Chapter Eight
Sholto
The wound in Sholto’s thigh throbbed with every step, a constant reminder of the Norse bitch who’d put her dagger there. It has festered for nearly a fortnight, not the flesh, which had healed after a fashion, but the humiliation. The rage.
He limped to the window of the cottage they’d claimed on Tiree’s western shore, watching storm clouds gather over the sound. Behind him, Dugan sat at the table, counting coins with the focused attention of a man who worshipped nothing but silver.
“You’re brooding again,” Dugan said without looking up. “It’s tiresome.”
“She stabbed me.” Sholto’s hand went to his thigh, pressing against the scar through the fabric. “That golden-haired witch put a blade in my leg and laughed about it. Then she threatened to put another one there.”
“Aye, you’ve mentioned it. Several times a day for nearly a moon.” Dugan stacked his coins with irritating precision. “What you haven’t done is anything useful about it.”
Sholto spun from the window, nearly losing his balance as his bad leg protested. “I’ve been watching. Following. Learning where she is.”
“Watching the nunnery from a boat like some lovesick fool.” Dugan finally looked up, his pale eyes cold and assessing. “All you’ve accomplished is letting her see you. Letting her know you’re coming. That’s not hunting, Sholto. That’s announcing yourself.”
“I want her to be afraid. I want her to lie awake at night knowing I’m out here. Knowing I’m coming for her.” Sholto’s voice dropped to something darker. “I want her to remember what I’ll do to her when I finally get my hands on that pretty throat.”
Dugan’s expression didn’t change. “And after you’ve strangled her and satisfied your wounded pride, what then? You’ll still be a landless mercenary with a limp and a reputation for losing to women half your size.”
The words hit like stones. Sholto’s fists clenched. “Careful, Dugan.”
“Or what? You’ll kick me with the leg she already wounded?” Dugan returned his attention to his coins. “Face the truth, Sholto. You’re obsessed with one woman who humiliated you. I’m interested in building an empire.”
“Empire.” Sholto spat the word. “You’re a hired sword. Same as me.”
“For now.” Dugan leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head.
“But I won’t be for long. See, while you’ve been nursing your wounded leg and your wounded pride, I’ve been gathering information.
Making contacts. Learning who matters and who I can trust. I’m not interested in finding bairns for long. ”
Dugan had found these cottages nearly four months ago, getting rid of the owners and sending their bairns off to a cottage where he could get coin for them.
But the truth was he was tired of handling bairns.
And now that he’d found coin he hadn’t expected, his aspirations had grown. Now he had a plan.
Despite himself, Sholto’s interest piqued. “And?”
“And your little Norse bitch won’t be on Iona for long.” Dugan’s smile was thin and cold. “She’ll be at Duart Castle soon, they’re telling me. With the Grants.”
Sholto’s pulse quickened. “How do you know?”
“Because I pay people to know things. Fishermen. Merchants. A serving girl at the MacQuarie holding who’s verra fond of coin and verra talkative after a few cups of ale.
” He gestured dismissively. “Your golden-haired prize is hoping to keep company with one of the younger Grants. I’m guessing he is one of Connor Grant’s sons.
Grandson of the legendary Alexander Grant. ”
The name meant nothing to Sholto beyond another obstacle between him and Brynja. But Dugan’s expression had sharpened with something like hunger.
“The Grants,” Dugan continued, his voice taking on a strange intensity. “Do you know what killing a Grant would do for a man’s reputation? What it would mean in the Lowlands, where the mercenary companies compete for the best contracts?”
“I don’t care about your reputation—”
“Then you’re a fool.” Dugan stood, pacing to the window where Sholto had been brooding moments before.
“Think, fool. The Grant name carries weight from here to Edinburgh and beyond. They’re legends.
Alexander Grant fought at the Battle of Largs against the Norse.
Connor Grant has held the Highlands together through wars and rebellions, their clan now one of the largest in all the land.
And there’s a new generation—grandsons, all carrying that blessed name. ”
He turned back to face Sholto, his pale eyes gleaming.
“If I—if we—were to kill one of those precious heirs? If we were to strike at the heart of the Grant legacy?” He spread his hands.
“Every mercenary company in Scotland would know my name. Dugan, the man who brought down a Grant. I could command any price. Lead any force. Build something that lasts.”
Sholto stared at him. “You’re daft. The Grants would hunt you to the ends of the earth.”
“Let them try.” Dugan’s smile widened. “By the time they realize what happened, I’ll be in the Lowlands with a company of two hundred men at my back. Men who respect strength. Men who follow the leader who proves himself most deadly.”
He moved closer to Sholto, his voice dropping to something almost confidential.
“Don’t you see? Your obsession with that girl—it’s small.
Petty. But if we make it part of something larger?
If we use her to draw out a grandson or Connor Grant, and we kill him along with her?
” He laughed softly. “That’s not revenge. That’s legacy.”
Sholto’s mind churned. He didn’t care about legacies or reputations. He cared about the look in that bitch’s eyes when she’d driven that dagger into his thigh—fierce, unafraid, victorious. He cared about wiping that look away forever. About making her afraid. About hearing her beg.
But if Dugan’s ambitions could help him get to her…
“What are you proposing?” he asked slowly.
Dugan’s smile turned predatory. “I’m proposing we go after the lass. Once they know we have her, they’ll come to us. The youngest Grant will come and so will his sire. They can’t help themselves. They travel in groups. Then I’ll kill both of them and you can have the girl.”
“You’ll allow it?”
“She’s yours.” Dugan’s expression was indifferent.
“Do what you want with her. Keep her, kill her, sell her—I don’t care.
