"I want your brother and all your men out of Greymont Castle. 'Twill soon be mine anyway. Then, the five of us will go in so the wench can retrieve the deed and sign it before Talbot."
"I want naught more to do with this madness. I'm not going in," the dark-clothed, skinny solicitor said, holding up his hands in surrender.
"Aye, you will or you'll be dead, too!" Dalacroy snarled.
"Several of my men inside are injured." Cyrus forced himself to remain calm and focused. He would pretend to cooperate with the madman until he saw an opening. "I'll have some of the others carry them out."
Narrowing his eyes, Dalacroy nodded, then dragged Elspeth backward, out of the way.
"Fraser!" Cyrus called toward the portcullis.
"Up here." His brother waved from the battlements, one arm in a sling.
Cyrus was glad to see he was recovering. "You and the others come out. I'll send in men to help the injured."
"Very well."
"And be quick about it!" Dalacroy yelled.
While they waited, Cyrus scrutinized the whoreson. Sweat beaded on his pasty brow and his gaze shifted back and forth between him and the dozens of men behind him. Dalacroy had a white-knuckle grip on the dagger's hilt. The lunatic was as unstable as a powder keg stored next to a flaming torch.
Did the knave truly think Cyrus would let him live if he did kill Elspeth? He was fit for Bedlam and not thinking clearly.
"Why would you risk your life over a property when you have so many already?" Cyrus asked.
"Who gave you leave to ask questions?"
What a trifling bastard, full of self-importance. Restraining his need to wring the wee rooster's neck, Cyrus glanced aside at Goliath, picking grass along the wall. "And you stole my horse?"
"I assumed Ben Comyn would run you through."
"You assumed wrong."
"Where are the Comyns? They were supposed to be helping us," Dalacroy's pallid-faced guard grumbled next to him.
"We don't need them." Dalacroy spoke through clenched teeth.
"The survivors ran," Cyrus said. "Fled into the wood like wee mice."
"As I said, I don't need them."
"M'laird?" The guard's eyes grew wider.
"What?" Dalacroy snapped.
"They're going to kill us."
"Nay, they are not! Shut your gob!" Dalacroy ordered.
If Cyrus could find an opening, the guard's prediction would hit the bullseye.
Elspeth winked, riveting Cyrus's attention. What the devil was she about?
