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“Lady MacIntosh,” Brock said. “Do ye have her?”
“Me?” the soldier asked, confused and cowering away from Brock. “I don’t know who Lady MacIntosh is. I really don’t.”
“Laird MacLellan’s daughter, ye bampot!” Brock barked, quickly losing his patience with the man. “Do yer people have her? Did ye see her at the camp?”
The boy made no sound, quickly snapping his mouth shut, jaw clenching, and gaze dropping to the floor. It was all Brock needed to know that he had seen Nimue there. He didn’t even attempt to deny it once he saw the satisfied smile on Brock’s face.
“I almost wish ye’d make it harder for me,” Brock said, his grin widening. “But I suppose this works. Where’s the camp?”
Once again, there was nothing but silence, as though the boy had swallowed his tongue, and it took only moments for Brock to become furious, throwing himself at the bars and grabbing them with both hands. His outburst scared the Englishman, who jumped back, afraid of Brock even though he couldn’t reach him through the bars.
“Dinna think for a minute that I’ll make this easy for ye,” Brock hissed. “If ye dinna wish to tell me where the camp is, then I’ll pull the words right out of ye. And then we’ll see how much of ye remains to send back to yer maither.”
Brock’s threat seemed to scare the boy, who was looking at him with wide eyes, pressing himself against the far corner as though he wished that the walls would swallow him whole; surely a better fate than what Brock was planning for him.
Still, he didn’t speak, and that tore a bitter laugh out of Brock.
“Verra weel,” he said. “We’ll do it the hard way.”
