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Chapter Twenty-Two
Brock didn’t remember the last time that he had had a pleasant day. Ever since Chrisdean’s plan to take Nimue from her home, each day had been worse than the one before it, and it had all come to a head when Chrisdean had been injured.
That foolish lad. He may have started the war before its time.
Brock had to admit that despite Mairi’s utter disappointment in him, he had never once tried to stop Chrisdean from executing his plan. There had been a day when he, too, had believed it was the best way to ensure an alliance between the clans, but he had soon realized just how wrong the two of them had been. Laird MacLellan wasn’t the kind of man to take threats or, more importantly, the kidnapping of his own daughter lightly. What neither Chrisdean nor Brock had anticipated was the involvement of the English.
And now here he was, spending endless hours trying to find the man who had betrayed them to the Earl. Chrisdean could deny the clansmen’s involvement as much as he liked; Brock knew that one of them must have talked.
He knew, at least, that it couldn’t have been Aidan or Fergus, and so he approached them where they were sitting by a stack of hay next to the stables, thinking that no one could see them as they took swigs out of a flask.
“Are ya na supposed to be feedin’ the horses?” Brock asked them, making the two of them jump and scramble to hide the flask. Brock rolled his eyes at them and held his hand out, draining the rest of the wine when they handed it to him. “Sit down. I have some questions to ask ye.”
The two men did as they were told, and Brock could see that while Aidan had no issues sitting, Fergus’s leg was still giving him trouble.
Another good lad down. How are we goin’ to fight this war if our men keep getting’ injured?
“Have ye seen anythin’ . . . suspicious?” Brock asked.
“Suspicious? Suspicious how?” Fergus said before it dawned on him, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Ye think there’s a traitor?”
“A traitor?” Aidan asked, his voice at full volume, much to Brock’s chagrin. “A traitor?” he repeated, this time keeping his own voice low. “In the castle? Na . . . na, there canna be.”
“And then who told the Sassenachs that we were comin’?” Brock asked. It was that question that had kept him up at night, making him go through lists of names in his head, trying to find the culprit. It had been the only thing in his mind ever since the attack. “Someone must have told them.”
“Na one of the men,” Aidan said, and he sounded so certain that Brock couldn’t help but wonder if he was being unreasonable, that somehow he had got it wrong. But no, it couldn’t be, he told himself. Someone had to have talked. “We’ve kent each other since we were bairns, Brock. Ye ken us. Ye ken that na one of us would betray our clan.”
Brock would be lying if he said that he hadn’t thought that very same thing from the beginning. Even the hours he spent trying to think of people who could have betrayed them had seemed like a waste, as every name on his list seemed like an unlikely candidate.
But that only meant that whoever had been reporting to the English had been doing a good job at hiding it, he thought. They were dealing with someone who knew what they were doing.
“So, what ye’re sayin’ is that ye canna think of anyone who has been actin’ suspiciously lately,” Brock said. “That, or ye willna tell me who he is.”
“We’d tell ye if we suspected someone,” Fergus said. “Why wouldna we? It would be a threat to the clan.”
Brock narrowed his eyes at the two men, but he didn’t pursue the matter any further. Instead, he tossed the flask back to Fergus before turning on his heels and leaving without another word.
His mind was racing with thoughts, one after the other trying to take root but always failing. Frustrated, Brock made his way out of the gates and the castle walls and began to patrol the perimeter. It was a habit that he had picked up after the ambush, patrolling the area every few hours on his own, even though he had made sure that men were patrolling the castle day and night.
He didn’t trust anyone anymore. Anything he wanted done, he had to do himself.
Brock walked slowly by the castle walls, his hand on the hilt of his sword, even though there was no sign of the enemy. It didn’t hurt to be prepared, he told himself. The morning air was crisp and light, and even though he could very well encounter the enemy at any moment, he couldn’t help but enjoy the walk.
There was something about the Highlands that no other place had, something about the scenery that called to him.
And just as he was admiring the towering trees and the expanse of grass, he heard the kind of sound that he was looking for: a crunching of leaves, as though someone were trying to be quiet but hadn’t taken the terrain into account.
Brock pulled his sword out of its sheath as he turned around and was suddenly face to face with a man he had never seen before. It was clear to him by his uniform that he was an English soldier, and Brock took a step back, mindful of the other man’s blade.
“Ach, ye bastards,” Brock said, a laugh escaping his lips. “I kent I’d find one of ye here eventually. Is there anyone with ye?”
The Englishman didn’t reply to Brock’s question, which only helped reinforce his belief that the man was alone. Surely, the English didn’t want to risk sending too many men to spy on the clan. One man was easier to hide than many.
But that also meant that the soldier standing in front of him didn’t have anyone to help him now that Brock had caught him.
And no Englishman was a match for him, Brock thought.
With a cry, Brock lunged at the Englishman, blade held high as he attacked him. The other man barely managed to sidestep in time, avoiding his blow at the last moment, but Brock attacked, again and again, their swords clanging loudly.
