Chapter 26
Horace was a coward; that much Ruaridh knew. But he hadn’t expected the man to fall to his knees, cowering as though he had just seen a ghost.
Ruaridh wondered for a moment if he had thought wrong and was right to have doubted him. But then, Horace’s disposition could have well been a result of the brush with death that the stranger’s meaty fist was.
The first thing Ruaridh did was search the man for weapons.
From his experience, he knew the predominant hand was used to defend oneself, and the man had attempted to use his left one to punch Horace.
He found a dagger concealed at his right hip, which confirmed his assumption.
It was easier to draw a weapon from the opposite side of the dominant hand.
The man instantly became alert when Ruaridh pulled out the dagger. He was quick to react, but Ruaridh was faster. He flung the blade, and it clattered noisily onto the outcrop.
Now disarmed, the man was aware of the vulnerable position he was in. He was an experienced fighter. Only a man who had lived a life of brawling knew how to distract his opponent by throwing his arm back to conceal the elbow that made for his ribs.
Ruaridh caught the arm, but was not able to dodge the skull against his face.
His grip loosened a little, and it was just enough for the man to get a good look at his face.
Recognition flashed in his eyes, and his anger flared.
He fought to break free with a new strength, but Ruaridh quickly recovered from the disorienting hit and pinned both his arms to his back.
He wrapped his free arm around the man’s throat.
“You set me up!” the man growled, lurching at Horace.
Did he recognize Ruaridh as Laird? Why was he so panicked? If their business did not involve him, then why was he showing so much animosity?
Ruaridh did not recognize the man, nor should the man have recognized him. From his accent, it was clear he was English.
He forced the man back. Horace was at a perfect kicking level with his feet, and if the man’s metal-capped boots told him anything, it was that he had ruined many men’s faces and that he was itching for his next victim.
“What’s happening here?” Ruaridh barked.
Horace quivered. If he had responded, Ruaridh wouldn’t have heard him over his captive’s feral grunts.
“I daenae wish to repeat meself!”
The last time Ruaridh had had a strange Englishman sleuthing his grounds at night, his daughter had gone missing. He would not like to believe Horace had ties to the people bold enough to disrespect his family.
“My L-Laird,” Horace choked out, his eyes wild. “My f-friend—” Ruaridh decided anything coming out of his mouth from then onwards would be a lie. “My friend and I were merely having a disagreement.”
Ruaridh smiled wryly. A blatant lie and a direct insult to his intelligence.
The man jerked as if indignant at such a cover-up. Ruaridh’s grip tightened on his throat.
“What sort of friend attempts to pummel the other?”
Horace seemed to develop some backbone at last, for he straightened and looked him in the eye. “As I said, my friend and I were having a disagreement.” He fixed the man with a pointed look. “This is just a misunderstanding.”
Did he realize that constantly glancing at his accomplice did not lend him any credibility?
Of course, he didn’t. He was too busy feigning courage that he believed would be able to assuage Ruaridh’s concern. But no matter how tall a man stood or how angled his chin was, he could not mask the smallness that sat behind his eyes.
Horace stood still, too still, which drew more attention to his fluttering coat than his trembling fingers, and his left eye twitched. He was easy to intimidate. All Ruaridh did was glare, and his false courage melted around him.
“Let’s take yer friend”—Ruaridh nudged the man—“inside for tea and clear up this misunderstanding, shall we?”
His hand around the man’s throat moved to grip his shoulder, and he held him at arm’s length as if he intended to push the man forward. Horace did not want that. Color drained from his face, revealing an ugly, pasty white mug, which was deceitful of the wretch he was.
Both parties understood the threat; it was as clear as day. The castle was a fortified structure, housing a platoon of men dedicated and loyal to Ruaridh, trained in combat, and disciplined in torture. Escape was bleak once they left the hill.
The man’s face twisted in rage, and he swung around.
But there was not much he could accomplish.
Ruaridh’s grip was unyielding, limiting movement in any form, but just for attempting, he kicked the man’s knees, sending him to the ground, and pushed his face into the dirt.
