William de Soules squinted against the approaching flicker of a torch.

He’d grown accustomed to the guards’ rotating schedule a few months ago. They usually snuffed the torches at midnight, climbing the stone stairs that led aboveground to the palace and sealing the door to the dungeon with a creaking thud. Then two guards would return sometime around dawn to light the torches again and take up their positions at the base of the stairs.

Though it was nigh impossible to tell the exact time in the inky darkness of his cell, he was certain dawn hadn’t come so soon. To confirm his suspicions, only one slash of orange light illuminated the dark, dripping dungeon, not two.

William pushed himself up from his cot, slinking toward the iron bars to get a better look. In the gloom, he could make out the coarse features of his man Bevin approaching his cell.

He drew in a sharp breath, his pulse jumping. It had been nearly two months since he’d received any news, and if Bevin bore the information he hoped, William was in for a treat that he could savor for years to come.

Bevin strode closer, peering warily into the shadows stretching beyond the light of his torch.

“Psst.”

Bevin nearly leapt from his skin at William’s soft hiss. He swung around, lifting the torch high. William held up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

“Lower that, ye fool,” he breathed.

As Bevin did his bidding, William stilled, listening for any sounds of movement from the cell next to him. Countess Agnes of Strathearn—former countess, that was—usually slept soundly through the nights, but William couldn’t risk her overhearing aught. The bitch had already sold him out once before. She would do it again if it meant that whoreson Bruce King would take pity on her further.

“What took ye so bloody long?” he demanded in a low whisper when he was satisfied that Agnes didn’t stir.

Bevin, slow-witted beast of burden that he was, ducked his head at William’s sharp tone.

“Forgive me, sire, but I didnae think I should risk visiting ye until the flurry surrounding the executions had died down.”

“It isnae yer job to think, Bevin,” William replied. “Only to follow my orders.”

“Aye, sire.” He dipped his brown head once more, waiting on William.

That was better. “It has been more than a month since the executions. I was expecting good news by now. What has happened?”

“A great deal, sire,” Bevin said, his thick brows dropping. “It…it isnae all good.”

William’s grip on the iron bars separating them tightened. “Speak, fool.”

“St. Giles failed in France.”

“What?” William swallowed, fighting to lower his voice. “I thought you said everything was arranged.”

“It was, sire, but there was an… unexpected obstacle at court. A Scottish warrior.”

“Who?”

“Kieran MacAdams, sire.”

William froze, but inside a storm unleashed, lashing his rage to life. Kieran MacAdams. The Highland brute had been the one to drag William from the clutches of the French whore who’d poisoned him, only to deliver him to the Bruce, bound, on his knees, and named a traitor.

“What the hell was Kieran MacAdams doing in France?”

Bevin shifted from one foot to the other. “Apparently no’ long after the executions, the King sent him to protect the woman.”

In an instant, William’s blood ran from hot to cold with trepidation. Then the Bruce had taken Richard Broun’s final words to heart.

Though it had been a joy to watch the King and the others squirm at Broun’s pronouncement, William cursed the man for revealing the fact that he still had a few allies tucked away in hiding, waiting for his word to revive the rebellion against the pretender King.

“Why didnae ye tell me this sooner?” he hissed through his teeth.

“As I said, sire, I didnae think I could risk a visit so soon after the executions. It was already nigh impossible to get the sleeping draught into the guards’ ale, and—”

“Then why didnae ye alert St. Giles to beware of that Highland beast?”

Bevin dropped his gaze. “I…I didnae realize until MacAdams had already departed for France what he was about. By then it was too late to get word to St. Giles through the normal channels.”

William scrubbed a hand over his face, breathing a curse. “What good is having ye placed in the palace stables if ye cannae even keep track of who comes and goes?” He fixed Bevin with a cold stare. “Mayhap David de Brechin was wrong about ye. Mayhap ye arenae any use to me after all.”

He let Bevin squirm for a moment before going on. “In which case, I’ll tell the guards all about the wee mishap with that young cousin of yers. Yer clan willnae want ye back once the truth comes out—assuming ye arenae simply killed on the spot when the guards learn that ye raped and strangled that sweet girl, then sank her body in the loch to make it all disappear.”

