Chapter Thirty-Nine
“They’re adjusting,” Shamus said.
Lachlan crouched near the edge of a rocky outcrop, watching the distant movement of English patrols below. Lines shifted, formed, men at the ready.
“Aye,” he replied, his tone dire.
“They’ve tightened the lines.”
“Which means we’ve hurt them.”
Shamus grinned and pounded him soundly on his back, setting his shoulder on fire as blood seeped down his arm.
“Feels good.”
Lachlan did not smile. “No’ enough,” he said.
His gaze remained fixed on the valley. On the shifting positions. On the pattern beginning to emerge.
“They’re pulling inward,” he murmured.
Shamus’ grin faded. “Toward the main camp.”
“Aye.”
“And Lady Claire—”
Lachlan’s jaw tightened, it took all of his strength not to run to her, rescue her from her father. “She’ll be closer to the center now.”
Which meant—harder to reach, harder to extract.
A slow, burning calm settled over him as a plan started to form in his mind. “Then we stop circling,” he said.
Shamus glanced at him, his brow cocked in expectation. “Ye’ve got something.”
Lachlan’s gaze sharpened, ’twas his duty to protect his clan. The arrogant folly of Claire’s father forced his hand and now, they’d be put in danger once again. “We draw him out. Prepare the men. I’ll prepare the message.”
He sent a message south, not hidden through the bramble, not subtle in an attempt to hide his ambitions.
Nay, a direct strike.
# # #
A missive arrived. The Cameron crest burned into the seal and delivered straight to Lord Ashford’s hand.
Claire watched as her father broke it open.
His eyes moved across the page. Once. Twice. A faint, humorless laugh breached the silence. “Well,” he said softly. “There you are.”
Claire stepped closer, clenched her hands so as not to grab the letter from her father. “What is it?”
Surprise filled her when he handed her the letter. Her breath caught as she read.
You seek to take what is not yours.Come and claim it properly.Tomorrow. At the ridge above Blackwater Burn.Or turn back and admit defeat.
—Laird Lachlan Cameron
“He’s baiting you,” she said and handed him back the missive. She prayed the man knew what he was doing.
Her father’s gaze flicked to her, shock widened his eyes. “Yes,” his tone surprised she was astute enough to determine Lachlan’s actions.
She read the letter again, her heart wrenching as she knew her father accepted the challenge. “And you are going to go.”
“Yes.”
She paced the tent, her mind racing to find a solution. A solution to keep men alive and send her father back to England. And her safely within Lachlan’s arms. “He wants you there,” she said, unable to keep the frustration from her tone. “On ground of his choosing.”
Her father filled a snifter with brandy, his actions calm yet calculating. “And you think that concerns me?”
Claire turned toward him, trying to keep the worry from her voice. “I think it should.”
A flicker of something sharper entered his expression. Sharper and menacing. “You believe this is a trap.”
She tossed her hands into the air, exasperated he thought it was anything but a trap. “I know it is.”
Her father watched her yet kept silent. He took a long draw of his brandy. Swirled the amber liquid in the glass, then took another sip.
"I miss him."
Her father stopped swirling his drink and lifted his gaze to her. “Your Scotsman,” he stated in a dry tone.
“No,” she said. "The man who taught me chess.”
His brow flicked upward.
“Remember when you taught me to play,” she said wistfully. “And you let me win until I accused you of cheating?”
Claire rubbed the back of her neck. The memories bittersweet. “And you had laughed, truly laughed.”
He nodded toward her. “Yes. I remember.”
"And the man who danced with Mother." She crossed her arms before her chest trying to warm herself beneath his icy gaze. “The man who carried me when I fell asleep.” Tears began to form and she swiped at them. "I have mourned him longer than Mother, for he disappeared so, so long ago."
“Sentiments are for fools.”
“What made you this way, Father?”
With a scoff, he refilled his glass. “You know the answer. I am the man I have always wanted to be.”
Claire tipped her head to the side. “How very sad for you.”
He poured more brandy.
“I saw you, you know.” She poured a brandy for herself and much to her surprise, he did not chastise her for it. “In the hall outside your bed chamber. Talking to no one at all and then I realized you had been speaking to Mother's portrait.”
Her father slammed his glass against the tabletop. “You speak nonsense.”
She moved to stand in front of him. She leaned down and stared right into his eyes. “I speak the truth. You mourned her—mourn her. As do I. Why could we not mourn together?”
He scrubbed his hand over his face and exhaled as if he would never take another breath again. “I . . . I did not—I do not know.”
She pulled back as surprise filled her. When had her father ever admitted he did not know something? She took a step back, needing to breath, clear her thoughts. The memories hurt and her father’s stilted words did not negate the pain of the past.
“Yes, how very sad for you.”
A challenging glint filled his eyes. “And for your Scotsman. You will see I will obtain what I want through any method.”
Claire’s breath stilled, because now she understood, even after she tried to reach him, he was proving unredeemable.
The great Lord Ashford wasn’t walking into the trap.
He was bringing one of his own.