Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The wine was terrible.
Henry Ashcombe, Duke of Ravenscar, set down his goblet with barely concealed distaste and regarded the man across the table with thinly veiled contempt.
Laird Aodh Graham was many things—brutal, opportunistic, effective—but civilized was not among them.
The chamber where they sat was a perfect reflection of its owner.
Dark wood furniture that had seen better decades, a fireplace that smoked more than it should, walls adorned with weapons rather than tapestries.
It smelled of damp stone and unwashed dogs, despite the hunting hounds having been banished when Ashcombe arrived.
"More wine, Yer Grace?" Graham asked, already reaching for the bottle.
"No." Ashcombe picked up the latest report instead, scanning the neat lines of text with growing irritation. "Tell me again how the girl remains beyond our reach."
Graham's scarred face darkened. "MacDougal's increased his patrols threefold. Every road leadin’ tae his castle is bein’ watched. The village where she works with the healer has guards posted at all times. And after our men tried tae take her two weeks ago—"
"Your men failed two weeks ago," Ashcombe corrected coldly. "Three trained soldiers couldn't manage one girl? It's pathetic."
"They were outnumbered. MacDougal himself was there, and half a dozen of his warriors appeared within minutes." Graham shifted uncomfortably. "The laird's protectin’ her like she's precious cargo."
"She is precious cargo. She's mine. Legally purchased, witnessed, documented.
" Ashcombe set down the report and leaned back in his chair.
"And yet she remains in his castle, learning to be a bloody healer, while I'm reduced tae sitting in this godforsaken country drinking wine that tastes like vinegar. "
"We could try again. Send more men, better men."
"No." Ashcombe's voice was sharp. "We've tried direct approaches twice now. Both times we've failed, and both times we've given MacDougal more reason to tighten his defenses. We need a different strategy."
Graham's eyes narrowed. "What kind of strategy?"
Ashcombe rose and moved to the window, looking out over Graham's lands.
Even in the fading light, he could see the decay—poorly maintained walls, fields that should have been harvested weeks ago, villages that looked half-abandoned.
Graham was losing his grip on his own territory, and everyone could see it.
Which made him desperate. And desperate men were useful.
"Tell me about your auction business," Ashcombe said. "How has it been affected by recent events?"
"Badly." Graham didn't bother hiding his bitterness. "Word's spread about MacDougal interferin’, about women being rescued. Buyers are nervous, askin’ too many questions. I've had tae cancel two auctions because I couldnae guarantee the merchandise would be sold."
Merchandise.
Ashcombe approved of the terminology. It was proper, businesslike. Not weighed down by sentiment or foolish notions of morality.
"And your supply?" he asked. "The women you procure for these auctions, how has that been affected?"
"I've had tae be more careful. Cannae hit the same territories as frequently. Some of the smaller clans have started postin’ guards on their outlyin’ farms." Graham poured himself more wine. "It's cuttin’ intae me profits significantly."
"How unfortunate." Ashcombe turned from the window. "What if I told you I could solve both our problems simultaneously?"
Graham set down his goblet, interest sparking in his eyes. "I'm listenin’."
"Your problem is that you need merchandise and can't acquire it as easily as before.
My problem is that MacDougal is sheltering my property and building alliances against us.
" Ashcombe moved back to the table, his mind already working through the details.
"What if we were to conduct a raid? Not targeting the girl directly but hurting MacDougal where he's vulnerable. "
"His outlyin’ villages," Graham said slowly, understanding dawning. "Hit his people, take the women, show him he cannae protect everyone."
"Exactly. And if we happen to acquire merchandise for your next auction in the process, well, that's simply efficient business." Ashcombe picked up his wine again, taking a small sip despite the taste. "MacDougal fancies himself a protector. Let's remind him of the cost of that protection."
"It would need tae be planned carefully. His patrols are extensive."
"But not infinite. No man has enough warriors to guard every farm, every cottage, every isolated homestead." Ashcombe's voice was calm, rational. "We simply need to identify which locations are most vulnerable and least likely to receive rapid assistance."
Graham was already pulling out maps, spreading them across the table with the eagerness of a man seeing profit within reach. "Here… this village is nearly eight miles from the castle. The patrol route passes through twice daily, but there's a six-hour gap between passes. If we timed it right..."
"How many women could you take in six hours?"
"From that village? Maybe ten, fifteen if we're quick and dinnae encounter resistance." Graham's finger traced other locations on the map. "And here, this farmstead is even more isolated. Family of five, includin’ three daughters of marriageable age. Nay close neighbors, nay guards."
"Perfect." Ashcombe studied the map with the same attention he'd give a military campaign. Because that's what that was, a campaign to reclaim what was rightfully his and punish the man who'd dared to interfere. "When can you organize this?"
"Give me a week. I'll need tae gather men, prepare the routes, ensure we have safe houses ready tae hold the women until the next auction." Graham was already making notes. "Dae ye want tae be present fer the raid?"
"God, no. I'll leave the crude work to you. I will camp nearby with my men." Ashcombe waved a dismissive hand. "I'm paying you to handle such matters. What I want is results. I want MacDougal's people to suffer. I want him to understand that protecting the girl has consequences."
"And if he hands her over tae stop the raids?"
"Then we've achieved our objective without further complications." Though Ashcombe doubted it would be that simple.
From everything he'd learned about Alpin MacDougal, the man was stubborn and idealistic, precisely the type to refuse compromise even when it would serve his interests.
Which was fine. Ashcombe had learned long ago that idealists were predictable. They made choices based on principle rather than practicality, which made them easy to manipulate once you understood their values.
