Donnach glanced at Muir, then said, "We all went tae the laird’s study an’ yer proposal was given tae him. He was quick tae reject it."

"He also said that ye shouldnae even consider about makin’ such proposals after war has already been declared," Muir added. "He rather furious, me laird."

"O’ course," said Alban. It wasn’t a surprise to him.

He had thought that maybe by offering so much gold for Valora MacNeacail’s hand, Laird Gunn would be swayed, but there was no swaying him, just as there would be no swaying Alban if he was in his shoes.

The MacNeacail forces were worth much more than all that gold—not only their ships, but their men, whose expertise was invaluable in the northern seas.

"So ye see, me laird, we had nay choice but tae think the scouts were after us," Muir added. "Laird Gunn was furious. We thought his men would kill us."

With a sigh, Alban shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around this. That wasn’t a good enough reason to kill Gunn men, not even for him. Now all his plans had been revealed, and Laird Gunn would know there was no real offer of peace.

"Then we have a war tae plan," he said after a small pause. There was no avoiding it now. There had been no avoiding it anyway, but he wished it hadn’t come so soon.

Clan Keith had to be the one to attack first, and though Alban was almost certain Torrin Gunn wouldn’t be the first to draw steel, he still had to be prepared for it, to be the one to attack when Laird Gunn wasn’t ready.

He rose slowly, his shadow stretching across the candlelit floorboards.

Unable to resist the call of the drink anymore, he reached for the tankard and drained half of its contents in one large sip, before slamming it back down on the table.

This time, no one spared him a second glance—no one but Donnach and Muir, who looked up at him, uncertain.

Alban’s voice hardened, but remained a low whisper, something the other tables around them wouldn’t hear.

"I should have yer heads fer what ye did. I very much should. But I need all the hands I can get fer this, so this time, I will spare yer lives. Ye can die on the battlefield, killin’ Gunn men. "

Both men paled before him, but then they both stood, nodding fervently.

"We’ll need the smiths. And scouts o’ our own," said Muir.

"Aye," Alban agreed. "An’ the Frasers an’ any other allies we can gather. If we are tae spill first blood, then we must be prepared, an’ the only way tae prepare against the MacNeacail forces is tae have as many soldiers as we can."

As far as Alban knew, Torrin Gunn and Valora MacNeacail had not yet wedded. If he managed to attack on time, if he gathered his forces soon enough, then perhaps he could catch Laird Gunn without any reinforcements—and then the war would be brutal and swift.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the door, and lightning flashed brightly through the windows. Outside, the rain fell in continuous sheets, and thunder echoed faintly over the hills. The storm raged; it seemed like a cruel omen to Alban, but one that signified that Laird Gunn had to heed, not him.

Donnach took a deep breath, fastening his cloak. "We’ll start preparations."

"I’m comin’ with ye," said Alban, grabbing his own cloak and securing it around his neck.

"In this storm, me laird?" asked Muir. "Ye should stay here an’ depart once it’s dry."

"An’ leave ye two fools tae manage this?" Alban scoffed, shaking his head. He had made that mistake once and he was not about to repeat it. "I dinnae think so. I will come with ye an’ I will take care o’ this meself."

Silently, the two men stepped away, but Alban remained behind for a moment longer, staring into the flickering flames of the candle that stood on his table.

He saw not the fire, but the map in his head—the glens and hills between his lands and Clan Gunn’s, the choke points where the battles would be fought, the shores that MacNeacail soldiers could reach on their boats.

War had always been his goal. Now he simply had to win it.