Page 77 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

“I’m certain.” Keith moved to a smaller table where a sealed letter waited—carefully crafted words meant for the other Highland lairds, explaining his desperate rescue attempt. “Me new wife carries me son. I’m sure of it. A boy with MacLeod blood through his maither and MacKenzie ambition through me. He’ll be the perfect heir—one who can claim both territories without the complications of a sister whose very existence raises questions about legitimacy.”

“Ishbel kens about this plan?” another captain asked carefully.

“Ishbel kens what she needs tae ken.” Which was almost nothing. His new wife was convenient—pale, quiet, biddable in ways his first wife never had been. She’d given him the legal claim he needed and would soon provide the heir to cement it. Beyond that, her opinions were irrelevant.

Keith went to the window, staring out at the darkness where his future waited. Two weeks. Perhaps less. Then they’d sail for Skye with enough force to crush the MacLeods once and for all.

“One more thing.” He turned back to his men. “I want scouts maintaining constant surveillance on Dunvegan. Daily reports on their defenses, their patrol patterns, any changes in their routine. When we strike, I want tae ken exactly what we’re facing.”

“Already in place, me laird.” Cillian’s mouth curved slightly. “They’ve spotted increased patrols, more guards on the walls. But nothing that suggests they ken about our full plans. They’re preparing fer raids, nae an invasion.”

Keith returned to the table, his hand sweeping across the map of Skye. “Multiple landing sites mean they cannae concentrate their defense. They’ll have tae split their forces, dilute their strength.”

“And if they choose tae abandon the outlying positions and concentrate everything at the castle?” a captain asked.

“Then we’ve already won.” Keith’s smile held no warmth. “Because that means they’re abandoning their people. And a laird who cannae protect his villages isnae a laird worth following. Either way, we break them.”

The captains nodded, understanding the brutal logic. This wasn’t just about taking Dunvegan Castle. It was about destroying MacLeod credibility, about proving that Euan MacLeod couldn’t protect what was his.

About making sure that when the smoke cleared, Keith MacKenzie would stand unchallenged in his claim to those lands.

“Start assembling the men,” Keith ordered. “I want them training in ship-tae-shore landings. I want them drilling formations until they can execute in their sleep. When we sail, I want six hundred warriors who move as one.”

“Aye, me laird.” The captains began filing out, their voices already rising in discussion of logistics and training schedules.

Cillian lingered, his pale eyes studying Keith with uncomfortable perception. “Ye’re betting everything on this assault.”

“I am.” Keith didn’t bother denying it. “Six hundred men is most of our fighting strength. If this fails, we’ll be vulnerable fer years.”

“And ye think it’s worth the risk?”

“I ken it is.” Keith’s gaze returned to the map, to the territories marked in MacLeod colors that would soon be his. “Because if we succeed, we’ll control the most strategically valuable lands in the western Highlands. We’ll be untouchable.”

“And yer daughter?” Cillian asked quietly. “Once again, ye’re certain she needs tae die?”

“She’s a complication I cannae afford.” Keith’s voice went flat. “Sentiment has nay place in this plan, Cillian. Ye of all people should understand that.”

Cillian bowed and left, leaving Keith alone with the maps and the guttering candles and the weight of decisions that would reshape the Highlands.

Two weeks. Perhaps less.

Then Moyra MacKenzie would die, Euan MacLeod would fall, and Keith would finally claim what should have been his all along.