The Sinclair men,who had been forced to the role of idle spectators, stepped forward.
“Ye ken our men would not raise arms while we are on McAfee soil,” Arran Sinclair asserted, his voice carrying the weight of unwavering conviction. “This brazen attack—it could not have sprung from our men.”
Alisdair, standing tall amid the carnage, turned to the Sinclairs with a measured scrutiny. “Indeed, Laird Sinclair,” Alisdair responded, his tone deliberate, “no accusation has been cast upon yer kin.”
A shadow of doubt changed Alisdair’s stern features for a moment. His eyes narrowed slightly, the cogs of his mind turning with a strategist’s precision. He perceived the unsolicited defense as a crack in the Sinclair armor—an unwitting revelation most telling.
“Yet here you stand, offering denials unbidden,” Alisdair continued, his stance resolute. “One might wonder at the eagerness to disavow deeds unspoken.”
Arran Sinclair’s jaw clenched, and his sons shifted uneasily beside him as if the very earth beneath their feet had become uncertain. The air, thick with the coppery scent of spilled blood, constricted around them.
“I wonder what gives ye a guilty conscience and makes ye deny something ye were not accused of doing,” Alisdair remarked, glaring at Laird Sinclair.
Arran offered no retort. Alisdair’s gaze lingered on the Sinclairs for a moment longer before he turned and walked away.
