Page 35 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T he MacPherson military camp, Scottish borderlands

“Fools! Bloody incompetent fools, every last one of ye!”

Lachlan MacPherson’s grating voice carried across the military camp like a whip crack, silencing conversations around the scattered campfires.

His brown eyes blazed with barely contained fury as he surveyed the lone rider who’d returned from the failed raid on Kilcairn, who stood before him like a whipped dog.

“One lass,” he continued, his tone deceptively calm as he circled the survivor like a wolf stalking wounded prey. “One wee Highland lass, and ye let her slip through yer fingers like water.”

Fergus MacMillian, weathered and battle-scarred, cleared his throat nervously. “She was hidden, me laird. By the time we found her trail, Wallace arrived with half his army.”

“Half his army?” Lachlan’s laugh was entirely devoid of humor.

“Ye mean thirty men, of which most nay more than lads still sucklin’ on their maithers breasts?

Against all of ye?” He stopped directly in front of the soldier, close enough that that the man could smell the whisky on his breath and see the cold calculation in his eyes.

“Tell me, Fergus, what exactly dae I pay ye fer?”

“Me laird, we tried–”

“And failed!” Lachlan’s hand moved with viper-quick precision, backhanding the man across the face hard enough to send him staggering. “I dinnae pay ye tae try. I pay ye tae succeed.”

Two and a half weeks of plannin’ . Two and a half wretched months of watchin’ and waitin’, patiently learnin’ routines, discoverin’ weaknesses…

The MacPherson camp sprawled across a hidden valley deep in the disputed borderlands, well away from prying eyes.

Fifty of his best warriors were scattered about, armed and ready for war at a moment’s notice.

Enough men to take Castle Wallace if he played his cards right.

But subtlety was required now, not brute force.

“Me laird,” another voice spoke up – Roderick Murdoch, his second-in-command, and the only man brave enough to interrupt when Lachlan’s temper was running hot. “The raid wasnae a complete failure. We did gather some interestin’ information.”

Lachlan turned his calculating brown eyes on the grizzled warrior. “Och, this better be good… or so help me I’ll have all of ye flogged like the useless mongrels ye are!”

“The lass might have managed to evade the men… but ‘twas who came tae her rescue that matters.” Murdoch’s weathered face creased with something approaching satisfaction. “Ian Wallace himself, me laird. Rode hell fer leather with every available man the moment he heard she was in danger.”

“Did he now?” Lachlan’s anger began cooling, morphing into something far more dangerous – thoughtful calculation. “How… interestin’.”

“Aye. And when he found her, the way he looked at her…” Fergus said carefully, “t’was like she was a jewel stolen from his keep.”

Lachlan felt a slow, predatory smile spread across his features.

Of course. He should have seen it sooner.

Ian Wallace wasn’t just keeping Rhona MacAlpin as a political prisoner – he was falling for her.

The honorable fool was letting his heart compromise his judgment – just the type of weakness Lachlan could use to his advantage.

“Tell me more about this… reunion.” He said quietly, his voice carrying a new edge of anticipation.

“After they let me go, I fled tae the ridge and waited fer them tae return tae the castle.” Fergus said eagerly, clearly desperate to redeem himself.

“And then?” Lachlan pressed.

“They rode back tae the castle side by side, talkin’ like old friends,” Fergus continued. “She was stealin’ looks at him when she thought he wasnae lookin’, and Wallace–”

“He proposed marriage right outside the castle, me laird.” Murdoch said, clearly wanting to be the one to share such an interesting tidbit with his leader.

Perfect!

Lachlan turned away to hide his triumphant expression. This was better than he had dared to hope. Not only was his cousin compromised emotionally, but he was making moves that could lead to his downfall just as easily as his success.

“And how did the lass respond tae this?” he asked, though he suspected he already knew.

“She let him kiss her,” Fergus said quickly. “Right passionate it was. Then, she fled from him like the devil himself was chasin’ her.”

Lachlan’s smile widened. Ian wasn’t just keeping a MacAlpin prisoner – he was seducing her. The king would be very interested to hear about his newest laird’s inappropriate behavior.

“Excellent work,” Lachlan’s praise made the man puff with pride. “And they had nay idea ye were watchin’?”

“Nay, me laird. Hidden well, I was.”

