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The laird sighed. “Because I had the foolishness to believe the lies that Rowan McLachlan told me.” He stood up and paced to the window. “And the only excuse I have for that is that my wife’s family, the Beatties, were great friends of the McLachlans. Carrie would not hear a word said against him, and God forgive me, I believed her.
“Rowan is a persuasive man, and he can be very charming at times, especially to ladies. Carrie was completely taken in by him, and in the end, so was I, so I must make a humble apology to you. If it were not for you, we might have attacked the Mulhollands and there would have been a bloodbath.” He shuddered as he thought of it. “As it is, James Mulholland and I will be meeting later today to discuss the situation between our clans, and I am fairly hopeful of a peaceful outcome.”
Fraser smiled and shook his head. “There is no need for an apology, M’Laird,” he answered. “I forgave ye a long time ago. I know what my cousin is like, an’ I know how his mind works. I saw through him ages an’ ages ago, but no’ everybody does because he is very clever at hidin’ his real self behind a mask. As well as that, he has ears everywhere. He will threaten, bribe, an’ blackmail anyone tae get what he wants.” He took a sip of his whiskey, then asked, “What have ye done wi’ him?”
The laird’s face darkened, and to Fraser’s surprise, he swore in a few choice words that would have made a sailor blush. Gordon Gilchrist scowled, then answered, “He is in the dungeon at the end of the corridor where there is no light. He sees no one unless it is the minister who comes to pray with him sometimes and the guards who bring his food. They are under orders not to talk to him.”
“He is no’ exactly a prayin’ man.” Fraser laughed, his blue eyes sparkling with glee. He knew that he should not rejoice in another’s misfortune, but Rowan deserved his fate. Then something else occurred to him. “I suppose ye will send him tae trial?”
“No doubt about it!” the laird replied sternly.
“Do ye think they will hang him?” Fraser looked worried.
Gordon Gilchrist frowned. “Surely it will not trouble you if they do? The man is a killer, a blackmailer, and a tyrant. Why should you care?”
Fraser shrugged. He did not know why, but although death by hanging was meant to be quick, he had seen a hanging that had gone wrong and resulted in an agonizing death for the convict. The sight still haunted him, and because of that, it had always held a peculiar horror for him.
“I don’t care, M’Laird,” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “If he must die, then so be it.”
“Indeed,” the other man agreed. Then he asked suddenly, “Would you like to see him?”
Fraser stared up at him, astonished at the question. “Why would I want tae do that, M’Laird?” he asked, frowning.
“Don’t tell me you do not want to gloat just a little bit?” the other man asked.
Despite himself, a little imp of evil wormed its way into Fraser’s heart. Perhaps he would take a look at Rowan if only to tell Evanna.
He nodded. “Not tae gloat,” he replied. “I want tae hear his excuses an’ tae tell them tae Evanna.”
“So do I,” the laird agreed, standing up. “And by the way, I want to meet this Evanna. She sounds like a fascinating woman. Come, now. This should be very interesting.”
* * *
The dungeon was dark and smelled of mold, unwashed bodies, and urine. As they passed the cells containing the men who used to be the laird’s guards, all conversation between them stopped. Laird Gichrist paused by each cell to let his gaze pass over every face. Some of the men stared back at him defiantly while others turned away. All of them, however, directed menacing looks at Fraser.
“Never has the expression ‘if looks could kill’ been more fitting,” Laird Gilchrist muttered.
Fraser gave a humorless laugh, and they walked on. The corridor became darker and darker the further they advanced since there were no windows for the last twenty yards or so. At last, they stopped and looked at the huddled figure of Rowan McLachlan in the corner of a shadowy cell.
Fraser looked into Rowan’s dark eyes and almost recoiled at the hatred in them. He had the impression that he was looking through his eyes into a soul so dark that no light nor goodness could penetrate it. It was a black, twisted, evil thing. Why had he not noticed it before? Nevertheless, he returned the other man’s stare, and Rowan looked away.
“Good day, McLachlan,” the laird said pleasantly. “How are you?”
“As well as anybody in this hellhole can be,” Rowan replied. His voice was sullen as he stood up and faced the two men. He was wrapped in two blankets but he was still shivering.
“Good.” Laird Gilchrist turned to Fraser, his eyebrows raised in inquiry.
“Good mornin’, Rowan,” Fraser said, because for a moment he could think of nothing else to say.
Rowan cast his eyes heavenward. “For God’s sake, man! Ye put me in prison. Why are ye no’dancin’ wi’ joy?”
Fraser was able to answer this question. “Because I am not ye, thank God,” he replied smugly. His reward was the fierce scowl that crossed the other man’s face. There was no doubt that if Rowan ever escaped, Fraser would be a dead man.
He looked around the cell. It was not meant to be comfortable, and it certainly was not. There was a straw pallet without a pillow on the floor, the two thin blankets that were wrapped around Rowan, a bucket, and a water jug standing on a rough-hewn wooden chair.
“Where does he wash?” Fraser asked.
“Tell him,” the laird ordered, looking at Rowan.
