Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MacRae Camp, An Isolated Cove, WesternSshore of Skye
“He’ll nae come.”
Duncan MacRae didn’t turn from where he stood at the edge of the camp, staring across the dark water toward Kintail’s distant shores. Behind him, his second-in-command Gregor shifted weight from foot to foot—nervous energy that grated on Duncan’s already frayed nerves like rusted steel on stone.
“The man’s desperate enough tae believe anythin’ I tell him.” Duncan said, voice flat as beaten iron.
“And if he brings the savage horde?”
“He willnae.” Duncan’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. “He thinks we’re savin’ his daughter, nae stealin’ her.”
The camp sprawled behind them in the shadows—thirty men, maybe forty, hidden in the rocky cove where the cliffs blocked them from prying eyes.
Tents clustered like fungi in the damp earth, cookfires banked low enough to avoid drawing attention.
They’d been there three days already, waiting.
Planning. And Duncan’s patience was wearing thinner than a beggar’s cloak.
Three cursed days, three days of hidin’ like rats from that Norse bastard.
“Me laird.” Gregor’s voice cut through his brooding. “Someone’s comin’ across the water.”
Duncan’s heart kicked against his ribs. He squinted through the darkness, making out the silhouette of a small boat rowing toward their hidden shore. One man. Alone.
The fool actually listened.
“Get the men ready,” Duncan ordered, already striding toward the makeshift dock they’d constructed from driftwood and desperation.
By the time Finnian Mackenzie’s boat scraped against stone, Duncan had schooled his features into something resembling concern. He extended a hand to help the older man ashore, noting the exhaustion etched into every line of Finnian’s weathered face.
“Laird Mackenzie.” Duncan’s voice dripped false warmth. “I’m glad ye came. I ken the risk ye’re takin’.”
Finnian’s grip was firm despite the tremor Duncan felt in those calloused fingers. “Tell me ye’ve found a way inside that cursed castle.”
“Aye.” Duncan gestured toward his tent—the largest in camp, positioned to project authority he barely held anymore. “Come. We’ll speak where ears cannae carry tales.”
Inside the tent, a single lantern cast wavering shadows across maps and battle plans Duncan had spent weeks perfecting. Finnian’s gaze swept over them, and something like hope flickered in those tired blue eyes.
“I’ve been searchin’ as ye asked,” Finnian said, settling onto a rough stool. “There’s a hidden gate in the eastern gardens. The savage showed it tae Claricia himself, apparently.”
Duncan’s pulse quickened. Perfect. “Can ye reach it without bein’ seen?”
“Aye. I can ask her tae walk with me after the feast tomorrow night. Lead her there under pretense of wantin’ privacy tae speak.
” Finnian’s hands clenched into fists on his knees.
“But Duncan, ye swore tae me—swore—this would be a rescue. That nae harm would come tae her, or Erik and his people. That we’d take her somewhere safe while I properly petition the king fer an annulment and there wouldn’t be any bloodshed. ”
“And that’s exactly what we’ll dae,” He leaned forward, letting sincerity coat every word like honey over poison. “I want her safe as much as ye dae, Finnian. She was meant tae be me wife, remember? D’ye truly think I’d risk harmin’ her?”
Finnian’s expression softened marginally. “I ken ye cared fer her once.”
Cared. The word was ash in Duncan’s mouth. He’d owned her—or would have, if that royal decree hadn’t torn his future apart. Claricia had been his path to power, his connection to wealth and influence. Without her, Clan MacRae was crumbling faster than a sandcastle at high tide.
“I still dae,” Duncan said, forcing his voice to crack just slightly. “Which is why I need tae ken—how is she? Truly.”
Finnian’s jaw worked. “Too well, if I’m honest. She…” He looked away, shame and confusion warring across his features. “She defends him. Claims he’s nae the monster I believed. That she wants tae stay.”
Duncan’s blood went cold, then hot with rage so pure it nearly choked him. He stood abruptly, knocking his stool backward with enough force to make Finnian flinch. “The man’s a wolf dressed in Highland silk. He’s manipulated her.”
“She seemed… happy.”
The word was a blade between Duncan’s ribs.
“Then we save her from herself,” Duncan said quietly, too calmly. “Tomorrow night.”
Finnian studied him for a long moment, and Duncan held his breath, wondering if the old fool would finally see through the deception. But then Finnian nodded slowly, shoulders bowing under the weight of impossible choices.
“I dinnae ken what’s right anymore,” Finnian admitted. “But I ken I willnae lose another child tae those Norse bastards. If there’s even a chance she’s in danger...”
“There is,” Duncan assured him. “And I’ll protect her. Ye have me word.”
Me word means exactly as much as I need it tae.
They spoke for another hour—Duncan carefully feeding Finnian’s fears, painting Erik as a threat cleverly disguised as a husband, suggesting that Claricia’s apparent contentment was merely survival instinct.
By the time the older man left, rowing back toward the castle under cover of darkness, Duncan’s mask had begun to slip.
“Old fool believed every word,” Gregor said from the tent entrance from where he’d been listening. The scarred warrior stepped inside, his one good eye gleaming with something like admiration. “Ye played him like a master bard, me laird.”
“Aye.” Duncan poured himself whisky from a flask, the cheap spirits burning down his throat. “He’s so desperate tae play protector, he cannae see I’m usin’ his love against him.”
“And when he realizes the truth?”
“He willnae live long enough tae regret it.” Duncan’s voice went flat. “Once we have Claricia, Finnian becomes a liability. Same as the Viking filth.”
Gregor moved to the maps, tracing the coastline with one thick finger. “Ye’re certain ye want the Wolf dead? The king willnae take kindly tae—”
“I dinnae give a bloody damn what the king thinks!” The words exploded from Duncan like arrows from a drawn bow.
