Page 14 of The Highlander’s Illicit Bride (Wicked Highland Lairds #1)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

M urdoch Mackintosh sat in a plush, comfortable chair in front of the oversized fireplace in Laird Dougal MacPherson’s salon at Cluny Castle.

The room was silent save for the crackle and pop of the flames.

He stared into the fire as he drank from his cup of wine, his mind spinning with a thousand different thoughts.

In one disastrous night, he had not only lost his most prized prisoner, Struan Cameron, he had lost his daughter as well. It was a double hit he had not yet recovered from and the mere thought of the incompetence of his men in letting them both get away still filled him with the darkest of anger.

The disgrace they have caused me…

The door to the chamber opened and closed heavily behind him.

MacPherson’s hard bootsteps echoed through the chamber as he walked to the table on the far side of the room.

Dougal MacPherson was a tall, severe looking man with high, sharp cheekbones, and a long, aquiline nose.

A neatly trimmed beard, black that was shot through with gray, covered his strong, square jawline, and his hair, much the same color, fell to his broad shoulders.

He was much like Murdoch himself. Just five years his junior, Dougal had a hard-won reputation for his skill in battle as well as his equally hard demeanor outside of it.

Some people thought him cruel. Vicious. But Murdoch knew the people who said that—many of them the same people who said that of him—simply did not know what it was to be a laird.

They did not know the sacrifices one had to make, nor the decisions one was faced with every single day.

Yes, difficult choices often had to be made.

To the people on the outside, those choices might seem cruel or callous.

What they didn’t understand—would never understand—was that those choices were often necessary.

Murdoch often had to make decisions that most people would never have the spine to make.

He did not shy away from difficult choices.

And neither did Dougal. It was one reason he respected the man.

“What news of yer daughter?” Dougal asked.

“None yet,” Murdoch replied. “I’ve got riders out scourin’ all the surroundin’ villages and abbeys, but as of yet, she’s nae been found.”

His hands balled into fists at his sides, Dougal paced the chamber. Murdoch watched him walk back and forth in repeat, completely silent, his face etched with frustration.

“She’s probably hidin’ in one of the nunneries out in the bleedin’ countryside.” Dougal snarled.

“I’ve got me men ridin’ out that way as we speak,” Murdoch said.

“Yer men cannae go stormin’ intae a nunnery?—”

“If they’re shelterin’ me wayward daughter, aye, they can,” he snapped. “And they will.”

Dougal sighed and took a swallow of his wine.

Then immediately refilled his cup and drank that down too.

His breathing slightly labored, he poured himself another cup then began to pace the chamber once more.

His jaw flexed as he clenched his jaw and his hand tightened around his cup, squeezing it so hard his knuckles grew white.

“’Tis a problem fer us. Ye bungled it up and lost Struan. And if that is nae bad enough, ye’ve lost yer daughter too. And we’ve nay idea where either of them went,” Dougal growled. “Dae ye realize how weak that makes us look?”

“We’ll find them, Dougal. Calm yerself.”

“I look like a fool. Ye’ve made me look like a bleedin’ fool,” he growled. “She was tae be me wife and we suddenly cannae find her.”

Dougal punctuated his words by hurling his cup across the chamber.

It hit the wall with a hollow thud, spraying wine everywhere.

Murdoch turned to the man and watched the flames cast flickering shadows across his face.

He swallowed down the bitter words that sat on the tip of his tongue, not wanting to inflame the situation any further than it already was.

Instead, he sat back in his chair and took a long swallow of his wine, giving himself a moment to calm himself.

“I didnae ken ye were so keen on marryin’ the lass,” Murdoch said evenly.

Dougal finally turned to him and Murdoch saw the pure malice in the man’s eyes.

They smoldered with anger and Murdoch understood the source of that rage burning inside of him.

It wasn’t necessarily that he was thrilled at the prospect of marrying Isolde, after all this was an alliance for Dougal too.

What angered him so was the fact that Isolde had run away, essentially rejecting his hand.

Murdoch knew that Dougal was not a man who often heard the word “no.” If ever. He was a man who got what he wanted, when he wanted it. The idea of anybody turning him down or refusing to bend to his will was anathema to him—just as it was to him.

“I’ll send riders of me own out tae expand the search for her,” Dougal said.

“We’ll find her,” Murdoch said. “We’ll bring her back tae ye.”

