Page 24 of The Laird’s Wicked Game (Highland Scandal #2)

The Sound of Mull

STANDING ON THE deck of The Night Plunderer , his legs bent slightly at the knee with each roll of the cog, Ramsay MacDonald stared west.

He couldn’t see it, yet the Isle of Mull lay there, shrouded by night and a curtain of mist.

Ramsay clenched his jaw and scowled into the darkness. As much as he hated to admit it, that weasel Tormod was right. This morning was the perfect moment to strike Dounarwyse. The rain had eased off, making the Sound easier to navigate. It would also mean they wouldn’t be washed out of the storm drain when they tried to climb it.

MacDougall was a canny one. Two clever for Ramsay’s liking. He didn’t trust men as intelligent as the newest addition to his crew. Over the past months, he’d marked the way Tormod had befriended the other raiders. In the evenings, Ramsay didn’t drink or dice with his men, but Tormod did. He often heard him jesting with them or ribbing one of his crewmates.

Ramsay had stayed alive over the past years by listening to his gut—and it told him that Tormod wasn’t to be trusted.

He needed the warrior to get into Dounarwyse and take it successfully, for Tormod’s knowledge of the broch and its routines made him indispensable. For the moment. However, once the broch was taken and Rae and Jack Maclean were dead, Ramsay intended to kill Tormod and take Dounarwyse for his own.

Why shouldn’t he? He’d suffered more at the Macleans’ hands than Tormod ever had. He deserved recompense. He’d rule the broch and Tara. A smile tugged at his lips as he imagined all the things he’d to do the haughty bitch. Maybe, he’d keep Jack alive for a while so he could watch.

“Not long now.” A familiar voice cut through his lascivious, vengeful thoughts, and he glanced over his shoulder at where a tall, lean form approached, picking his way through the slumbering figures of the warband they’d amassed over the long winter: fifty men ready to take Dounarwyse. The moon was trying to break through the cloud above, and a few shafts of moonlight had managed. It glinted off Tormod’s pale hair and frosted his haughty face.

The hair on the back of Ramsay’s arms prickled.

“No,” he replied gruffly. “We’re almost close enough to drop anchor.” Ramsay frowned then. “Maybe we should go in now, the dead of night has always worked well for us Ghost Raiders.”

“Not yet,” Tormod replied, stepping up to his shoulder, his own gaze fixed upon the dark western horizon. “Just before dawn is better. The Guard will be close to changing, and those on the wall will be weary.” He glanced Ramsay’s way then. “I’ve thought long and hard about this day over the past months, Captain. My plan is a good one.”

Ramsay gave a soft snort at this before asking, “So, we’ll need to wade through water to get to the tunnel entrance?”

Tormod nodded.

“And there won’t be any guards around?”

“No … the drain empties amongst the rocks directly beneath the broch. If we use mist and darkness as a cloak, no one watching from the walls will see us either.”

“And how easy will it be to climb up the drain?”

“Not very … but we’ll have our weapons tied to our backs.”

“Great,” Ramsay grumbled. “I hate cramped spaces.”

Tormod shrugged. “It might be a bit of a squeeze for a man of yer girth … but it's manageable.” Ramsay scowled at this. He didn’t appreciate the snide edge to the younger man’s voice.

“As soon as we’re clear of the tunnel and in the barmkin, we will split into our teams,” Tormod went on. “Ye shall go with those securing the walls, and I will lead my team into the broch to deal with the laird.”

Ramsay pulled a face. “No … Harris and four others are handling the gate,” he answered, his tone hardening. Indeed, he’d confirmed this with the lads the day before while Tormod had been out recruiting the last of the men who’d join them. He wasn’t going to let this interloper dictate all the details of this attack. “ I’ll storm the guard tower with Will, Nathair, and Coll … that’s where Jack Maclean and his family sleep.”

Tormod’s lean frame tensed. “That’s not the plan we agreed to.”

Ramsay snorted. “I don’t give a pig’s arse about yer plan … I told ye from the start that I wanted Jack’s head and his wife as my prize. The others can secure the walls, trap the guards in the ba rracks, and get to the bell tower to prevent anyone from raising the alarm. But I’ll have my revenge first.” Of course, his plans were a little different from those he admitted, for he intended to maim Jack, take him captive, and then draw his suffering out. However, Tormod didn’t need to know that.

Something ugly rippled over his companion’s face at these words. It was fleeting, yet in the moonlight it was unmistakable, and Ramsay stilled. His right hand, which hung at his side, flexed as he readied himself to draw his dirk. MacDougall acted like everyone’s friend, yet it was a thin veneer. The man didn’t like to be crossed, and he hated that Ramsay was in charge here.

Moments passed, and Ramsay’s fingers brushed the grip of his dirk. Aye, he was ready.

However, the warrior didn’t move. “Very well,” he said eventually, “As ye wish.”