“Nay, sire, please, I beg ye, dinnae tell—”

“Shut yer trap, ye blithering idiot,” William snapped. The wheels in his mind ground slowly as he contemplated what to do. In only a few months, his brain had grown rusty and dull as a nail left out in the rain with naught to do but stare at the stone walls of his cell. He needed to think, needed to regain control of the situation.

St. Giles had been one of his few remaining contacts in France. Through Bevin, William had managed to get word to the man shortly after being sentenced to rot in Scone’s dungeon. Even then, with his wits sharp and his rage against the Bruce to fuel him, William had known he’d have to play things carefully at first. He couldn’t strike directly at the whoreson King yet.

The galling truth was, William no longer had the resources to plot a direct attack against the Bruce. In hanging the nobles who’d conspired with William in the Bruce’s overthrow, the King had sent a message that had frightened off many of William’s few remaining allies. He still had Bevin, of course, and a small handful of others who knew that crossing William would be far worse than anything the King would do to them.

Weakened and imprisoned, William had to bide his time, wait until the dust settled, and slowly gather his allies once again to strike against the King who had taken so much from him. Besides, the palace was crawling with the King’s Bodyguard Corps. The Bruce was never without at least a few of his elite warriors, according to Bevin. It was too early yet to attempt another assassination.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t strike at someone else. Someone who had humiliated and belittled him. Someone he burned to hurt as she’d hurt him. Oh, there were others he yearned to eliminate—that English bitch Elaine Beaumore, for starters, who’d killed his closest ally, David de Brechin, and Jerome Munro, who’d helped Elaine unravel his plan. And of course he would take pleasure in orchestrating Kieran MacAdams’s death from within Scone’s dungeon.

But Vivienne de Valance was meant to come first. She was supposed to be well outside the Bruce’s notice, tucked away in the French court imagining that since she’d rid herself of the scheming William de Soules, all was quiet and well. If aught, William had regretted sending St. Giles to kill her, because it would mean that he wouldn’t be able to make her suffer at his own hands.

But for once, Bevin was right. Their backchannels for communication were slow and delicate. It had taken a month just to arrange for the French bitch’s murder. There wouldn’t have been time to change course even if William had learned right away of MacAdams’s presence.

And now thanks to that brutish Highlander, William had neither his ally in France nor the knowledge of Vivienne’s death, which he’d meant to savor while he bided his time against the Bruce.

Damn it all, he was thinking in circles again. He needed to focus. Who knew when Bevin would be able to slip down to the dungeon to give him a report again?

“You said a great deal has happened since last we spoke,” William said, leveling Bevin with his gaze. “Is there aught else?”

Bevin nodded eagerly, his eyes widening. “Ye’ll never believe it, sire. They are here!”

Confusion tumbled through him. “Who is here?”

“The woman and MacAdams,” Bevin said, his breaths coming faster now. “He killed St. Giles, but then he brought the woman to Scone—right into the palace.”

Why would the idiot Highlander do such a thing? It didn’t matter, William told himself firmly, his own breath coming short with his excitement. He thought of the French whore just above him, gliding about in all her fine clothes and jewels, her bonny head held at that damn haughty angle. He thought of touching that creamy skin of hers, then breaking her neck with his bare hands.

Nay, nay, he would do it slower than that if he could. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“They are likely departing in a matter of hours,” Bevin said, interrupting William’s thoughts. “The Bruce sent someone to the stables to select two fine horses for them. What should I do, sire?”

William frantically searched his mind for a plan. She was so close, but if he wasn’t careful, she would slip through his grasp again.

“Gather whatever men ye can find. Use the stash of coins I told ye about to hire mercenaries if ye have to—whatever it takes. Follow Vivienne and MacAdams out of Scone. Dinnae strike right away, else the Bruce’s men will be close enough to give aid. But dinnae let them slip away.”

“And once we have them, sire?”

William’s lips drew back from his teeth. “Kill them.”