Read Chapter 17: The Scheme Unfolds

The morning light was thin and grey through the shutters when Iona woke to find Lachlan already dressed, his boots caked with mud, a folded paper in his hand. He stood at the window, reading it again, and the set of his jaw told her everything she needed to know.

“What is it?” she asked, sitting up.

He turned, and for a moment she saw the exhaustion beneath his composure. “Donal. He’s filed a legal notice with the sheriff in Inverness. He claims the boundary parcel—the one that abuts the east road—has been abandoned by its tenants and that he holds the mortgage rights through his uncle’s estate.” He held the paper out to her. “He’s petitioning for forced sale within the month.”

Iona took the page. The legal script was dense, but the meaning was plain. “That’s Cameron land,” she said. “The MacTavishes and Camerons have grazed it for generations.”

“The deed we found says otherwise,” Lachlan said quietly. “Alistair Donal held it. And Donal is his heir.”

The trust deed they’d found in the cave felt suddenly less like a treasure and more like a rope around their necks.

“He moved fast,” Iona said.

“He knew we’d find the cave eventually,” Lachlan replied. “Or he planned for it. The notice was filed two days ago—the morning after we were there.” He didn’t say her name, but Iona heard it anyway. Elspeth.

She stood and began pulling on her boots. “Then we go to Inverness and contest it.”

“We have no standing,” Lachlan said. “The deed’s legal chain is contested. The sheriff will rule on the paperwork as it stands. And the paperwork as it stands gives Donal the claim.”

“Then we find the tenants,” Iona said. “The family on that farm—the MacRaes. They’ve been there for forty years. They have a story. The sheriff will listen to that.”

Lachlan’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “The MacRaes pay rent to the Campbell estate.”

Iona froze. “What?”

“That boundary parcel was never fully absorbed into MacTavish holdings. After the feud, the land was split—symbolically, to keep the peace. The east parcel went to the Camerons’ holding, but the rental rights were assigned to the Campbells as part of the original settlement.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “My father thought it was a slight, that the Campbells held a leash on our ground. But he never contested it. Too proud to admit the estate needed the income.”

“So Donal—“

“Donal bought the rental rights from the Campbell estate years ago, quietly, through intermediaries. He wrote the family’s debt. And now he’s calling it due.”

Iona felt the cold settle in her chest. “Then we go to the MacRaes. Warn them. Help them pay.”

“With what?” Lachlan’s voice was raw. “The estate is mortgaged to the hilt. My father’s debts, the failed harvests, the compensation we paid to the MacTavish families after the raid—there’s nothing left. Donal knows that. He timed this to break us precisely because we can’t stop it.”

Iona’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “So we do nothing?”

“We go to the MacRaes,” Lachlan said, and his voice was softer now, almost gentle. “We stand with them when the notice comes. We let them know they are not abandoned.”

“That doesn’t save their home.”

“No,” he said. “But it tells them a story different from the one Donal wants them to believe.”

She met his eyes. For the first time since they’d married, she felt she was looking at a man who understood what loyalty actually cost.

---

The MacRae farm was a long stone cottage at the edge of the boundary lands, its roof sagging under the weight of too many winters, its fields ragged with untended grass. Mary MacRae met them at the door, her apron flour-dusted, her hands steady on the frame.

“Mister Campbell,” she said, and then her eyes moved to Iona. “Mistress Campbell.”

“We’ve come about the notice,” Iona said.

Mary’s jaw tightened. “The messenger arrived yesterday. He said we had a month to pay the arrears or leave.” She lifted her chin. “I told him we’d be dead before we walked off this land.”

“You may not have to,” Lachlan said. “We’re contesting the claim. The deed that gives Donal his rights may be flawed.”

“Flawed.” Mary laughed, a dry sound like wind rustling dead leaves. “Flawed or not, the law is the law when a man with money stands behind it. We’ve no coin, and no one will lend to a tenant of the boundary farms.” She looked at Iona. “Your father sold us down the river years ago, you know. When he signed the boundary agreement, he traded our security for his pride.”