Tormod lowered himself into the water, clenching his teeth as the chill hit him. Satan’s turds, it was freezing. Around him, he heard the gentle splash of the other warriors doing the same, before someone muttered an oath.

“Quiet,” Macbeth hissed.

Tormod cast a narrowed gaze around him, barely able to make out the shapes of the thirty men who’d accompanied him. They were ready, as was he. The remaining twenty men—warriors he’d spent the last few months recruiting and then training—waited onboard The Night Plunderer for their signal.

As soon as the guards at the gate were dealt with, one of the Raiders would wave a black flag from the ramparts, signaling that it was safe for them to sail in and drop anchor. The rest of their men would then enter the fortress and help secure it. The pirate cog was heavy with supplies—sacks of grain, wheels of cheese, barrels of pickled herrings, among other items—which would ensure they’d outlast a siege. One of the first things Tormod would do, once the broch was his, was take fowl and goats from Dounarwyse village, as well as all the food and grain he could find.

With a force of fifty men, no one within this broch would be able to resist them. And it would mean that Tormod would have his own sizable guard to take on Loch Maclean when he tried to take the fortress back.

The Ghost Raiders had sailed again, but this time, they’d cast aside their long black cloaks, mailed gloves, and eerie horned sheep skulls. Tonight, they were men again—fell and dangerous.

Of course, their captain was among them, although Tormod wished he wasn’t.

Earlier that night, he’d been tempted to draw his dirk and slam the blade through Macbeth’s throat. He’d longed to watch desperation and pain flare in the whoreson’s eyes before he died. The man was unruly and hated that this attack was Tormod’s idea and not his. Not only that, but Macbeth’s obsession with getting even with Jack put their mission at risk.

The idiot couldn’t seem to focus on anything else.

Tormod wasn’t so daft. He was looking forward to killing Rae—although not as much as he was Ross Macbeth—but he was too clever to let it consume him. To take Dounarwyse successfully, they all had to do their part. There could be no mistakes, or they’d be trapped inside the broch’s walls and dead by the time the sun crested the hills to the east .

He itched to kill Macbeth too—and he would—but right now, they needed to focus on taking the fortress.

Casting murderous thoughts aside, and focusing instead on the task before him, Tormod turned and began wading right. Above, the moon was setting as it played hide-and-seek with the clouds. Unfortunately, the mist had cleared over the past few hours, something that made him a little nervous.

Maybe we should have come in earlier as Macbeth suggested.

Irritation sliced through him, and he pushed the errant thought aside. No, this was the right time. He’d planned every detail of what he’d do once he climbed up into the barmkin. While Macbeth stormed the guard house, he’d enter the tower house. He’d played the scene in his head, imagining himself running up the stairs to the first level, slamming open the door to the laird’s bedchamber, and gutting Rae Maclean before he had the chance to reach for a weapon.

Tormod’s skin prickled in anticipation. He hadn’t forgotten the flogging the chieftain had given him—for it had left livid scars upon his back—or the vow he’d made himself that Maclean would pay. But more than that, he was about to get the thing he’d craved over all else: to have a broch of his own. Once he had it, the doors that had forever been closed to him would open. He’d be a laird—a man others would cower before. He’d build an army and make this corner of Mull his own. The Battle of Dounarwyse had shown that, aside from access through the storm drain that few knew about, the castle was difficult to take.

Loch Maclean would be incensed to hear of his cousins’ deaths, but he wouldn’t rid himself of Tormod. And when he was settled, he’d make a trip to Meggernie Castle and make Makenna MacGregor’s father an offer he’d be a fool to refuse .

Tormod spied the tunnel opening ahead then, a couple of feet above the lapping water.

Knowing that the others were right behind him, he waded to it, grabbed the stone lip, and hauled himself over the edge. Then, on hands and knees, as he’d done a year earlier when he’d discovered where the drain exited, he moved inside.

A steady stream of water flowed through the tunnel, washing over his hands and knees as he crawled. It would make climbing up harder, but he’d expected this. It was a good sign too, for it meant the iron covering above was still open.

Tormod crawled for a while longer until the tunnel steepened, and he fumbled for handholds in the darkness. It wasn’t long before the muscles in his upper arms started to burn. Behind him, he heard a dull thud followed by a muffled curse as one of the men likely hit his head on rock. Aye, it was a tight fit. This space was designed for water, not for large armed warriors.

A hard smile stretched Tormod’s lips then. Maclean wouldn’t expect an attack to come from a drain.

Cloak wrapped tightly about her, Kylie climbed the steps to the wall.

It was early. The first rays of light hadn’t yet lightened the eastern sky, but after a sleepless night staring up at the rafters, she’d eventually risen from her bed and dressed for her journey. She’d even strapped on the slender blade Makenna had gifted her to her thigh. It felt odd wearing a weapon, but she’d be spending a few days on the road, and carrying a knife was prudent. It also brought her closer to Makenna, somehow, as if her sister were traveling with her. Two large leather satchels containing her belongings sat in the center of her bedchamber. Everything was packed. She was ready to leave.

