Page 104 of Claimed By a Ruthless Scot
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Lachlan MacKenzie did not tolerate failure.
The man kneeling before him knew it well.
He had been dragged into the tent scarcely an hour past, still reeking of smoke and fear. His words were tumbling over themselves in a desperate attempt to explain what could not be excused. Around them, the low murmur of the camp had fallen into an uneasy quiet, as though even the wind itself hesitated to intrude upon Lachlan’s temper.
“Ye lost her,” Lachlan’s voice was dangerously calm.
The man swallowed. “She was taken back tae the castle, me laird. They?—”
“I am aware of where she is,” Lachlan interrupted, his tone sharpening just enough to still any further speech. “What Iam less inclined tae understand is how ye allowed her tae slip through yer graspagain.”
The man faltered, his gaze dropping. Lachlan watched him for a moment longer, his pale eyes devoid of patience, of sympathy, of anything that might soften the judgment already made.
“Stand,” he ordered.
The man obeyed at once, though his movements were unsteady. Lachlan rose slowly to meet him, his height and breadth casting a long shadow in the dim light of the tent. He circled him once, deliberately, as one might inspect a flawed weapon before deciding whether it was worth the trouble of repair.
“Ye were given a simple task,” Lachlan’s tone was almost conversational. “Retrieve the lass. Naething more.”
“Me laird, it was Laird Grant?—”
“Laird Grant,” Lachlan repeated with quiet disdain, “is a lad playing at war, who imagines himself capable of standing against me.” His lip curled faintly. “And yet, ye allowed him tae interfere.”
The man said nothing. After all, therewasnothing he could say.
Lachlan stopped before him. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, with sudden, brutal efficiency, Lachlan struck him. The blow was swift and merciless, sending the man to theground with a sharp crack against the packed earth. He did not rise again.
Lachlan did not look down.
“Remove him,” he said, already turning away.
Two guards stepped forward at once, dragging the unmoving body from the tent without question. Only when they had gone did Lachlan return to the table at the center of the space, where a rough map of the Grant lands lay spread beneath the flickering light of a single lantern. A handful of his remaining men stood nearby, silent and waiting.
Lachlan rested both hands upon the table, with his gaze sweeping over the drawn lines, symbolizing the walls, the gates and the surrounding woods.
“She will nae be taken in the open again,” he said at last. “That mistake will nae be repeated.”
“Nay, me laird,” one of the men answered quickly.
Lachlan’s mouth curved slightly not in amusement, but in anticipation.
“The castle will be more difficult,” another ventured cautiously. “The clan Grant are on guard now. They will expect?—”
“They will expect an attack,” Lachlan finished for him. “Which is precisely why we shall give them one.”
Everyone looked surprised, but no one dared to question the plan. Lachlan straightened, tapping a single point upon the map.
“Their walls are strong,” he continued, “but they arenae impenetrable. There are always weaknesses, places overlooked, trusted too easily, guarded out of habit rather than necessity.”
His gaze lifted, settling upon his men with cold precision.
“And men,” he added, “are far more easily breached than stone.”
A murmur of understanding passed between them.
“There are those within who may be persuaded,” Lachlan went on. “Gold, fear, promises, each has its use. We shall employ all three, as needed.”
