Chapter 21
Morning crept into the chamber like a shy guest, slipping pale gold across the floorboards and over the edge of the bed. Baird felt it before he saw it, that familiar ache in his shoulder, that faint pull of healing skin along the wound Davina had tended the night before.
He drew a breath, letting the weight of the moment settle.
He had slept the previous night, not lightly and not half-alert as he usually did, but once again soundly, like the night before, with Davina’s head on is chest and his arm wrapped around her waist as though he’d always held her that way.
Dangerous.
Dangerous in a way swords and Sinclairs were not.
He dressed in quiet motions, mindful of the softness behind him.
He reached for his shirt first, easing the linen over his injured arm with a muttered curse, then belted his plaid and strapped on his dirk.
It was his armor of habit, against what waited below and, in honest God’s truth, against the woman still tangled in the covers.
He had almost lost her yesterday. The thought cut sharper than the wound.
He buttoned the last of his cuffs before glancing back toward the bed. Davina still lay beneath the blankets, her hair a spill of gold against the pillow. Only her eyes peeked out.
“Are ye going tae interrogate the scout?” she asked, with a voice that was still rough with sleep, but softer than dawn.
Baird’s throat tightened. Even half-awake, she unsettled him.
“Aye,” he managed only a nod and nothing more. Anything else felt too revealing.
Davina shifted, pulling the blanket higher as though cold, though he suspected it was nerves.
She met his gaze. “Be careful, Baird.”
It was nothing but a simple phrase, which any wife might say.
But from her, after everything, it struck with the precision of an arrow.
Something warm and fierce unfurled in him, curling tight in his chest. He turned fully, unable not to, his eyes drawn to her like a man to a fire on a winter night.
He wanted to cross the room, to cup her face in his hands, to kiss her slowly and with certainty before he faced whatever truth the prisoner held. His body shifted a fraction toward her before he caught himself. He swallowed, tamping down the impulse with effort that bordered on pain.
“I’ll be careful,” he said instead, offering more of a vow than reassurance.
Her lips parted, as though she might say more, but she didn’t. She only watched him in a way he did not deserve and could not withstand. Before he betrayed anything further, Baird turned toward the door.
“Rest,” he ordered, though the command came out quieter than intended. “Ailis will bring ye breakfast.”
Davina gave the smallest nod from beneath the covers.
Then he forced his feet forward, but each step felt heavier than steel.
Outside the chamber, the corridor felt too empty after the warmth he’d left behind.
He squared his shoulders, letting the laird settle over him like armor.
There was a traitor’s ally bound in the cells, a clan depending on him, and answers needed before any more blood was spilled.
He headed through the keep, which was already stirring as he descended the stairs, but as he reached the lower level, the noise faded beneath stone and shadow. The dungeon corridor was cold enough to sting. Two guards straightened at his approach.
“Is he awake?” Baird asked.
“Aye, me laird,” one answered. “And foul-tempered as ever.”
“Good,” Baird murmured. He preferred his enemies conscious. It made the fear that followed all the sharper.
He stopped before the iron-banded door and glanced at the guard. “Open it.”
The lock scraped. Hinges groaned. The stench of damp earth and rust drifted out.
Inside, the Sinclair scout hung from chains bolted into the wall, with his arms stretched high enough to keep him from standing fully upright.
His cheek was swollen, and his lip split from the fight the day before.
But his eyes were still hard and spiteful with defiance.
The moment he saw Baird, he straightened as best he could.
“Nay bow fer ye,” he spat. “Nae even in the gallows.”
Baird stepped inside, motioning for the guards to remain outside. The door closed behind him with a final, metallic thud. He stood before the man, with his arms folded behind his back and his posture composed despite the dull ache in his injured arm.
“Why did ye come?” Baird asked quietly.
It was a simple, straightforward question and he expected a simple, straightforward reply.
The scout barked out a laugh, which was dry and cruel. “Wouldnae ye like tae ken.”
Baird didn’t hesitate. His fist snapped forward, striking the man across the jaw with a crack that echoed off the stone. Blood sprayed from the split lip, splattering the floor. The scout’s head snapped to the side, but he let out a ragged chuckle.
“Ye hit like yer braither,” he taunted. “Soft.”
It took every ounce of discipline not to grab him by the throat and squeeze until the truth spilled out.
Baird exhaled once, regaining control of himself. Then, he asked again. “Why?”
But there was only silence this time. The scout stared straight ahead, breathing hard through his nose. His refusal was deliberate, meant to provoke. Baird didn’t give him the satisfaction of a raised voice or lost temper.
He struck again. This time harder. His knuckles met cheekbone with a sickening thud. The man’s head slammed against the stone behind him. Blood trickled from his brow, sliding down the taut line of his cheek.
The scout coughed, spit thick and red hitting the floor between them. His breaths were uneven now, his defiance shaken, though not extinguished.
“Ye will answer me,” Baird said softly, in a voice low enough to scrape bone. “And ye will dae it soon. Because I’ve far less patience than mercy.”
The man swallowed hard, and a tremor betrayed him despite his snarl. Still, he said nothing. But Baird knew that his fear was growing, spreading like a disease.
He straightened slowly, letting the moment stretch, letting the dread settle into the very cracks of the man’s resolve.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll dae this the slow way.”
He stepped in again, striking the man with the flat of his fist, this time catching the hollow beneath the scout’s cheekbone. A crack followed. Whether it was bone or pride, it hardly mattered. Blood spilled freely now, dripping onto the stone floor in uneven spatters.