But she’d been ready far too soon. Dawn hadn’t yet broken, and the rest of the broch slumbered. After pacing the confines of her bedchamber, she’d eventually decided to burn off some of her restlessness on the walls instead. There, she could watch her last sunrise at Dounarwyse.

Reaching the top of the ramparts, Kylie moved slowly along it, past where a brazier burned low, on the verge of going out.

“Ye’re up early, Lady Grant,” one of the guards greeted her, turning from where he’d been looking south.

“Aye, Conan,” she murmured. “I was hoping for a bonnie sunrise before I go.”

The older man favored her with a tired smile. He’d likely been standing here for hours and looked as if he couldn’t wait to crawl into his bed. “Ye might be in luck … for the mist is clearing.”

Kylie forced a smile in return, even as her belly churned. “Well, I’d better wait for dawn on the eastern wall.”

She walked on, her boots scuffing on stone, passing two other guards before she halted on the easternmost edge of the ramparts, near the terrace where Makenna had liked to train with that knave Tormod.

Thinking about her youngest sister made her throat constrict.

They’d soon be reunited. She hadn’t heard from Makenna for a while now—something that niggled at Kylie. Her sister was usually reliable in her correspondence. She hoped the feud with the Campbells hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. Had their father received a reply from Bran Mackinnon?

She’ll be dreading Bealtunn .

Guilt speared Kylie then as she stood upon the shadowy wall, looking east. She hadn’t exactly been sympathetic to Makenna’s reluctance to wed the young clan-chief. However, she admitted to herself now that she resented her youngest sister’s independence. Her bravery. Unlike Makenna, Kylie had behaved as a clan-chief’s daughter should: she’d wedded young and forged a valuable alliance for their father. But for years, her sister had escaped that fate. Kylie hadn’t seen why she should, but she regretted being so uncharitable now. Makenna loved serving in the Meggernie Guard, and she was fiercely protective of her home. Taking her from it would be a blow.

Kylie dragged in a deep breath.

After her brief exchange with Tara the eve before, she’d retreated to her bedchamber and cried until she felt like a wrung-out dish rag. She’d spent the rest of the night mulling over her choices.

She was fleeing Dounarwyse, and Rae, like a frightened fawn. The realization didn’t make her feel particularly proud of herself. All the same, she’d thought her imminent departure might ease her panic, but it hadn’t. Instead, an ache of loss had risen deep inside her chest, and as the moment of her departure approached, the sensation grew more insistent. She was steering her own ship once more, but she’d never been unhappier.

“Are ye really such a fazart, lass?” she asked herself softly. There were no guards nearby, so she didn’t risk being overheard. Her chest started to ache piteously, and she raised a hand and rubbed at her breastbone with her knuckles. It seemed she was.

She imagined her life back at Meggernie Castle then. Makenna’s concern. Her mother’s panic. Her father’s disappointment. So many questions she wouldn’t, couldn’t, answer. She’d feel like a burden to everyone: the widow who didn’t fit in anywhere.

Of course, her mother—devoutly pious—would likely suggest Kylie become a nun. It was a good solution for high-born widows who didn’t wish to remarry. She had no coin to pay the dowry, but her father would, if she asked. Nonetheless, the idea didn’t appeal. The thought of locking herself away in a nunnery didn’t thrill her. Such a life seemed like a punishment.

She squeezed her eyes shut then, silently cursing herself. She was a mess, her feelings in such a tangle that she felt as if she were losing her wits. Fresh tears burned behind her eyelids, and try as she may to stem them, they slid free.

Soon she was weeping, her head bowed, shoulders shaking.

It was too much.

She couldn’t go on like this. Choking down her feelings was tearing her to pieces.

A sob clawed its way up her throat, and she slammed a hand over her mouth to muffle it.

I love him.

God’s bones, she did. There was no denying it. The thought of leaving Rae behind, of never hearing the rumble of his voice, or seeing the boyish quirk of his smile that lifted years from his face, made her feel as if she were about to climb the steps to the hangman’s noose. He was a part of her now, and pushing him away hurt too much.

Swallowing another sob, she opened her eyes.

A faint glow lightened the eastern horizon. Dawn was on its way.

And with the sunrise, something deep inside Kylie shifted. She was still terrified. Still a churning maelstrom of conflict. But she wouldn’t ruin this one chance of happiness .

No, she’d go to Rae and tell him how she really felt.

She’d bare her soul and expose herself to ridicule and pain.

For the first time in her life, she’d risk her heart.

Pulse racing, she turned from the wall. She then swept her gaze over the broch, still shadowed by darkness, her attention shifting to the nearest set of stairs leading down to the barmkin.

However, she’d taken just one step toward it when movement below caught her eye.