“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.
