Chapter 25 #2
"Agreed." James tapped the map. "We've already spotted increased activity along the mainland coast. Ships bein' provisioned. Men bein' rallied. He's buildin' up fer somethin'."
"An invasion?" Lachlann studied the possible approach routes. "He'd need significant forces tae take Barra by assault. The island's natural defenses are strong, and we've got the tactical advantage."
"Unless he's nae plannin' a direct assault," another council member said thoughtfully. "What if he's thinkin' blockade instead? Cutting off our supply lines, wait us out, force us tae either surrender Alba or watch our people starve?"
The thought sent cold fury through Lachlann's veins.
"Then we make sure our supplies can last longer than his patience.
And we prepare countermoves," he added. "If he blockades the island, we raid his supply ships.
Make it costly fer him tae maintain the siege.
Force him tae either commit fully or back down. "
"He willnae back down," Malcolm said with certainty. "The man's pride is too great. He sees Alba as somethin' that should be his, and he'll tear the Highlands apart before he admits defeat."
"Then we make sure he loses anyway." The captain’s hand went to his sword hilt. "And if it comes tae battle, we make sure it's so decisive that he thinks twice before threatenin' any of us again."
Lachlann looked around the table at his council members and advisors, who had been there supporting him since he had became laird.
"Thank ye," he said quietly. "All of ye. Fer standin' with me on this."
"We're always with ye, me laird," Malcolm said simply. "We stand taegether. That's what we swore tae ye and yer faither, and that's what we'll dae."
The moment of levity passed quickly as they returned to strategic planning. For the following several hours, they worked through scenarios, marked positions on maps, drafted letters to allies, and coordinated their various clan forces.
By the time the meeting finally concluded, the sun had set and candles burned low in their holders.
They filed out, leaving Lachlann alone with James.
"Ye should rest," James said. "Ye've been up since before dawn, and ye look like hell."
"I'm fine."
"Ye're exhausted. And ye'll be nay good tae anyone if ye collapse from lack of sleep." James crossed his arms. "Go tae yer chamber. Get some rest. I'll wake ye if anythin' urgent develops."
Lachlann wanted to argue, but his body was already agreeing with James. The adrenaline that had carried him through the meeting was fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
"Fine," he conceded. "But if Torquil so much as breathes wrong—"
"Ye'll be the first tae ken. I promise." James's expression softened slightly. "She's safe, Lachlann. Malcolm and Finn are outside her door, and we've got guards on every approach tae that wing, includin’ under her window. Naethin's gettin' tae her taenight."
The reassurance helped more than Lachlann wanted to admit.
He left the council chamber and made his way through the quiet castle corridors. Most of the household had already retired for the night, leaving only guards on their rounds and the occasional servant finishing late duties.
Lachlann paused outside Alba's chamber door. Malcolm and Finn snapped to attention.
"All quiet?" he asked.
"Aye, me laird. She retired about an hour ago. Havenae heard a sound since."
Lachlann nodded, resisting the urge to knock, to check on her, to see for himself that she was safe.
But she needed rest. And he needed to not be the kind of man who couldn't go one night without seeing her.
Even though that's exactly what he was becoming.
He continued to his own chamber, closing the door behind him and leaning against it heavily. The weight of the day—of the decisions made, the threats looming, the war that might be coming—pressed down on him.
What am I daein'? Puttin' me entire clan at risk. Draggin' the Covenant intae a potential war. All fer a woman I have nay right tae want.
But even as the doubt whispered through his mind, he knew the truth.
He'd make the same choices again.
Would risk everything again.
Because Alba MacKinnon had somehow become more important to him than duty, politics, or anything else.
And that terrified him almost as much as the thought of losing her.
Lachlann moved to the window, looking out over his dark lands. Somewhere beyond the horizon, Torquil was plotting. The king was considering his petition. Forces were moving into position for a confrontation that seemed increasingly inevitable.
Tomorrow, he'd promised to take Alba somewhere special. To give her a few hours of peace before the storm truly broke.
He'd keep that promise.
And then he'd prepare for war.
Because one way or another, this was ending. Either Torquil would back down––unlikely––or Lachlann would make him regret ever setting eyes on Alba MacKinnon.
There was no middle ground anymore.
No compromise.
Just the terrible certainty that blood would be spilled before it was over.
Lachlann closed his eyes, letting the cool night air wash over his face, and tried to find the strength to face whatever came next.