Rain had picked up, so salt water flowed to his lips, and he spluttered.
Ruaridh fixed his gaze on Horace. He was not sure what the Baronet was up to or what lengths he would go to cover it up.
His position was a bit vulnerable. Horace could attempt to knock him out, forcing him to defend himself in the process and loosening his hold on his captive, who would use that advantage to harm him.
Ruaridh trusted Horace, but at that moment, he was an unpredictable enemy.
“Are ye willing to talk now?” he asked.
Horace did not respond. He was either too horrified, having never witnessed such barbarism, or unmotivated by his accomplice’s suffering.
“He already told you the truth,” the stranger said
“What sort of friendship requires clandestine meetings and mentions of deals?” Ruaridh applied pressure to the nape of the man’s neck. “If ye ken what’s good for ye, ye had better start talking, because yer ‘friend’ here is of nay help.” He yanked the man’s head up so he could face Horace.
Like a dog on a leash faced with an enemy it was taught to hate, the man snarled at him. His hatred frothed at his mouth and spilled down his chin, and rain washed it away, only for the erosion to give it back to him.
Ruaridh’s hair fell over his brow. The water streaming down it stung his eyes, but he did not blink. The more reluctant both parties were, the more irritable he became. His shirt was soaked through, and he thought back to when he had thrown it on and why.
Violet. She should be in bed, serenaded by the pelting of the rain against her window, unaware that he held her father and his accomplice hostage. She had never seen him in this state, so callous and hostile, and he wondered how he would face her by sunrise.
His rage was not one that subsided quickly. He was not a man who wore the cloak of the devil and then easily shrugged it off. It settled in him like wool, heavy and comforting on a cold night, and stayed long after the sun had risen.
When will this sun rise? When will this night end? Why won’t Horace put a stop to these games? He did not care about the threat. What could he not say that the promise of torture could not force from his throat?
He remained reluctant, so Ruaridh pulled the woolen cloak closer and gave him a little motivation.
He fisted the man’s hair and grated his cheek against the harsh rocks.
The man jerked, his body writhing like a worm in salt.
His breathing was ragged, coming out uneven through clenched teeth.
He tried to fight the pain, tried to fight the howl swelling his throat.
Blood and skin streamed into his mouth, painting his teeth red.
He convulsed, and when he couldn’t take it anymore, he cried, “I work for Lord Westall!”
By the time Ruaridh stopped, he was winded and hyperventilating.
“What did ye say?”
His tongue had fallen out of his mouth at some point, and the raw skin had taken away his coherence. Ruaridh lifted him by his hair. His right eye was shut, and his teeth were visible through his cheek.
“Lord Westall sent me. Sir Horace has been selling him information about you.”
Ruaridh shook his head, and Horace stumbled backwards, crumpling under the weight of his stare.
“Tell me this isnae true.” Ruaridh shook his head again in disbelief, his heart stuttering.
He rose to his feet. With this burst of rage in his chest, he could launch the man at Horace without breaking a sweat.
“I did it for Violet,” Horace explained as Ruaridh stalked towards him. “I came to Scotland to get her back, and Lord Westall promised to help me in exchange for information about you.”
“And ye gave it to him! I let ye into me home! I trusted ye—we all did.”
“I stopped. I promise I stopped when I found out how wrong I was about you. I regretted it and tried to fix it without letting anyone know. I was going to take care of it.”
The buff man started shaking, and Ruaridh realized he was laughing. “You’re such a disgrace, incapable of doing anything. I am only here because you refused to do your job. You broke the deal when you stopped sending Lord Westall the letters. Did you think it would be that easy?”
Ruaridh yanked him by the collar and drove a fist into his good cheek, seeing red. He wanted to kill him, break his bones, then throw him off a cliff. If the man were lucky, his body would float in the loch and be carried to Lord Westall, but Ruaridh could not rely on luck.
“Stop it, Laird McLeod!” Horace cried, trying to hold him back, but in Ruaridh’s rage, he flung the man aside and continued to punch the bastard on the floor.
