Page 76 of When the Laird Conquers

“Perhaps ye might be more forthcoming,” Gordon grunted, stopping in front of the man they called Fat John for reasons that were not that obvious. The man was as thin as a rake.

Fat John tried to look defiant, his beady eyes glinting. “I daenae ken what⁠—”

Gordon raised the poker, and the man’s courage abandoned him as he squeaked, “He just wanted to ken about the men ye killed!”

“Who did?” Gordon lowered the poker.

“He didnae give his name. He spoke all fancy. We just wanted the money, me Laird. We didnae bother to ask too many questions,” Fat John whimpered, liquid running down his leg.

The sickly man nodded. “He was lookin’ for his men.”

“And what did ye tell him?” Gordon asked, prodding the sharper point of the poker against Fat John’s thigh.

“We said… ye’d killed them,” Fat John replied, breathing raggedly.

“Was that all ye said?”

Fat John hesitated, and Gordon dug the end of the poker deeper into the man’s thigh.

“Nay!” the man yelped, grimacing. “Nay, that’s nae all.”

“After we told him… what ye did to his… men,” Rodrick jumped in, as if he thought that spilling his guts might aid his chances of survival, “he started… asking questions about that English lass of yers.”

“Wanted to ken where she was, and if it was true that ye were betrothed,” Fat John elaborated. “He wanted to ken if she came to the village often and if we’d seen the baby.”

Gordon narrowed his eyes. “What did ye tell him?”

“That she was at yer castle, that ye were betrothed, and… that we’d seen the bairn,” Rodrick replied.

Gordon should have struck them all for betraying the clan like that, but he held back for a moment. “Did ye tell him about the cèilidh?”

The three men glanced at each other, an answer all its own.

With a burst of anger, Gordon slammed the poker down hard on Fat John’s hand.

“Aye!” the man cried out. “Aye, we told him!”

Gordon adjusted his grip. “Did ye tell him about the weddin’?”

“Weddin’?” Rodrick wheezed, shaking his head. “We didnae ken of any weddin’, me Laird.”

Raising the poker again, leaving it uncertain as to who might be struck, the three men cried out at once.

“We didnae ken of a weddin’, truly!” the sickly man insisted.

“We had no notion of it,” Fat John whimpered.

“We didnae ken, we swear!” Rodrick said through clenched teeth, rocking in pain.

Gordon lowered the poker again. “I should probably kill the three of ye for even speakin’ yer Lady’s name… and to make sure ye daenae go tellin’ things to anyone else who might offer coin to ye weak little rats.”

“We willnae say a word,” Rodrick promised. “We’ve learned our lesson, me Laird. We were weak and greedy. We willnae do it again.”

It never failed to fascinate Gordon how quickly men transformed back into boys when they had been caught doing something wrong. He wanted to kill them for putting Agnes in danger, wanted to break their bones for giving her pursuers information about her, wanted to make them pay for their treachery, wanted to hurt them in a thousand ways for daring to betray her.

But as he considered how he might end their worthless lives, it was thoughts of her that stopped him. Her trust in him, that he was not a monster or a beast; her belief that he was a good man, most of the time. If he harmed these three men, he would be proving her wrong. And he did not think he could bear to disappoint her or scare her again.

I’ve already trapped her in our upcomin’ marriage. The least I can do is be half of what she believes me to be.