Page 18 of The Laird’s Wicked Game (Highland Scandal #2)

Castle Coeffin, Isle of Lismore

One month later …

RAMSAY MACDONALD DIDN’T like to be interrupted when he was drinking. He had a jug of mead at his elbow, and his companions had just started another round of knucklebones, when the stranger entered the hall—and he could tell by the beeline the man was making for him that he wished to talk.

Tall, fair-haired, and with a swagger that made Ramsay scowl, the man reminded him of the laird of this castle. Duncan MacDougall’s hair was more white than blond these days, yet the resemblance was striking. The same high cheekbones. The same ice-blue eyes.

Taking another pull of mead, Ramsay tracked the newcomer right up to his table. The man then halted before him and folded his arms across his chest. “Ross Macbeth? ”

Ramsay grunted. These days he didn’t go by his real name—he hadn’t done so in nearly four years. Ramsay MacDonald was a wanted man and so was Ross Macbeth. “Aye, what’s it to ye?”

The stranger gave him a wolfish smile. The bastard had perfect white teeth. “My name’s Tormod MacDougall.”

“Good for ye.”

“My uncle says ye captain that cog moored on the docks.”

“Aye.” Ramsay drained the last of his mead and poured himself some more. He wasn’t drunk enough to bandy words with this bore. “What of it?”

“He tells me ye and yer men are the ‘Ghost Raiders’.”

Ramsay pulled a face. The laird of Castle Coeffin had a big mouth. Over the past months, the MacDougalls had given Ramsay and his men a safe port. They had no love for the Macleans of Mull, having had a long-running dispute over fishing rights. Even so, Ramsay knew he was likely outstaying his welcome by now.

He’d promised Duncan he’d get back to raiding the Isle of Mull’s coastline in the autumn, and he would.

Still grinning, and unbothered by Ramsay’s cool welcome, Tormod dragged a stool over from a nearby trestle table and took a seat. It was growing late, and the castle’s hall was empty save for this table where Ramsay and his crew lingered. The laird had long since retired with his wife to his chambers upstairs. “Fear not,” the arrogant newcomer drawled. “I have a bone to pick with the Macleans of Mull too.”

Ramsay sneered. He didn’t care and wished this fool would stop his yapping and leave him in peace.

Undaunted though, Tormod continued. “My uncle says there are two Macleans ye hate the most … Loch Maclean, and his cousin, Jack. ”

Ramsay stilled. Had he said that? He must have been in his cups when he let that slip. He’d gone by his real name back when he and Jack had crossed paths. These days, he was usually careful not to reveal much about the events that had led to his exile. “Is there a point to yer blether?” he asked sourly.

“Aye.” Tormod drew his stool closer, his pale blue eyes gleaming intently now. The hair on the back of Ramsay’s neck prickled. There was something about this warrior that made him uneasy. He smiled too much, yet his eyes were as cold as lumps of granite. “I used to work in the Dounarwyse Guard. Did ye know that Jack Maclean leads it these days?”

Ramsay set his cup down on the table before him with a thump.

Around him, his men ceased their game of knucklebones, keen gazes swiveling his way. But their captain ignored them. Instead, his gaze remained riveted upon Tormod. The man didn’t know it, yet he’d just handed Ramsay a prize.

The location of the individual he’d long fantasized about killing.

He hated Jack even more than he did Loch Maclean. Loch’s cousin had crossed him on two occasions. The first was when he, Loch, and Finn MacDonald had bested him and his friends in a fight at the Craignure Inn nearly five years earlier—an incident that had resulted in Ramsay’s banishment.

The second time had been a year afterward. Ramsay and his fellow outcasts had been living rough in the glens and hills south of Ben Mòr when they stumbled across Jack and a woman. The Mackinnon clan-chief’s daughter had tried to get them to help her, with some tale about how Jack had abducted her. Ramsay hadn’t cared. He’d tried to abduct Tara so that he and his friends could all take their turns plowing her, but Jack had stopped them.

Riding away, injured, with his friends lying dead behind him, had been a bitter gall to swallow. Ramsay had nursed his hatred ever since.

“Ye didn’t know, did ye?” Tormod leaned close, his handsome features tightening.

Ramsay didn’t reply.

“Jack has done well for himself. He’s grown indispensable to his brother … and wedded a clan-chief’s daughter … Tara Mackinnon.”

Heat started to pulse in Ramsay’s gut.

Jack and Tara. He wanted revenge upon them both.

Curse it, he was sober now. It was as if all the mead he’d downed tonight had been water. Gaze narrowing, he fixed Tormod with a long, hard look. “What do ye want?”