“Why were ye in Kincaid lands?” Baird asked.
Silence, followed by another strike and the sound of hard, swift knuckles slamming into ribs. The man gasped, and chains rattled as he sagged. Only the irons were holding him upright now. He wheezed for air, yet still glared through swollen lids.
“Why?” Baird repeated in a voice as calm as rain.
No answer. Baird hit him again.
This was no rage, no uncontrolled fury. It was methodical. It was a blade honed by necessity, each blow delivered with the precision of a man who had interrogated enemies since the moment he became laird.
Blood smeared Baird’s knuckles. The metallic scent thickened the air.
The scout let out a choked sound, which was half-laugh and half-groan. “Ye think this… will make me speak? I’ve held out against worse than—”
Baird drove his fist into the man’s stomach. The breath tore out of him in a wet gasp. He hung limp for a moment, with his face twisted in agony.
“Why,” Baird asked quietly, almost gently, “were ye in me village?”
All he received was a faint shake of the dead.
Baird struck him again across the jaw. The scout’s head snapped back, blood arcing in a crimson spray.
He whimpered in an involuntary sound that told Baird he was close to breaking.
Chain links rattled as the man tried weakly to pull away from the blows.
“Why?” Baird asked one last time.
Still nothing. So, Baird slammed a fist into the man’s ribs once more, so hard the scout let out a strangled cry.
“Stop! Stop!” the man gasped, coughing violently. “I’ll talk… just… stop!”
Baird halted instantly. He stepped back a full pace, his eyes never left the prisoner.
“That’s better,” he said quietly.
The scout trembled, his face a swollen ruin of blood and defiance turned to fear. Baird tilted his head.
“Would ye like some water?”
The man blinked, stunned. His brow lifted in disbelief. “Is… is that a trick?”
“Nay.” Baird turned toward the door. “Bring water.”
The guard outside had clearly been listening. He appeared at once, carrying a pitcher and a wooden cup. Baird didn’t touch it. He did not go near enough for the scout to mistake this for mercy. He only nodded to the guard.
“Let him drink.”
The guard stepped forward, cupping a hand beneath the man’s chin to steady him, then raised the pitcher. The water spilled into the prisoner’s mouth in eager, half-choking gulps. He drank like a starved animal, with water running down his neck, mixing with blood.
“Slowly,” Baird instructed.
The guard eased the flow. The scout sagged, panting, while water was dripping from his chin as though he’d forgotten what it felt like to swallow without pain.
Only when the man finally drew a ragged breath did Baird speak again. “Now, tell me why ye came.”
The man swallowed and fear shivered through him. The water soothed nothing but his throat. His fear trembled more noticeably now, stripping away the earlier bravado.
“We… we were sent tae the castle,” he said finally, voice raw. “Nae tae raid the damned village. The village was just where we hid when yer patrols came too close.”
Baird’s eyes narrowed. “Sent fer what?”
The man hesitated. His gaze flicked to the stone floor, then upward, as though expecting salvation from the ceiling. None came.
“Tae pay someone,” he whispered.
The room went still.
“Pay whom?” Baird asked quietly.
The scout closed his eyes, shoulders tightening against the chains. “Our… inside man.”
Inside man.
The words sank like iron into Baird’s gut. That was the traitor inside his walls, someone with access to Malcolm, to the council chambers, to Baird himself. A cold, surgical certainty pierced him.
Baird stepped closer. He was in no rush, but he was still in possession of that slow inevitability of a man who now saw the shape of the truth.
“That inside man,” he said, “is also the one who killed me braither.”
The scout flinched not in denial, but in confirmation he could not hide. Baird’s jaw tightened until it ached. His pulse beat hard in his wounded arm.
“Tell me his name.”
The man’s eyes shot open. Baird could see panic flaring. “I cannae.”
“Ye can. And ye will.”
“Nay,” the scout choked. “Ye dinnae ken what they’ll dae tae me if I speak it.”
Baird leaned in, and his voice dropped to a low, lethal murmur. “Ye should be afraid of what I’ll dae tae ye here if ye dinnae.”
The prisoner swallowed, but his answer came fast, almost desperate.
“Better tae die here at yer hand than go home a traitor.” His breath shook. “If I speak his name, I’ll be hunted by me own. There’s nay place in the Highlands where a Sinclair oath-breaker lives long.”
Of all the answers Baird had expected, this one was not it. The scout met his gaze for a heartbeat, just long enough for something like grim conviction to surface beneath the fear.
“I’ll face yer fist, yer blade, yer rage,” the man whispered. “But I will nae face theirs.”
Baird straightened slowly. He said nothing for several breaths, studying the man who would say no more even as blood dripped from his jaw and bruises bloomed under his skin. Of all things, the stubborn loyalty struck a chord he had not expected.
A man who would not betray his own clan. Even Baird, whose world had begun to fracture under the weight of treachery, could respect that. Even if it damned them both.
“Very well. Ye’ll keep yer tongue… fer now.”
The scout exhaled.
“But hear me,” Baird added, stepping close enough that the scout felt his breath. “I will find him, yer inside man. The one who took me braither from me. The one ye’re protecting. And when I dae…” His eyes hardened to steel. “Hell itself will envy him.”
A tremor ran through the prisoner’s frame. Yet his silence remained. It was the silence of a man prepared to die.