Page 59 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Laird Armstrong’s Castle

Laird Armstrong sat unmoving in the high-backed chair before the hearth, hands steepled, eyes half-lidded, not with sleep but with calculation. Every flicker of flame, every shifting shadow across the walls, reflected in his gaze without ever touching his expression.

There was a brisk, hesitant knock on the door.

“Enter,” Armstrong said, his voice calm as ever.

The door creaked open and one of his men stepped in, face drawn tight beneath the grime of travel. His boots left damp smudges on the stone as he crossed the room, stopping just short of the hearth.

“Me laird,” he said, bowing his head. “News from the north.”

Armstrong’s fingers tapped together once. “Speak.”

The soldier swallowed. “The attempt on the road—on Tav Graham. It… failed.”

There was a pause.

Armstrong didn’t blink. “Failed?”

“Aye, me laird. The party made it too close tae Castle Mey. Their reinforcements rode out. We lost too many men tae finish the job. Tav Graham was wounded badly… but nae killed.”

The fire hissed as a log cracked open.

“Wounded,” Armstrong repeated. There was no inflection in the word. “But nae dead.”

“Nae, me laird.”

“And the girl?”

“Alive. She was delivered safely. She is under Caithness’s protection now.”

The silence that followed was the kind that made men sweat. Armstrong’s eyes stayed fixed on the soldier, who kept darting his gaze to the tapestries, to the window… anywhere but the laird’s eyes.

After a bit of silence, Armstrong rose slowly, the motion smooth and without effort. He crossed to the tall window at the far end of the room, placing one hand on the stone arch and staring out into the falling snow. Outside, the land was shrouded in the quiet of midnight. It looked serene.

He hated it.

“Ye may go,” he said, not turning.

The soldier bowed low and left with haste, relief practically wafting off of him like steam.

Fools.

Armstrong watched him go with quiet contempt. Loyalty bred from fear had its uses, but it was never clean. Still, better than affection. Fear could be sharpened, shaped into precision.

He turned the thought over like a blade in his hand. This failure had cost him valuable time. Time he could not afford. Every hour his bastard son breathed was a crack in the foundation he’d spent decades reinforcing. He would not make the same mistake again.

The door creaked open moments later. This time, Armstrong didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

“I take it things didnae go tae plan,” said a smooth voice. Lachlan Cameron stepped inside with all the ease of a man arriving to a quiet dinner, not a private war council. His cloak dripped onto the flagstones, leaving a trail in his wake as he approached the hearth.

Armstrong turned slightly. “He lives.”

Lachlan lifted a brow. “And here I thought ye were done letting him slip the noose.”

“He was too close tae Castle Mey,” Armstrong said. “Our scouts misjudged the distance. Caithness’s riders were already in the field.”