“Dounarwyse broch and all its lands.”

Ramsay stared at him a moment before laughter broke free. Likewise, his men guffawed around him. But the laird’s nephew’s smile faded.

His stillness was unnerving, and Ramsay’s mirth quickly died away. “And why?”

“Let's say that, like ye, I have a score to settle. I intend to put the laird of Dounarwyse and his smug brother to the sword and rule in their stead.” Tormod halted then, his mouth twisting. “It would be fitting, for a MacDougall to take Dounarwyse … for it was my forefathers who built that broch, not the Macleans. ”

Ramsay shook his head. He didn’t care who’d built Dounarwyse. As much as he wanted Jack Maclean dead—and as much as he’d love to make Tara his whore as an additional punishment—he lived in the real world, unlike MacDougall. The fool’s arrogance was something to behold. “Christ’s blood,” he growled. “What did Rae Maclean do … steal yer woman?”

Tormod’s eyes glinted. “It doesn’t matter. All ye need to know is that I will have vengeance … and Dounarwyse.”

“Many have tried and failed to take that broch, lad.” One of Ramsay’s men pointed out. “What makes ye think ye can?”

Tormod swiveled slowly, his gaze raking over the warrior who’d spoken. “While I was living at Dounarwyse, I made it my business to learn its secrets.” His attention flicked back to Ramsay. “And I discovered a hidden way into the fortress.”

Silence settled at the table, everyone’s attention riveted upon the newcomer now.

Ramsay’s crew had been ill-tempered of late. The Night Plunderer had never been caught—but Leod Maclean’s death and the loss of all the coin he was hoarding on their behalf had left a sour taste in everyone’s mouth, as had their failed attempt to rob Moy Castle’s strong room. News would have spread that the Ghost Raiders were men, not wraiths, and soon folk would see them as nothing more than guised pirates. Things had gone ill this past summer for Ramsay and his crew, and they’d all been wondering what the future held.

But Tormod MacDougall had gotten their attention.

“Aye?” Ramsay said finally, his tone veiled. “And what’s that? ”

“A storm drain inside the eastern curtain wall,” Tormod replied, his mouth curving once more. “Most castles don’t have them … but Dounarwyse gets lashed with rain every spring and risks flooding otherwise. The drain is only opened once a year though … during early spring when the rains come.” He paused then, his gaze never leaving Ramsay’s. “The tunnel empties out on the rocks beneath the broch. I climbed up it last spring when we lifted the iron hatch. It’s narrow, and ye must contend with flowing water when it rains, but wide enough for men to navigate in single file. Ye can crawl the tunnel at first, and then ye must climb. The rock is rough though, and it’s easy enough to find hand holds.”

Another silence followed this explanation.

Ramsay considered Tormod’s words, turning them over and over before replying, “Ye make it sound easy … but it can’t be.”

“Easier than ye’d think.” The warrior flashed him another toothy smile. “We’ll spend the next months recruiting more raiders … and then, once winter ends, we shall sail into a perfect storm. Heavy rains. Guards tired after winter. Shortening nights. I know the broch’s routines, the movements of the servants and the guards … and the layout of the tower house.” He leaned in once more. “If we time it right, Dounarwyse will be ours.”

Ramsay quirked an eyebrow. “ Ours? ”

Tormod shrugged. “All right, mine . But if ye agree to help me take the broch, I shall give ye half of any wealth we find.” His eyes gleamed. “And ye can take yer pick from the women too.”

Moments passed after this declaration. Meanwhile, Ramsay’s mind worked furiously.

He could have it all. Revenge against the Macleans. Jack Maclean’s head. His enemy’s spitfire wife chained to his bed—and enough coin to set him up for life .

For the first time in a long while, hope filtered to life in Ramsay’s chest. Finally. Freedom from the grudge he’d carried like a heavy shell upon his back was close. All he had to do was ally himself with Tormod MacDougall.

Ramsay didn’t like him much, although he didn’t warm to most people. He didn’t trust him either. Nonetheless, he reminded himself that it was he, not Tormod, who held all the power here. It was his ship and his crew. His rules. Tormod might have the arrogance of ten men, but he was still outnumbered. If Ramsay decided to take Dounarwyse for his own—and he well might—there was nothing this turd could do about it.

And so, he nodded. “Very well, MacDougall,” he said slowly. “Ye have my ship and my sword.” With that, he spat on his palm and held it out.

Tormod grinned back and, without hesitation, grabbed Ramsay’s hand with his own, locking the two of them together in an iron grip.

Ramsay then glanced over at where his men looked on. “Looks like we’ll be staying on here until spring, lads.”