Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Five men captured. Three more dead." The messenger stood in the doorway of Edmund Langley's tent, his face pale with fear. "The MacDonald has locked down his castle. No one in or out without his permission."
Edmund didn't look up from the map spread across his makeshift desk. His finger traced the outline of Keppoch's walls, marking the weak points he'd identified over weeks of careful observation.
"And the ones still inside?"
"Still hidden, my lord. Waiting for your signal."
"Good." Edmund's smile was cold. "Tell them to remain where they are. No movement. No risks. Let MacDonald think he's routed all my men."
"Yes, my lord." The messenger hesitated. "My lord, if I may—the men are asking when—"
"When we attack?" Edmund finally looked up, his blue eyes hard. "Soon. Very soon. Now get out."
The messenger fled. Edmund returned his attention to the map, his mind churning through possibilities.
Five captured. Three dead. A setback, certainly. But not a disaster.
Because MacDonald didn't know about the others. The ones who'd been planted weeks ago, before the Cèilidh. The servants who'd been bribed. The guards who'd been turned. The men who'd slipped in during the chaos of daily castle life and disappeared into the shadows.
MacDonald thought he was so clever. Thought his heightened security and locked gates would keep Elinor safe.
The fool had no idea Edmund had been planning since the moment the Highland savage had stolen what was rightfully his.
Edmund stood, moving to the entrance of his tent. Outside, his camp sprawled across the valley—two hundred men, all loyal, all ready to fight. Some were mercenaries, bought with gold Edmund had spent years accumulating. Others were men from his own lands, bound to him by oath and tradition.
All of them were ready to die for his cause.
To get her back.
Elinor.
Even thinking her name made something twist in Edmund's chest. A mix of fury and desire and possessive need that had only grown stronger in the weeks since MacDonald had stolen her.
She should have been his. Would have been his, if that bastard border lord hadn't interfered. If Royse hadn't been so greedy, so willing to sell to the highest bidder.
Edmund had offered everything. Marriage. Alliance. Security for both Elinor and her wastrel father.
And Royse had spat on it. Had taken his daughter to that auction like she was livestock and let a Highland savage buy her for coin.
The memory still burned. Standing in that hall, watching MacDonald bid higher and higher. Watching Elinor's face as the numbers climbed. Watching his bride, his rightful bride, be sold to another man.
He'd wanted to draw his sword right there. To cut MacDonald down and take Elinor home where she belonged.
But he'd been outnumbered. Outmaneuvered.
So he'd bided his time. Made plans. Gathered men and resources and information.
And now—now he was ready.
"My lord?"
Edmund turned to find William, his captain, approaching. The man was solid and competent, if lacking in imagination. But he followed orders well, which was all Edmund required.
"Yes?"
"The scouts report MacDonald rode out this morning."
Edmund's pulse quickened. "Where?"
"North. Checking the border patrols, from what we can tell."
"How many men with him?"
"Twenty. Maybe thirty."
Edmund's mind raced. MacDonald out of the castle. Away from Elinor. With a significant portion of his fighting men.
It was too perfect. Almost suspicious.
"It could be a trap," William said, as though reading his thoughts. "He might be trying to draw us out."
"Possibly." Edmund moved back to his desk, studying the map again. "Or he might simply be desperate to maintain control. To show his men he's not afraid."
"What do you want to do?"
Edmund's finger traced the road north from Keppoch. Then back to the castle itself. To the small mark he'd made on the east wall, where the stones were older and the mortar crumbling.
Where his men inside had reported a weakness they could exploit.
"We attack," he said finally. "Very soon."
William's eyebrows rose. "But my lord, we're not ready yet."
"We attack soon." Edmund's voice was steel. "Full assault on the main gate. Make it loud. Make it dramatic. Draw every guard and fighting man to the walls."
"And then?"
"And then the men inside move." Edmund smiled. "While MacDonald's forces are focused on repelling our attack, our people inside will grab Elinor and bring her out through the east wall. We'll have horses waiting. By the time anyone realizes she's gone, we'll be miles away."
William was quiet for a moment, processing. "It's risky."
"Life is risky."
"If MacDonald returns before we get her, it’ll be bloody."
"He won't. Not if we time it right." Edmund straightened. "We attack two hours after sunset. That gives MacDonald time to reach the border patrols and settle in for the night. By the time word reaches him that we're at his gates, Elinor will be safely in my custody."
"And if something goes wrong? If the men inside are discovered?"
"They won't be." Edmund's confidence was absolute. "They've been in place for weeks. Blending in. Waiting. MacDonald's so focused on external threats, he's forgotten to watch his own people."
"Arrogant of him."
"Predictable of him." Edmund moved to the chest in the corner of his tent, opening it to reveal fine clothes—a gown of deep blue silk, jewelry, everything a lady would need. "I had these prepared for her. For when she comes back to me."
William eyed the clothes with something like unease. "My lord, what if she—what if Lady Elinor doesn't want to come? She's married now. To MacDonald. What if she proves stubborn?"
"She's not married." Edmund's voice was flat. "Not really. That farce of a wedding means nothing. She was coerced. Forced. Stolen from me by a man who had no right to her."
"But legally—"
"Legally, she's mine." Edmund slammed the chest shut. "I made my intentions clear years ago. Offered for her properly. She would have been my wife if Royse hadn't been such a greedy bastard. This—this mockery of a marriage—is just an obstacle. One I intend to remove."
William looked like he wanted to argue. But he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Good. Edmund didn't pay him to question. He paid him to obey.