Dougal sat and turned back to the fire. “She’s goin’ tae regret what she’s done.”

“As well she should. I’ve always said the girl has far too much fire in her,” Murdoch said. “’Tis about time those flames were extinguished.”

“I’ll have tae break her like I dae a spirited horse.”

“She’ll be yer wife. Ye’re free tae dae as ye please.”

As long as she’s nae me responsibility anymore.

Dougal nodded, mollified for the moment.

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, sipping their wine and staring into the fire, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Isolde had always been far more trouble than she was worth to Murdoch.

She was smart, sure, but she had far too many opinions.

Worse than that, she had never feared giving voice to them.

She was much like her mother had been. It had taken Murdoch many years to break Isolde of that habit.

Murdoch’s biggest regret in life was that he had not been given a son before his wife had died.

He had no heir at the moment. He would likely sire one with one of his mistresses at some point, and bastard or not, when he was given a son, he would raise him to one day assume control of the clan.

He would be glad for it when Isolde was in Dougal’s… care.

Once she was found and wed to Dougal, their alliance would be strengthened.

Their hold on the lands around them would be firmer and with meddlesome troublemakers like Struan Cameron out of the way and his clan either subdued or obliterated, everybody and everything else would fall into line.

Murdoch and Dougal would be the only source of power in this part of Scotland.

And everything would be as it all should be. It was the proper way of things.

“Finlay is still nae talkin’,” Dougal said, his eyes on the flames that flickered and danced in the fireplace. “He willnae tell us anythin’. Said he’d rather be put tae death.”

“Maybe we should grant him his wish.”

“In time,” Dougal replied. “Fer the moment, he’s got some value tae us still. He will lead us tae Struan Cameron, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Me spies tell me he’s nae returned tae Achnacarry yet,” Murdoch said. “But he will return eventually. He’ll have tae.”

“Sounds like ye’re makin’ a wish there, Murdoch. Did Cameron’s escape debilitate ye this much?”

Murdoch hid his grimace behind his cup. Dougal sometimes seemed to forget who he was talking to and was a little too free with the insults. Murdoch knew he was Dougal’s superior. He was older. Had more experience. And was wiser. The man would do well to remember those things.

But until this crisis was over, Murdoch would hold his tongue.

There was no point in arguing with his ally until everybody’s house was in order.

The truth was, Murdoch knew it had been his men who’d let both Isolde and Struan escape and there was nothing he could say to refute that.

Although it was not his fault and it was the incompetence of his men that had caused this crisis, as the laird, the responsibility ultimately fell to him. And he could not say otherwise.

In an attempt to quiet his mind and push aside his anger, a plan began to coalesce in Murdoch’s mind.

“Dae ye ever fish, Laird MacPherson?”

“More so when I was younger. Why dae ye ask?”

“When ye used tae fish, what did ye need most?” Murdoch asked.

MacPherson sat back in his chair and frowned, seeming to be unsure where he was going with that. The sudden change in topic threw him. He shook his head. Murdoch sighed, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth downward, his expression dripping with condescension.

“Ye needed good bait,” Murdoch said, his tone matching his face. “And it seems tae me that we’ve got a good bit of bait in hand.”

“Finlay,” MacPherson said, finally catching on.

“Aye. Finlay.”

“All right. How dae ye propose we use this fine bit of bait?”

“The strip of land ye and the Camerons have been fightin’ over fer time out of mind,” he said. “I’ll propose we make a straight swap—Finlay fer the land.”

“And ye think that’ll draw Struan out of whatever hole he’s hidin’ in.”

“Aye. ‘Tis what I think.”

“And when he daes come, we can finish the Camerons once and fer all.”

“And once the Camerons are wiped out, we’ll divide the land as we agreed.”

Murdoch mulled the idea over for a moment, searching for flaws in the plan, then nodded. Struan would not be able to stay away from that meeting.

“I’ll draft the message,” MacPherson said.

Murdoch waved him off. “I’ll dae it. ‘Tis better if it comes from me.”

“’Tis a good plan,” MacPherson said and signaled to a soldier to bring them paper and ink.

“Aye. I ken it is.”

Murdoch stared into the flames. Common cause between them or not, he was quickly growing tired of the man’s attitude.

But Murdoch vowed that he would bear it.

For now. Once they’d erased Clan Cameron and had divided up the land, Murdoch very well might need to rethink the nature of their relationship.