Iona’s stomach clenched. Auld Ewan’s partial sale—the unrecorded transaction she’d found in the MacTavish archives—had been to MacAllister, but the trail had been murky. She’d never traced it fully to the boundary lands.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Mary’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know your own family’s history, do you? The boundary agreement was supposed to be temporary. A ten-year arrangement until the feud settled. Your father never signed the extension. He let it lapse, thinking it would revert to MacTavish control. But the Campbells had already filed the standing claim through their rental manager. When no one contested it, the claim became permanent.”

Iona felt the floor shift beneath her feet. “He didn’t know.”

“He knew,” Mary said thinly. “He knew, and he was too proud to admit he’d been outmaneuvered. So he let it stand, and he never told anyone—not your mother, not the estate’s lawyers. He swallowed the shame and let us carry the cost.”

Lachlan’s hand found Iona’s elbow, steadying her. She barely felt it.

“Then this wasn’t Donal’s doing from the start,” Iona said slowly. “He bought an existing claim.”

“Aye,” Mary agreed. “Bought it, expanded it, and sharpened it into a blade. And now he’s twisting it in your family’s gut.” She stepped back from the door. “You want to help? Find a way to break the claim. Or find the money to pay it off.” Her gaze moved over them, calculating. “Otherwise, we’ll be gone by the next moon, and that land becomes his bridgehead onto both your holdings.”

---

The ride back to the castle was silent. Iona’s mind churned through the fragments—the unrecorded sale, the trust deed, the rental rights that had changed hands through intermediaries Donal controlled. It was a web, and it had been decades in the weaving.

“He’ll do the same to the other boundary farms,” she said finally. “One by one. Nibbling at the edges until the heart of the estate is gutted.”

“Aye,” Lachlan said. “And there’s nothing legal we can do to stop it. The deeds are clean. The claims are filed. The only question is whether Donal has the capital to press all of them at once, or whether he’ll wait.”

“Then we make him wait,” Iona said. “We find something he wants more than speed. Something that buys us time.”

“Such as?”

She thought of the silver brooch tucked in her wardrobe, the Ross name Gregor had whispered in the darkness of her tower room, the trust deed that made their marriage the key to everything.

“The deed says the land reverts to both families upon a marriage between our houses,” she said. “Donal’s claim depends on the marriage being annulled or dissolved. If our union is solid, his claim weakens.”

Lachlan’s horse slowed. “You’re suggesting we make the marriage real.”

“I’m suggesting we make it public,” she said. “A proper wedding feast. A celebration that puts our alliance beyond question. Let Donal see that the clans are binding themselves together, not pulling apart.”

He studied her for a long moment, and she saw something shift in his eyes—a cautious hope, or perhaps just a recognition that she was no longer the woman he’d locked in a tower.

“The MacRaes were evicted today,” he said quietly. “We were too late to stop it. But if you’re asking me to stand beside you before the whole of the highlands and swear that this marriage is more than words on a page, then I will.”

Iona nodded, but her throat was tight. The MacRaes—Mary and her sons and the old grandfather who had once taught her to fish the burn at the boundary’s edge—were already packing their carts. She could picture them on the road, their home shut behind them, their land seized by a man who had never once set foot on it.

“We should have been faster,” she said.

“We didn’t know,” Lachlan replied.

“We should have known,” Iona said bitterly. “Our fathers were too busy hating each other to see the knife at their throats.” She looked at him, and the truth settled between them like a stone. “And we almost did the same.”

Lachlan’s hand moved, and for a moment she thought he might reach for hers. But he only adjusted his grip on the reins.

“Then we don’t,” he said. “We learn.”

The castle gates rose ahead, grey and familiar, and Iona felt the weight of everything they still didn’t know pressing down on her shoulders. Somewhere across the boundary lands, the MacRaes were leaving their home. And somewhere—in Inverness, or Edinburgh, or a hole in the ground she had yet to find—Donal MacAllister was counting his winnings.

But she had the brooch. She had the deed. And now she had a husband who had agreed to stand beside her in public.

It wasn’t enough. But it was a start.