"Get the men ready," Edmund said. "Full armor. Weapons sharpened. I want them prepared for a siege, even though we won't be staying long. We just need to make enough noise to keep MacDonald's forces occupied."
"Yes, my lord."
"And William?" Edmund's voice dropped. "Tell the men, no killing unless absolutely necessary. This is a rescue mission, not a massacre. The goal is to get Elinor out. Everything else is secondary."
"Understood, my lord."
William left. Edmund returned to his map, his mind already running through the plan again, looking for flaws.
The attack would begin at sunset. His main force would assault the gates, making as much noise as possible. Arrows. Battering ram. Everything to draw attention to the front of the castle.
Meanwhile, inside, his planted men would move.
There were seven of them, carefully positioned over the past month.
Two servants in the kitchens. A stable hand.
A guard who'd been bought with gold. A laundress.
A man who worked in the armory. And one more, the most important, who'd managed to get hired as part of the household staff just after the Cèilidh.
Seven people, all loyal to Edmund. All ready to act.
Their job was simple: locate Elinor, subdue any guards, and bring her to the east wall, where the stones were weak. Edmund's men outside would be waiting with ropes and horses. They'd pull her through the gap, put her on a horse, and ride hard for the border.
By the time MacDonald realized what was happening, it would be too late.
Edmund would have Elinor back, where she belonged. Where she'd always belonged.
And MacDonald—that Highland savage who'd dared to touch what was Edmund's—would pay for his arrogance.
Edmund could already imagine the look on MacDonald's face when he returned to find Elinor gone. The rage. The despair.
The knowledge that he'd failed to protect her.
It was almost as sweet as the thought of having Elinor back in his possession.
Almost.
"My lord?"
Edmund looked up to find another messenger at his tent entrance. This one looked nervous, his eyes darting around like he expected an ambush.
"What?"
"Message from inside Keppoch. From our man in the guard."
Edmund's pulse quickened. "And?"
"MacDonald's increased the guard on his wife's chambers. Triple the normal number."
Edmund's jaw tightened. That complicated things, but didn't make them impossible.
"Tell our people inside to adjust their plans accordingly. Have them drug the guards if possible when we give the signal. Or create a distraction elsewhere in the castle. I don't care how they do it, but I need those guards away from Elinor's chambers when we move."
"Yes, my lord."
The messenger fled. Edmund paced his tent, his mind churning.
Triple guards. MacDonald was more paranoid than Edmund had anticipated. But paranoia made men sloppy. Made them focus on the wrong threats.
MacDonald was watching the gates. Watching the walls. Watching for external attacks.
He wasn't watching his own people. The servants who brought Elinor her meals. The guards who changed shifts and might be persuaded to look the other way. The laundress who entered her chambers to collect linens.
All it would take was one moment. One opportunity.
And Edmund would have her.
He moved to the chest again, opening it to look at the gown he'd chosen. Blue, because she'd worn blue the first time he'd seen her. Silk, because she deserved fine things. Jewelry, because he wanted her to look like the lady she was meant to be.
His lady.
Not MacDonald's.
Never MacDonald's.
Edmund ran his fingers over the silk, imagining Elinor wearing it. Imagining her looking at him with gratitude and relief. Imagining her finally understanding that everything he'd done—all of it—was for her.
To save her from a marriage she didn't want. To bring her home. To give her the life she deserved.
With him.
"She'll thank me," he murmured to the empty tent. "Once she understands. Once she's away from that barbarian's influence. She'll see that I did this for her. That I never stopped fighting for her."
A knock at his tent post interrupted his thoughts. "My lord? It's time for the evening meal."
"I'm not hungry." Edmund closed the chest gently. "But tell the men to eat well. We'll need our strength for when we carry out our plans."
"Yes, my lord."
Edmund waited until the footsteps faded, then returned to his map one final time. His finger traced the route they'd take once they had Elinor. South, toward the border. Then east, to his holdings in Sussex, where MacDonald couldn't follow without starting an international incident.
There, he'd have time. Time to convince Elinor that this was right, that they belonged together. That the marriage to MacDonald was a mistake that could be undone.
Time to make her see that he loved her. That he'd always loved her. Since the moment he'd first seen her.
She'd smiled at him then. A polite, practiced smile that had nonetheless made his heart race. He'd known in that moment that he would have her. That she was meant to be his.
And nothing—not her father's greed, not MacDonald's gold, not even Elinor's own misguided loyalty—would keep them apart.
"Soon," he said to the map. To the mark indicating Keppoch. To the small notation showing where Elinor's chambers were located. "Soon, I'm coming for you. And this time, nothing will stop me."
He rolled up the map and secured it. Then he began preparing for battle, his movements methodical and sure.
Elinor would be his. The marriage to MacDonald would be over. And Edmund would finally have what he'd been denied at that cursed auction.
His bride. His prize. His Elinor.
And if anyone tried to stop him—if MacDonald came after them, if the Regent himself intervened—Edmund would fight them all.
Because some things were worth fighting for. Some things were worth dying for. And Elinor was worth everything.
He checked his sword, making sure it was sharp. Checked his armor, making sure every strap was secure. And as the sun began to set outside his tent, Edmund Langley prepared for war.
Not for land. Not for glory. Not for honor or politics or any of the usual reasons men fought.
For love. Or what he called love, anyway.
For possession. For pride. For the desperate need to claim what he believed was rightfully his.
And God help anyone who stood in his way.