Wager with a Warrior - Emma Prince Page 0,23

am, tasked with solving a problem that is apparently too difficult for ye.”

“The attacks simply dinnae make sense,” Lamond had muttered.

After a handful of days spent staring at the map, Gregor had secretly admitted that Lamond was right. But he wasn’t about to give up so easily.

There was one stretch along the southeast corner of Morgan lands that hadn’t yet been hit, not even with a scrap of Gunn plaid. If the Gunns were spreading out their raids, trying to harrow the Morgans with seemingly random attacks, that area would be an obvious target.

Moreover, the Gunns hadn’t yet returned to a spot they’d already struck. Instead, they seemed to want to catch the Morgans off-guard and then slip away, rather than engage in an all-out skirmish.

Which meant Gregor just might be able to catch them in the act of attacking the southeast border next.

If they were going to put a decisive end to these Gunn raids, however, the Morgans needed to meet them with an overwhelming show of strength and force. And that was something Gregor knew a thing or two about.

He’d gathered every able-bodied man, including Edgar the blacksmith, leaving only a small contingent of guards who were to remain at Castle Bharraich. Then they’d set out at dusk for the southeast, ready to quash the Gunn raiders definitively.

That had been three nights ago.

Three bloody nights, sitting in the damp and cold and dark, waiting in silence. And Gregor had naught to show for it—no Gunn attack, no resounding victory, and no feud resolution. He was certainly no closer to returning to his mission.

And tonight…he had worse than naught to show tonight.

“Unless ye have yer own plan, feel free to shut yer trap, Lamond,” Gregor growled at the captain. Lamond lifted a weary brow at him but refrained from saying more, thank God.

When the four torches on the corners of Castle Bharraich’s battlements could be made out against the night sky, the men wordlessly picked up their pace, eager to return to their beds for a few precious hours of sleep before dawn.

Gregor fell back, letting them flow ahead of him. By the time he reached the stables, most of the men were already inside the keep or slogging up the hill. Lamond was just emerging from the stables when Gregor dismounted.

“We need a new approach, MacLeod.”

Gregor waited until one of the stable lads had led his horse inside before exhaling wearily.

“Aye, I ken. Let me think on it. And ye think on it as well.”

Despite his obvious fatigue, Lamond straightened at that. “I will,” he said, giving Gregor a nod before heading up to the castle.

Gregor stood there for a moment, letting the cool night air clear his head. He rolled his neck, wincing at the stiffness there.

With his head tilted back, his gaze fell on the battlements above. The torches flickered in the shifting breeze, casting an orange glow over the castle’s gray stones—and a figure standing on the battlements. Not a guard, but a woman.

Birdie.

Her hands rested on the crenelated stone, her face turned down to him. She must have been keeping watch for the men, waiting for their return.

Or for Gregor.

The thought was far too tempting—and no doubt a figment of Gregor’s exhausted mind.

He’d kept his distance this past sennight, busying himself with his maps and plans. And avoiding her. The urge to kiss her whenever they were alone was nigh overpowering, but since no good could come from such a foolish act, it was better to stay away.

Yet of their own volition, his feet carried him up the hill and through the keep’s doors into the great hall. He went straight to the stairs, not stopping to see if the Laird was still awake or to return to his own bed. Instead he climbed directly to the top of the castle.

When he stepped onto the battlements, her back was to him. The wind toyed with the hem of her midnight-blue gown and the loose end of her chestnut plait.

Three long, pounding heartbeats passed before Gregor noticed there was another person on the battlements with them. One of the guards he’d left at the castle, a younger lad who was tall but reed-thin, stood watch in the opposite corner.

Birdie turned then, her moss-green gaze landing on Gregor. Though her skin was flawless in the soft glow of the torches, she looked weary, her brow pinched and the hint of dark shadows under her eyes.

“Ye can go have yer supper now, Eamon,” she said to the