Only when he felt the man’s jaw crack did he stop.
The bastard moaned. He was not dead; dead men didn’t moan. Ruaridh let his barely conscious body drop to the ground.
As the man jerked, he considered finishing him off. Lord Westall needed a message sent to him. Ruaridh wanted to post his lifeless body across the sea, wrapped in his tartan, but dead men didn’t talk.
“Get up.” He dragged him to his feet. One side of his face was shaved away, and the other side was purple and swollen.
His head hung backward. Lord Westall would have trouble recognizing him.
“Tell this to yer boss. If he ever comes close to me family or sends anyone to me home again, it will be the last time he breathes, do ye understand me?!”
It was not wise to release him into the night. He could have more men waiting in the dark for his command to attack. Any man with a modicum of wisdom knows not to venture into enemy territory alone.
They were a trek away from the castle, and Ruaridh was without a weapon.
Horace could not keep up if he tried to run, and Ruaridh could not leave him behind, regardless of the situation he had put them in.
He hoped the man had come alone and had better sense than to attack when he could barely hold his head up.
Ruaridh watched him until he completely disappeared behind a copse.
“I am sorry.” Horace was still on the ground, trembling as though he feared a reckoning.
“We should retreat for now.”
Ruaridh did not wait for a response. He just turned away and walked ahead, shoulders set, pace steady enough that Horace would have to keep up or be left behind. It was the only mercy he could offer. A space to breathe.
The way back felt longer than the way over. The cicadas had quieted, drowned in their homes by the rain. Ruaridh thought it ironic. A storm had come unexpectedly, stolen their shelter, their safety, leaving nothing but cold earth and bare ground, and he was facing the promise of a storm.
He had been just like the bugs—teeming with life, living in blissful obliviousness, unaware of his own looming disaster. Now that he was aware of it, he had to think of the shade he would provide for his people.
Tomorrow, he would have to sit down with the man and find out exactly what Westall knew. The clan might not be safe.
Westall had blatantly rejected Violet, so why would he want to be part of her life again?
Men didn’t change their minds without reason, and certainly not Westall.
He was too proud for regret, too careful for sentiment.
If he was coming forward now, it was for something he could hold, something he could gain. Clan McLeod was his target.
“My Laird!” Horace paused at the door.
Was he now feeling too guilty to enjoy his hospitality?
“Forgive me.” The words came out small, almost swallowed before they reached the air. He said them with his eyes fixed on the pool around his feet. He would catch a cold if he kept up this pathetic theatrics.
Ruaridh could not care for his sincerity. Act or not, the man had proven to be a fool who could endanger everyone around him for personal gain.
He felt for Violet. She had to be raised by this man. No wonder that when he met her, her dreams had been of mundane things that an average person experienced on a whim. Despite all of that, she loved him still. Loved him enough to vouch for his integrity, his honesty.
She had let him into her life, believing that he was going to come around, that he would accept her choices, but he had been scheming to marry her off to a man she did not love, who had called her used and defiled.
How could Horace have been so foolish as to have trusted Westall? How could a father be so uncaring to a woman as fragile and kind as Violet?
Ruaridh turned towards him. He was torn between keeping the man’s betrayal a secret from Violet and letting her find out the truth. It would be better early in their relationship. It would be better if she heard it from her father’s lips.
“I am not the one ye should be apologizing to. Ye put Violet and everyone in me clan in danger, most especially Violet. Ye should come clean to yer daughter and beg for her forgiveness.”
In all of this, all he could think of was Violet. Violet, who loved her father. Violet, who was not yet part of his clan, a clan Westall would massacre just to have his revenge.
The thought stung like a blade in his back from a trusted hand. Every decision Ruaridh had made since she had come into his life had been corrupted by his weakness for her.
He was a failure of a laird, and these petty feelings he was letting distract him were a weakness he could not afford. He needed to return to who he had been before he let pretty distractions corrupt his mind. When he was cold, his senses were sharp.
He would do his duty to Violet and marry her, but he would never allow himself be blinded again by weakening emotions like love.