Seduced by the Laird (Conquered Brides Series Book 2) (13 page)

And yet, if she could just hold on a little longer.

Better late than never
.

Chapter Fourteen

“Bring them to me.” Robert the Bruce scowled at the wall in his war office, arms crossed over his chest, his anger filling the room with tension.

The news Gregor had imparted on his rightful king was not good, and he was not surprised at his sovereign’s reaction. His own mood was wicked black after his encounter with Kirstin. He feared the only way to get rid of it was to beat the truth out of the prisoners—or to start a bloody war.

Gregor nodded to Samuel who relayed a message to bring forth the prisoners. The four of them shuffled in, two looking hung-over as hell, the others looking as though they regretted ever meeting Alan. And all of them reeked, worse than a swine barn in summer.

The guards shoved them down to their knees and slowly the Bruce turned to look at them, assessing.

“Laird Buchanan tells me ye have some news,” the Bruce said slowly, his boot heels echoing on the wooden floor in the silence.

Alan sneered, looking his sovereign dead in the eye. “Dinna know anybody named Buchanan.”

The bastard truly had no respect, evidenced by his willingness to give up Scottish lives to the English.

“Is that so?” The Bruce tilted his head, questioning, not seeming at all disturbed by Alan’s attitude.

Alan didn’t waver. “Never heard of him.”

The Bruce glanced at Gregor who stepped forward. “Remember me?”

Alan glowered, his lip curling up to show a missing canine. “Ye’re Buchanan? Maybe I was wrong then. This bloke assaulted me in an alleyway.” Alan made a side-glance to his friends. “Wasn’t too pleased when I told him I preferred cunny to cock.”

His friends shifted nervously, none of them laughing.

Gregor just grinned. “I see ye do remember now.” He stepped forward and kicked the man right between the legs. Again. “Just needed to get reacquainted with your ballocks, mate.”

Alan looked ready to spit on Gregor, but thought better of it. Maybe there was an ounce of intelligence in him after all.

“Do ye know who I am?” the Bruce asked.

“A mighty lord I am to bow before? Or, nay, mayhap ye are Jesus Christ in the flesh?” Alan’s voice had taken on a sarcastic note.

All of his friends, with the exception of Eyebrow, chuckled under their breath.

“Show some respect, ye swine,” Gregor growled. “He’s your rightful king.”

All four of them sat back on their heels at once, mouths agape, eyes wide as the moon.

“Bow your head before your sovereign,” Samuel demanded.

“English prick!” Alan spat.

The guard behind Alan grabbed the hair at the back of his head and yanked it. “Careful how ye talk to Sir Samuel. Being that he’s a Sassenach and all, he’s likely to murder ye in your sleep. A task we’d all applaud him in doing.”

The way Alan’s lips worked, but no sound came out, ’twas obvious he wanted to say something, but some part of his brain seemed to have woken, and kept his mouth firmly shut. Pity.

“No need for ye to repeat what ye’ve already told Buchanan,” Robert the Bruce said. “I’ll just be needing what ye didna tell him.”

“I told him everything I know,” Alan growled.

Gregor shook his head. “Not the name of your accomplice.”

“I have no accomplice.”

The Bruce tsked. “Ye expect me to believe that after a man who knew who ye were and saw ye kill another, that ye’d just let him walk free? Knowing he held information that could cost ye your neck, and any coin ye might gain as reward, that ye simply didna get his name? Do I look like a bloody fool?” He chuckled, the sound cold. “Now, despite your traitorous actions and your penchant for English coin, and regardless of the fact that ye hold little respect for Scotland, me, or your fellow Scots, I, believe ye must have some semblance of intelligence. Am I wrong?”

“I am no traitor.”

“I’m afraid whether ye are a traitor or not is not up for discussion.” The Bruce stood right in front of Alan, dipping his head low to meet his gaze. “Give me the name.” Their sovereign’s tone had turned deadly, and only a fool would refuse him.

Alan refused to speak, his lips tightly closed, eyes filled with resentment.

It appeared this man was a fool after all.

The Bruce nodded to the guards and Alan’s head was wrenched further back, a blade pressed to the ball at his throat.

“I will not ask again. Ye know what I want,” the Bruce said.

“I canna tell ye, because the man refused to give it. He said the only thing I need know was that my secret was safe with him.”

“Lies,” Gregor growled.

Alan shook his head, a mistake as it only caused the blade to cut his skin—though not deep. The second time a blade had grazed his neck in less than twenty-four hours. He cried out, unable to grab his bleeding neck as his hands were pinned behind his back.

The Bruce knelt before the man, dipped his finger into the blood pooling in the hollow at his throat, and wiped it over Alan’s forehead in the sign of a cross. “The cut is not deep, ye whiny little pup. Quit your fussing. Hear this, we play no games. The fate of my kingdom, of my people, hangs in the balance. We will leave no stone unturned. Ye keep trying to kick yours back into place, but I canna allow it. I canna set ye and your friends free, not without certainty as to your loyalty. If ye want to prove your loyalty, ye will not only give me the name, but ye will also pledge before me now, on pain of death. And even then, I may keep ye locked up for a time, but I’ll spare ye from losing your head right now.”

Alan’s lips twisted, eyes shifting around as he thought about the Bruce’s words. A heavy choice for a traitor, to give up what he wanted and believed in to save his own life. Most men, most decent men, were willing to die for what they believed in. Alan appeared to be the type that floated wherever the jingle of coin blew.

“Tell him, Alan,” Eyebrow said. “Tell him what he wants to know. I swear to ye, my lord, I was not going to go along with Alan’s plan. Not ever. Ask Buchanan, he was listening in on our conversation at the tavern. I was the one telling Alan this was all madness. I am loyal to Scotland. To ye. To my fellow countrymen.”