MacDougal valued protecting his people. So Ashcombe would threaten those people until the laird's principles crumbled under the weight of responsibility.
"What about the girl herself?" Graham asked. "If we capture her during one of these raids."
"Then you send word immediately and I'll come collect her." Ashcombe's voice hardened. "But she's not to be sold, not to be touched beyond what's necessary for restraint. She's mine, Graham. Make sure your men understand that."
"Of course, Yer Grace." Graham was already calculating, Ashcombe could see it. Probably wondering if he could get away with selling the girl anyway if the price was high enough.
"I'll know if you try to auction her," Ashcombe said mildly. "And I'll ensure you regret it for whatever brief time remains of your miserable life. Are we clear?"
Graham's throat worked. "Crystal clear, Yer Grace."
"Excellent." Ashcombe finished his wine, grimaced and rose. "I'll expect regular updates on your progress. Every three days, a messenger with details of what villages you've hit, how many women you've acquired, and any response from MacDougal."
"And payment, Yer Grace? Fer organizin’ the raids?"
"You'll take your payment from the auction proceeds, same as always.
Consider this an investment in rebuilding your business.
" Ashcombe moved toward the door. "Though if you manage to create enough chaos that MacDougal actually returns the girl voluntarily, I'll pay a bonus. Shall we say... three hundred pounds?"
Graham's eyes widened. Three hundred pounds was a fortune.
"That's generous, Yer Grace."
"I'm motivated." Ashcombe paused at the door. "I purchased that girl legally, Graham. I have contracts, witnesses, documentation. The law is on my side. MacDougal is a thief, pure and simple. And thieves need to be taught lessons."
"He'll learn, Yer Grace. I'll make sure of it."
Ashcombe left without further pleasantries, climbing into his waiting carriage with relief.
The interior was clean, comfortable, lined with proper upholstery rather than Graham's rough Highland fabrics. His servants had wine that was actually drinkable, and they knew better than to speak unless spoken to.
As the carriage rolled away from Graham's holding, Ashcombe pulled out the miniature portrait he'd commissioned after purchasing the girl. The artist had worked from the auctioneer's description—dark hair, grey eyes, delicate features. The reality had been even better than the painting.
She'd been magnificent on that auction platform. Terrified but fighting, defiant even in chains. The kind of spirit that would be so satisfying to break.
And she would be broken. Eventually.
MacDougal had merely delayed the inevitable. The man could play at being heroic all he wanted, but ultimately, the law favored Ashcombe.
Property rights were sacred in England, and English law extended to contracts made on English soil, which that auction house technically was. Run by English merchants on territory leased from Scottish landholders.
"Your Grace?" His secretary leaned forward from the opposite seat. "Shall I draft the letters to your solicitors in London? Regarding the legal claim?"
"Yes. Detail everything—the purchase, the witnesses, the contract with Graham.
I want documentation prepared for when we eventually involve the Crown.
" Ashcombe tucked the miniature back into his coat.
"Though I doubt it will come to that. Once MacDougal sees his villages burning and his people suffering, he'll hand her over rather than watch them die for his principles. "
"And if he doesn't, Your Grace?"
"Then we escalate." Ashcombe's voice was perfectly calm. "We keep escalating until he breaks or until I'm forced to involve the Crown officially. Either way, I get what's mine."
The secretary made notes, his quill scratching across parchment. "Shall I also draft letters to your contacts in Edinburgh? In case we need to apply political pressure?"
"Let's see how Graham's raids proceed before sending them.
No point in wasting political capital if simple violence will suffice.
" Ashcombe watched the darkening countryside roll past his window.
"Though do prepare the letters. If MacDougal proves more stubborn than anticipated, we may need to remind him that English influence extends quite far into the Highlands when properly motivated. "
They rode in silence for a while, the carriage swaying gently on the rough roads.
Ashcombe found his thoughts drifting to the girl—Mhairi, Graham had called her. Wondering what she was doing, whether she thought herself safe in MacDougal's castle, whether she'd forgotten that she was still, legally and morally, his property.
"She should have been mine weeks ago," he murmured.
"Your Grace?"
"Nothing." Ashcombe straightened in his seat. "Just thinking aloud. How long until we reach the border?"
"Another three hours, Your Grace. We should arrive at the inn by midnight."
"Good. I want to be back in England by tomorrow evening.
This Scottish air doesn't agree with me.
I will probably have to return to this godforsaken place sooner than I would have wanted…
" Though in truth, it wasn't the air, it was the entire country.
Barbaric, backwards, full of men who thought honor and loyalty mattered more than law and property.
“But if that is the case, it will be for a very good reason,” he added with a smirk.
MacDougal would learn differently soon enough.
They all would.
As the carriage continued south toward England, Ashcombe allowed himself a small smile. Let Graham conduct his raids. Let him steal women and burn villages. Let MacDougal scramble to protect people he couldn't possibly save.
And when the laird finally broke, when he finally realized the futility of his resistance, Ashcombe would be there. Waiting. Ready to claim what was rightfully his.
The girl had cost him ninety scots and considerable inconvenience. Before this was over, she'd pay back every penny, and more, in the years of service she'd provide.
After all, Ashcombe was a patient man. And patient men always got what they wanted in the end.
The carriage rolled on through the darkness, carrying him back toward civilization.
Behind him, Graham's plans were already in motion. Messengers would ride tonight, gathering the men needed for the raids. Within days, MacDougal lands would burn.
And Ashcombe would watch from comfortable distance, confident that eventually, inevitably, justice—his justice—would prevail.