Page 59 of Dark Victory

Rob would never dare suggest mercy, even if he might think about it. “He’ll be an example to all who think to trespass on Blayde’s land with foul intent.” He reached the highest landing.

Rob joined him, his blue gaze searching. “Ye’ll do what ye must,” he finally said.

“Aye.” The boy was a fool to come to Blayde alone, seeking vengeance, but Macleod would have done the same.

One of his men was standing guard in front of the closed tower door. The guard stepped aside and Macleod pushed inside the square room, his hard eyes moving to the boy.

Coinneach MacDougall was shackled to the wall by one ankle. His eyes blazed with hatred. He spit toward Macleod’s boots.

Macleod paused, hands on his hips, unmoved by the foolish act of defiance. “Ye think yer spit will bother me?”

“My spit shows ye I think of ye as I do a small, worthless bug.”

“Do ye think it wise to taunt me?”

“Murderer!” The boy’s blue eyes were brilliant in his pale face. “Heartless murderin’ swine!”

And Macleod envisioned the boy he’d once been, kneeling on the beach, watching the funeral galleys drifting away. The memory was acute and intense. What was this?

For not only could he recall the moment in utter detail, he suddenly felt a flash of hatred, a flash of rage, of grief.

Let me help you.

He whirled, but Tabitha did not stand in the doorway.

“Are ye ill?” Rob asked.

He shook his head, turning grimly back to Coinneach now. That boy had become a man overnight. Coinneach was sixteen, and he had become the MacDougall.

Let me help you.

Was she haunting him now from his own home? He quickly found his composure. “Aye, I murdered yer father, an’ his father, an’ his father afore that. An’, Coinneach? Ye’ll be next.”

Coinneach writhed against his shackles like a wild animal, filled with fury and desperation. “Go ahead, murder me, too! Lady Criosaidh will destroy ye with her powerful magic, an’ my uncles will destroy Blayde! She has vowed it.”

Criosaidh had undoubtedly already unleashed her spells, intent upon avenging the death of her husband. Over the years, he had avoided most of her spells with the help of MacNeil and an occasional god or goddess. She was powerful, but her spells could not reach him at Blayde, they never had yet.

He spoke coldly and quietly. “Let Criosaidh do as she wishes. Let yer uncles attempt to destroy Blayde. ’Twas foolish to come to Blayde to steal my cattle.”

“I meant to put a dagger in yer black heart,” Coinneach cried, “but ye were not here!”

Macleod had wanted a confession and now he had it. But there was no satisfaction. Instead, there was an odd confusion. “Had I been here, ye’d already be dead an’ rottin’ in my moat with my blade in yer throat.”

“Had ye been here,” Coinneach said, “ye’d have the blade in yer black heart, an’ yer head would be on a pike at Melvaig.”

“Believe as ye will, fer it surely comforts ye,” Macleod said.

Coinneach spit again.

Macleod was done. He had no interest in continuing the pitiful debate. The boy would die, as soon as he commanded it. Criosaidh would cast her spells; his uncles would launch their armies. Nothing was new, nothing would change.

Let me help you.

He glanced at the doorway again but Tabitha did not stand there. Was she trying to interfere with his prisoner?

“Yer day will come soon,” Coinneach shouted, twisting against the shackles. “If not by my hand, then by another.”

“Yer father should have taught ye tact an’ diplomacy. But ye’re nay a coward like he was, I will admit to that.”