Gregor eyed the man, gauging whether or not he was truly sincere. Aye, he’d spoken out against Alan’s plans, but that didn’t mean he was loyal.

“He speaks the truth,” Gregor said.

“What is your name?” the Bruce asked.

“Charles, my lord.”

“Let Charles go free then,” the Bruce said, turning his smile on the man.

Alan sputtered, unable to find purchase in his words, or maybe it was the odd angle at which the guard had tugged his head, for only imperceptible grunts came out of his mouth.

The guards unbound Charles’ wrists and yanked the man up. He was murmuring, “Thank ye, thank ye thank ye,” like a chant.

The Bruce held up his hand to silence the man, and returned his attention to Alan.

“Ye see? We can show mercy. I’ve just freed your friend.”

“Ye’ve set him free, but now ye’ll only sneak up behind him once outside the abbey walls and slit his throat,” Alan sneered.

Their sovereign tsked again. “Ye’ve no faith in me, Alan. That is sad thing. How can I expect a man to show me loyalty if he has no faith?” He jerked his head at the guards. “Let Charles go. Take him to the gate and give him his freedom.”

“Thank ye, my lord, thank ye, thank ye. I am forever in your debt. Please, if I can be of service. Let me be of service. Let me join your ranks. I am but a mercenary. I have no overlord. I will honor ye. Do your bidding. I shall never stray to the likes of any man like Alan again.”

“Aye, but ye do have a clan, now, an overlord. I’ve just decided. Ye’re a Buchanan,” the Bruce said, his steady gaze on Gregor.

Gregor now saw where the Bruce was going with such a declaration.

“Take him to the Buchanans, then, Sir Collin, just outside the gate,” Gregor said. “Have the men show him the rounds, and see that he is treated as one of us. Watch him all the same to be certain this was not all a sham.” He faced Charles. “Ye understand, do ye nay? That we will have to build trust between one another, it is not a right so easily given.”

Collin nodded, indicating for Charles to follow him, the other two men quivered, one had pissed himself, since the floor beneath him was wet and the stink of urine filled the air.

“I swear to ye, I dinna know his name,” Alan said upon seeing Charles leave the room, hands unbound, no guards touching him. A free man essentially. “But I know what he calls himself.”

“Ye dinna know his name, but ye know what he calls himself?” The Bruce stood, raising a skeptical brow. “Sounds like ye know his name.”

Alan shook his head, licking his parched lips. “I dinna know his given name. He calls himself The Saint.”

“The Saint?” Gregor asked. He’d heard this name fleetingly on lips before, but knew not much about him, other than he was a hired assassin. If this was the man hunting down allies of Wallace, they had a serious situation on their hands.

“Aye.”

“Why?” Samuel asked.

“Because, he said he’s doing the work for the good Lord above.”

“What work?” the Bruce asked.

“He’s… A spy. An assassin. Whatever he needs to be.”

’Twas as Gregor suspected. “And do ye know who he works for?”

Alan’s chin trembled. “God.”

“Get them out of here,” the Bruce said, disgust in his tone. “We’ll get nothing useful from him today. And the other two, they are simply followers, willing to take the leavings this bastard shites out.”

“My lord, I am loyal to ye, and ye alone! I was just placating Alan. I wasna going to do it,” one of them said.

The second chimed in, “Me, too, my lord. Let us go. We’ve not done anything wrong. We want to be Buchanans. Will ye not show mercy?”

“Consorting with this devil was enough to show your true colors, lads. Ye should choose your friends better in the future,” the Bruce said.

“So we have a future?” The one who’d pissed himself grappled with the hope dangling on the ends of the Bruce’s words.

“For now.”

“See that they are fed. No utensils. They’ll have to eat with their hands, while ye watch. Then they must be restrained again.” Their rightful king spoke to the guards who took the men away, leaving Alan to kneel before him alone.

“What did The Saint look like? Did he travel with anyone? What part of Scotland is he from?”

Alan again licked his lips, his eyelids twitching as he racked his brain for any information that might help the king. Gregor took out his knife and began to trim his own nails, eyes on Alan, intimidating the man.

“He is from the north, the Highlands. I could tell by his accent. He’s tall, ginger-haired like me. He’s got a scar on his chin, right in the center like he’d fallen on a blade. There were a few other men with him. They didna dress in plaids, but rather white robes, splattered with blood.”

White robes splattered with blood. Sounded like the stories Gregor had heard as a child of avenging angels. “I see. And do ye know where they were headed when ye parted ways?”

The man shook his head. “I didna have much contact with them. They weren’t with the other mercenaries helping MacLellan. They came into town to refresh their horses and then they were on their way. North I think.” He shook his head, sweat tricking down around his temples and pooling near the dip in his ear. “I dinna know.”

“That’s enough for today,” the Bruce said.

Fingall lifted the man and tugged him out of the room, but a loud screech outside had Gregor running. ’Twas a woman. What in bloody hell?

In the hallway, Kirstin stood, hands covering her mouth, eyes wide as she stared at Alan. Nay, Fingall. She looked as though she’d seen a ghost. Her body started to tremble and she swayed. Gregor rushed toward her, holding her elbow to keep her steady. She took a few breaths and then tugged away from him.

Collin, having just returned, easily took over the job of escorting Alan back to his temporary confinement and away from the spectacle that was slowly unfolding.

“Finn?” Kirstin was saying.

Fingall just stared at her, his face ashen.

“Finn! ’Tis ye!” Kirstin charged Gregor’s knight and wrapped arms around him, squeezing him so tight the man’s eyes bulged. “I have been looking for ye for so long!”