Page 55 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

The howl that ripped out of the mercenary’s throat was loud enough it could have echoed all the way to the Lowlands, but Alistair didn’t care. “Give me a name, or I break the other two.”

“I cannae…”

Snap!

Alistair shifted his grip to the man’s shoulder. “A name.”

The mercenary remained silent, save for the sobbing breaths that echoed around the room. Alistair clenched his jaw in grim determination. “So be it.”

Getting information from a man who had little to lose save his pride - and that only if he surrendered - was always a grim and thankless task. Alistair and Ewan took turns, varying the methods as well as who attempted to force the information from the man, but the sell-sword remained stubbornly silent. On that matter at least. He screamed, cried, cursed and fought as much as his bonds allowed, but he refused to give any name, not even his own.

It was tempting to give up. After all, the copper coin signified a low-ranked mercenary, one who was likely to know very little. It was equally tempting to suggest a name or two, to see how the man reacted, and see if he might be able to discover the truth that way. Alistair refrained from succumbing to either temptation.

Lower-ranked the man might be, but even the rawest and lowest of sell-swords knew who he served at any given time. It was necessary, especially in the Highlands, where knowing the tartan colors of your enemies and allies was required to avoid creating a breach of contract. Alistair knew that. He also knew that a man on the edge might agree that any name suggested was the correct one, even if it wasn’t true.

Alistair had no intention of being misled by false information. He had no time for pursuing the wrong man, and no desire to enter into any unnecessary feuds through some sort of misunderstanding. He had his suspicions about who had ordered the attack on his new wife, but until the mercenary gave him the name, he refused to voice them.

Candle-marks passed. Alistair and Ewan used every method they had at their disposal to try and break the sell-sword’s silence. By the time the third - or perhaps fourth - candle-mark had passed, the man’s body had been virtually destroyed. Bones had been broken, wounds enough inflicted that he’d never hold a weapon again, even if he survived. Burns, whip marks, bruises and cuts marked his skin, and the extent of his wounds was such that, even if he was taken to the healers within the next few minutes, he might not survive.

Not that Alistair had any intention of taking him to a healer. The sell-sword had forfeited his life by attacking Niamh, and all three of them knew it. Still, Alistair had to admit he was growing frustrated by the man’s lack of response.

He was considering another round with the hot irons, or perhaps breaking a few more bones, when Ewan laid a hand on his shoulder. “Give me a moment with him, braither.”

“Ye thin’ ye’ll ge’ more out o’ me? I’ve naethin’ tae say… tae ye…” The words were slurred, but the defiance in the mercenary’s bloodshot eyes and battered face was clear enough.

“Aye. So ye’ve said.” Ewan shook his head and crouched in front of the man. “But there’s somethin’ I want ye tae consider, sellsword. Ye’re nae going tae leave here alive. But how long ye exist here, in Laird MacDuff’s lands and suffer his displeasure - that’s up tae ye.”

For the first time, a glimmer of doubt flickered in the man’s face. “Wha’?”

“Ye’re hurt, but ye can last a fair long time. Me kinfolk and I ken enough medicine tae keep ye alive fer days, even without resortin’ tae a healer’s aid. ‘Tis a long time tae suffer. An’ if ye happen tae get infection or rot in yer wounds - which we’ll nae be tryin’ too hard tae prevent - then ‘twill be worse.”

The sellsword shuddered. However low-ranked he was, he’d clearly seen what could happen to a man whose wounds weren’t properly treated and cleaned. “Ye… ye wouldnae….”

“I would. An’ me braither’s more brutal-minded than I, tae be sure.” Ewan nodded. He put a hand none-too-gently on the mercenary’s shoulder. “So, this is what I’ll be offerin’ ye - give me the name o’ the man or clan who hired yer band, an’ I’ll see ye dead quick and painless. Ye can even have yer choice o’ a fast poison, a knife tae the heart, a slit throat, or a beheadin’. I’d tak’ the first or the last choice, but ‘tis me.” Ewan shrugged.

“Ye…”

Ewan smiled grimly and clapped the man on the arm with a blow that made the sellsword whimper. “Give us the name, lad, and ye have me word as the second-in-command o’ MacDuff clan that ye’ll have as easy a passing as ye could wish. Is that nae right, me laird?”

He was tempted to say no. However, if there was a chance that agreeing would get the name and allow him to go to his wife, then a painless death was little enough to promise. “Aye. A painless death fer a name.”

The mercenary shuddered at the cold tone of his voice, but Alistair could see the doubt and uncertainty in his face as his battered gaze flicked between himself and Ewan.

He was weighing his options - the first sign of possible surrender that Alistair had seen. He forced himself to look stern and determined, unyielding instead of impatient. If he showed interest or impatience, the man might decide to maintain his silence after all.

For several moments, there was no sound save the prisoner’s sobbing, rasping breaths. Then, a halting voice. “I’ll tak’ the dagger tae the heart. Better than beheadin’ – ‘tis a punishment fer betrayal, an’ I’m… loyal enou’.” He gulped in a ragged inhalation.

“Dagger tae the heart it is. And we’ll even bury ye after.” Ewan nodded. “Just give us the name, and ‘tis over.”

“We were hired… sent tae kill Niamh MacDuff… by Laird MacTavish.”

Fergus MacTavish. Even though he’d expected it, the name still flooded Alistair with rage. Before he could think, let alone stop himself, he lunged across the room and hammered a blow into the man’s face that audibly shattered his already broken nose.

The prisoner yowled. Alistair hammered another blow into the man’s battered rib cage. Then another, and another, and another. There was a strange sort of roaring in his ears, and his vision was hazed with red. Everything seemed to bleed and hammer at him with a single name.

Fergus MacTavish. His rival. His enemy. The man who had killed his Constance. The man who had tried to poison Niamh on their wedding night. Fergus MacTavish had hired killers to attack his wife, as he had done before.

The rage and the pain - the past and the present - merged together, demanding an outlet. Alistair hammered away in a haze of fury, blinded by emotion, until a hand caught his arm. “Alistair, stop!”