Page 64 of The Laird's Wicked Game
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 ifher 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.