Lachlan nodded thoughtfully. Having a witness to Ian Wallace’s romantic fumbling would make his next move all the more credible. Nothing like firsthand testimony to add weight to accusations.

“Fergus,” Lachlan called without turning around.

“Aye, me laird?” The man’s voice was weary.

“Yer failure has cost us an opportunity. But perhaps…” Lachlan faced him again, brown eyes glittering with malicious intelligence, “perhaps there’s another way tae skin this particular beast.”

He moved to his command tent, gesturing for Murdoch to follow.

Inside, maps covered a rough wooden table, marked with clan territories and potential battle plans.

But it was the writing materials that drew Lachlan’s attention – parchment, ink and sealing wax – the perfect weapons for his new strategy, the tools of a different kind of warfare.

“Tell me,” Lachlan said as he settled into his chair, “what dae ye ken about Rhona MacAlpin’s disappearance?”

Murdoch frowned. “Missin’ fer months now. Her clan’s been searchin’ high and low fer her.”

“And they still dinnae ken where she is?”

“Nay. Ian’s kept it quiet. Even most of his own people dinnae ken the truth.”

Lachlan’s fingers drummed against the table. Of course they didnae. Ian was trying to be honorable, protecting her reputation. But his discretion could be twisted and sculpted into something far more sinister, if one knew how.

“So fer almost four months,” Lachlan mused aloud, “the second eldest MacAlpin daughter has been held captive by the Wallaces. It daesnae matter that Ian has only been laird fer weeks, given he didnae get in touch with the family. Four months of… what? Seduction? Coercion? Worse?”

“Me laird?”

“Think about it, Murdoch. How might we interpret the events of those four months? What assumptions might reasonable men make about a bonnie lass kept prisoner by the laird of an opposing clan, nay less?”

Understanding dawned in the older man’s eyes. “Ye mean tae destroy his reputation.”

“I mean tae crush who he is and decimate all he holds dear.” Lachlan reached for a piece of parchment, his mind already composing the letters that would seal Ian Wallace’s fate.

“His precious honor, what little remains of his clan’s standin’, his relationship with the Crown… and then of course the lass herself.”

He dipped his quill in the ink with great care, testing its point against the surface of the parchment. The first letter would go to King Charles himself – a concerned report from a loyal subject about disturbing rumors regarding the new Wallace laird.

Yer Majesty, he began, his handwriting neat and respectful. It pains me tae bring troubling news tae yer attention, but loyalty to the Crown compels me tae share with ye disconcerting rumors uncovered relating tae the man ye saw fit tae install as Laird Wallace.

Lachlan paused, considering his words with immaculate care. The accusation had to be subtle, but damning. He had to plant seeds of doubt that would sprout and grow into suspicion, then clarity.

Fer the better part of four months now, the Wallace lairds have held captive a young woman of noble birth – Rhona MacAlpin, second daughter of Laird MacAlpin.

What seemingly began as me late cousin Douglas’s crude attempt tae leverage the lady fer a forced marriage with her elder sister, has become, I fear, something far more unseemly since Ian assumed control of the clan.

Reports from me most trusted sources suggest that the lass has been subjected tae treatment unbefitting of her station, kept for me cousin’s personal enjoyment.

Lachlan’s smile was cold and menacing as he continued writing. Each word was chosen with the utmost care to imply without stating outright, to suggest impropriety without making specific accusations that could be easily disproven.

However hesitant I may be tae malign a kinsman, me duty tae Yer Majesty and concern fer the lady’s welfare compel me tae speak out.

Clan MacAlpin clan remains woefully unaware of their daughter’s fate, believing her tae be lost or dead.

Meanwhile, she languishes in me cousin’s castle, subject tae whatever whims he might harbor.

Me own men have witnessed disturbing scenes – passionate embraces in castle courtyards that sent the lady fleeing, and marriage proposals that paint a picture of coercion rather than courtship.

“Brilliant, me laird,” Murdoch breathed, reading over his shoulder. “Ye make it sound like he’s keepin’ her as his whore.”

“Exactly,” Lachlan continued writing, laying out a carefully constructed narrative of Ian’s supposed misdeeds.

“And when our king investigates, what will he find? A vulnerable young woman, who’s been detained fer months, who’s now clearly intimate with her captor, who responds tae marriage proposals with the confused desperation of a lass who’s lost her honor. ”

The true beauty of it was that much of it was technically true. Rhona had been held captive. She was growing close to Ian. They had kissed before she fled. Lachlan was simply… interpreting those facts in the most dramatic, most damaging light possible.