“Dae ye ken what that royal decree cost me? Everythin’ I spent years buildin’—gone in the blink of an eye all because some uncultured heathen caught the king’s fancy fer his goddamn Lairds’ Pact. ”
He stalked to the tent’s edge, staring out at the dark water.
“Me people are starvin’, Gregor. The harvest failed.
The rents havenae been paid. Other clans smell blood in the water and circle like sharks.
I needed Finnian’s gold, his connections, his name tied tae mine through marriage tae Claricia. Without that...”
“Yer clan falls.”
“Aye.” Duncan’s hands clenched into fists. “So aye, I want Erik dead. I want his castle burned tae ash. I want every man who followed him intae battle tae understand what happens when they steal from Duncan MacRae.”
Gregor was quiet for a long moment, then spoke carefully. “And we’ve already tried twice tae take her from him. Ye paid good coin fer those raids, me laird.”
“And they failed spectacularly!” Duncan spat the word like poison.
“Six men dead on that coast road, and what did we gain? Naethin’ but proof that Thorsen’s faster than I credited him fer.
The ambush on the ship was supposed tae be simple—take her before she ever reached the island, claim she was kidnapped by common raiders, demand ransom from Finnian.
Instead, the Wolf appeared like some bloody hero from a saga and saved her. ”
Duncan’s voice dripped scorn.
“What are yer orders, me laird?”
“She’s worth naethin’ dead. But alive?” He turned to face his second-in-command. “Alive, she’s leverage. Against Finnian. Against the king if it comes tae that. And against Erik Thorsen.”
“And if she refuses tae cooperate? If she truly has fallen fer the Norse bastard?”
Something cold and vicious coiled in Duncan’s gut. “Then we make certain she has nay choice. A woman’s will can be… persuaded.”
Gregor shifted uncomfortably. “Me laird, if ye’re suggestin’—”
“I’m suggestin’ naethin’ that ye need tae concern yerself with.” Duncan’s voice went soft. Deadly. “Yer job is tae follow orders. Tomorrow night, when Finnian brings Claricia tae that gate, we take her. Quietly if possible. By force if necessary. The old man tries tae interfere, ye silence him.”
“Kill him, me laird?”
“I said silence, nae slaughter. Though if he’s foolish enough tae fight…” Duncan shrugged. “Accidents can happen easily in the dark.”
Gregor studied him with his one good eye. “Ye’ve changed, me laird. The man I swore tae serve wouldnae have—”
“The man ye swore tae serve was a fool who believed honor and duty would build him a legacy.” Duncan’s laugh was bitter as wormwood. “That man’s dead. Killed by a king’s decree and a Norse savage’s ambition. What’s left is whatever’s necessary tae survive.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant crash of waves against stone. Finally, Gregor nodded slowly.
“I’ll ready the men. How many d’ye want fer the actual raid?”
“Ten. Twelve at most. More than that risks drawin’ attention.
” Duncan returned to the maps, mind already three steps ahead.
“The rest stay here with the ships. Once we have Claricia, we sail immediately. Nae back tae MacRae lands—too obvious. We head south, tae the isles where clan law still holds more weight than the Crown’s commands. ”
“And Erik will follow.”
“Aye.” Duncan’s smile was a blade in the darkness. “He’ll follow. Probably with warriors. Which is exactly what I’m countin’ on.”
Gregor frowned. “I dinnae understand.”
“We take Claricia, but we dinnae run far. Just far enough tae draw Erik away from his castle, his lands, his advantages.” Duncan’s finger traced a route on the map. “We lead him tae ground of me choosin’. Somewhere his Norse tactics won’t help him. Somewhere I can gut him like the animal he is.”
“Ye mean tae kill him yerself?”
“I need tae kill him meself.” Duncan’s voice went rough with emotion he’d kept leashed fer too long.
“D’ye ken what it’s been like? Watchin’ from afar as he beds the woman who was meant tae be mine?
Hearin’ tales of how she smiles at him, defends him, falls fer his savage charm?
” He slammed his fist on the table. “She was mine, Gregor. Mine by right, by betrothal, by every law that matters. And he took her.”
“The king—”
“The king can burn in hell alongside Erik Thorsen.” Duncan’s eyes gleamed with something darker than ambition, something that tasted like madness and desperation mixed.
Gregor nodded slowly, then turned to leave
After Gregor left, Duncan stood alone in the flickering lantern light, staring at the maps that had consumed his every waking thought fer weeks. Tomorrow night. One more day of playing the concerned former betrothed. One more day of hiding his true intentions behind masks of honor and duty.
Then the mask could come off. Entirely. Then he’d show Erik Thorsen—show all of them—what a truly desperate man was capable of.
Outside, the wind picked up, carrying with it the salt-tang of the sea and the distant cry of gulls. Duncan poured another measure of whisky, this time letting the burn settle in his chest like cold iron.
Claricia, ye should’ve stood beside me as Lady MacRae. Instead ye’re playin’ wife tae a savage.
The betrayal of it—her choosing Erik, her apparent happiness—cut deeper than any wound.
It wasn’t just about the alliance anymore, or even the gold he’d lost. It was about being humiliated in front of every clan chief who mattered.
About watching his birthright crumble while the Wolf of Skye claimed everything he had worked for.
But nae fer much longer.
He raised his cup in a solitary toast to the empty tent. “Slainte mhath tae tomorrow night, then.”
The whisky went down smooth, warming him from the inside out. And for the first time in weeks, Duncan MacRae smiled—a smile that held no humor, no joy, only the cold promise of violence to come.
The following night, everything would change.
The following night, the Wolf would learn that some prey bite back.