My interest is in the Grant name. Once Connor Grant is dead, I’ll have what I need.
” He moved to the window again and stared out over the sea, his mind churning with ideas.
Sholto had seen him like this before. “They’ll be ripe for an attack and they’ll be too busy grieving.
” The man smiled and rubbed his hands together, a smile nearly gleeful dancing across his face.
Sholto’s hand went to his thigh again, rubbing the scar that ached in cold weather. His permanent reminder of the bitch who’d bested him. “How many men can you gather?”
Dugan turned away from the window. “Mayhap three score with the coin I found. Men who won’t ask questions.
Men who’ll follow orders when the blood starts flowing.
” Dugan crossed his arms. “But I need your agreement. And I need you to stop this ridiculous brooding and start thinking like a warrior instead of a jilted lover.”
The insult stung, but Sholto forced it down. Dugan was right about one thing—watching from boats had accomplished nothing. If he wanted Brynja, he’d have to take her. And if taking her meant helping Dugan kill some legendary Grant heir…
He could live with that.
“When?” Sholto asked.
“Soon. The weather’s turning worse, which works in our favor. First we get the lass here.” Dugan’s smile turned cunning, “Then her lover will follow, and if we’re verra lucky, we might get two Grants for the price of one.”
Something cold moved through Sholto’s chest. Killing some young warrior in his prime was one thing. But Connor Grant was a legend, an old man who’d fought in wars before Sholto was born. “That’s—”
“Brilliant.” Dugan’s eyes gleamed with ambition. “Can you imagine? Dugan, the man who killed Connor Grant. Or at the verra least, who was there when the old legend finally fell. My name would echo in every tavern, every mercenary camp, every lord’s hall from here to the Borders.”
He began pacing again, energy crackling off him like lightning. “Every petty lord with a grudge will want to hire me. Every ambitious merchant will pay for my protection. I’ll build a company that rivals any in Scotland—nay, in all of Britain.”
His voice dropped, taking on an almost reverent quality. “Do you understand what I’m offering you, Sholto? Not just your petty revenge on one girl. But a chance to be part of something that will be remembered. A chance to matter.”
Sholto didn’t care about mattering. He cared about the smell of fear, the satisfaction of breaking something that had dared to wound him. But he understood ambition well enough to recognize it in others. And ambitious men were useful—they planned, they organized, they got things done.
“You really think you can kill a Grant?” Sholto asked.
“I think I can kill anyone if the price is right and the planning is sound.” Dugan turned to face him fully. “Grants bleed like anyone else. They die like anyone else. They just have more coin.”
He moved back to the table, pulling out a rough map he’d been working on.
“And once they are grieving, we move on to taking over their castle on Mull. Duart Castle sits on a promontory. Good defensive position, which is why the MacDougalls chose it. But it also means limited escape routes. If we come at them from the land side with enough men, we can bottle them up. Force them to either fight or surrender.”
“They’ll fight,” Sholto said with certainty. “Men like that don’t surrender.”
Sholto studied the map, but his mind was elsewhere. On golden braids and blue eyes. On the sound a blade made sliding between ribs. On the way Brynja would look when she realized she’d lost.
“I want her alive,” he said. “At least at first.”
Dugan glanced up, his expression calculating. “How long do you need?”
“Long enough to make sure she understands what it cost her to cross me.” Sholto’s voice was flat, emotionless. “Long enough to hear her beg. To break that spirit that made her think she could put a dagger in my leg and walk away.”
“Fine. Just don’t let your…plaything interfere with the larger plan.” Dugan rolled up the map. “I’ll start gathering men. Good fighters who won’t balk at attacking Grants.”
Sholto’s jaw clenched. “When this is over—when I have her—I’ll be the man who broke the girl who thought she could wound me. I’ll be the man who taught her what happens when you cross the wrong person.”
“Small ambitions for a small man.” But Dugan’s tone was almost cheerful now as he counted coins. “Still, small ambitions are easier to achieve than large ones. You might actually succeed.”
They worked in silence for a while, Dugan calculating, Sholto brooding. Outside, the storm was building, dark clouds rolling in from the west.
Finally, Dugan straightened, closing the chest. “One or two more days before we grab the girl. Then we’ll bring her here. By then I’ll have the men and supplies. Then we wait for the Grants to arrive. Have you found out their number yet?”
“Nay, I haven’t been able to get over to Craignure yet. On the morrow I’ll go.”
“Good. I need to know how many men to hire. Find out.”
“And if the Grants have more men than we thought? If we can’t separate the grandson or Connor?”
“Then we adapt. I didn’t survive ten years as a mercenary by being inflexible.” Dugan’s smile was cold. “But one way or another, I will have my reputation. And you will have your revenge. The only question is how many Grants have to die to make it happen.”
He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. “Oh, and Sholto? Stop patrolling the coast in that damned boat. You’re warning her we’re coming. Let her think she’s safe. Let her relax into that false security. It’ll make the surprise so much sweeter.”
Then he was gone, leaving Sholto alone with his thoughts and his aching leg.
Sholto returned to the window, staring out at the gathering storm. Two days. In two days, he’d have his hands on that golden-haired bitch. He’d show her what happened to women who thought they could fight back. Who thought they were stronger than the men who owned them.
His hand went to his thigh one more time, pressing against the scar. She’d marked him. Left her signature on his flesh like some kind of brand.
Soon, he’d return the favor. And his mark would be permanent.
He smiled at the thought of having complete control over the lass. Let Dugan have his ambitions and his empire. Let him chase his precious reputation.
Sholto would have something better.
He’d have her fear. And that was worth more than all the fame in Scotland.