The time was not right; Ruaridh needed him less aware. He wanted his hands out of his cloak, which had to be concealing a dagger. Only then could he set up an ambush without risking his life or Horace’s.
The first thing he heard loud and clear was an angry yell by the man.
“We had a deal!”
Ruaridh felt a twisted sense of relief. He had witnessed such a scene multiple times. Horace was in debt to that man. It could be a bargain he had failed to fulfill or a debt he had yet to pay. Whatever it was, Horace had not betrayed him.
As Horace spoke, the buff man grew more annoyed. His spine was noticeably stiff, and his mannerisms showed more grit than Ruaridh had ever witnessed. When his irritation reached its peak, he suddenly fisted the lapels of Horace’s coat and made to hit him.
Ruaridh was quick to act. He made himself known, and both men froze. He took advantage of that and restrained the buff man by grabbing his arm and pinning it to his back.
“What’s going on here?” he barked.
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.