I fear me cousin’s judgment has been compromised by his attachment tae this young woman.

His recent military actions – including a raid he led personally – suggest a man concerned with personal desires rather than clan welfare.

The stability of the borderlands may require yer intervention, Yer Majesty.

As a loyal kinsman and faithful subject of the Crown, I stand ready tae assist in whatever manner ye deem appropriate.

He finished his letter to the king with a flourish, and moved on to the second – though no less important – piece of correspondence. This one, for the attention of Laird MacAlpin.

Me laird, he wrote, adopting a tone of grave concern and reluctant duty. Regretfully, word has reached me ears of yer continued search fer yer daughter, Lady Rhona. It grieves me deeply tae be the bearer of such disturbing news, but I feel honor-bound tae inform ye of yer daughter’s fate.

This letter was easier to write, fueled by righteous indignation on behalf of a wronged father.

Lachlan spun a wonderful tale of Ian’s predatory inclinations, of a young woman taken advantage of in her vulnerability, of a clan’s honor being disrespected and trampled by a man unworthy of his position.

She lives. Though I fear her circumstances are such that ye may pray she had perished with her honor intact.

Me wretched cousin has kept her as his consort after many months of captivity, claiming political necessity while indulging his baser nature.

The attachment between them has seemingly grown disturbingly intimate, as me own men can attest.

“The MacAlpins will call fer blood,” Murdoch observed.

“Och, aye. And they’ll have the support of clan MacPherson in getting it.” Lachlan signed the second letter with another flourish. “But first, they’ll need allies… men who understand the gravity of Ian’s crimes against both clan honor and royal authority.”

He pulled out a third piece of parchment. This one was for his other cousins, the minor lairds and clan leaders who’d been passed over when the king chose Ian. Men who – much like Lachlan himself – nursed their own grievances against the Wallace succession.

As he wrote, Lachlan could already see the chain of events his letters would set in motion.

The king would surely demand answers. The MacAlpins – now strengthened by their allegiance with Ciaran MacCraith – would demand justice under the guise of vengeance.

His cousins would demand a new successor. And in the chaos that followed…

“Me laird,” Murdoch asked quietly, “what of the lass herself? If yer plan succeeds, if Ian fails… what becomes of her?”

Lachlan’s hand paused, his quill in mid-motion as he considered.

Rhona MacAlpin had undoubtedly become the key piece in this careful game, the catalyst that would bring down his rival.

But, she was also a prize worth claiming in her own right – beautiful, from a clan that owned vast amounts of land despite the fact that they had fallen on hard times, and now most conveniently compromised.

“Och, well… the lass will be in need of protection, aye?” he said finally with a wide smile that never reached his eyes. “She’ll need a hero tae rescue her from her compromised situation. A man of honor tae restore her good name through marriage.”

“And if she refuses?”

Lachlan’s laugh was as cold as winter’s wind. “After months of livin’ as Ian’s whore? Her reputation will be in tatters. She’ll have tae marry whoever offers her respectably. Grateful fer the chance.”

Lachlan carefully folded each letter, securing the parchment with his personal seal, the MacPherson crest pressed into blood-red wax. Three pieces of parchment with the power to reshape the political landscape of the Highlands, he thought devilishly.

“Fergus!” he called.

The weathered warrior appeared instantly, still eager to redeem himself in the eyes of his leader. “Aye, me laird?”

“Take three of yer fastest riders. I have urgent messages that must reach their destinations swiftly.” Lachlan handed over the sealed letters. “The first goes to the king at Edinburgh. The second to Laird MacAlpin. The third to me cousins in the Western Highlands.”

“Aye, me laird.”

The game had begun, and Lachlan MacPherson held all the winning cards. Within days, messengers would be riding hard across Scotland, carrying poison-tipped words that would decimate everything Ian Wallace had tried to build.

And when the dust settled, when the accusations had achieved their goal and the alliances had shifted, Lachlan would emerge victorious – the loyal kinsman who’d exposed a villain, the honorable man who’d rescued a compromised woman, the rightful heir who’d finally laid claim to what should have been his from the beginning.

Perfect . Absolutely perfect.