The men looked at Eamon for permission and the lord nodded slightly. The men let him go and Magnus staggered, feeling all his bruises and cracked ribs.
He straightened and faced his old mentor. Eamon was older, of course, his face more lined, his hair thinner, but he’d changed in other ways too. The warmth that had once suffused his expression was gone, replaced by twisted hatred. Aye, he’d not been lying when he’d told Isabelle that Eamon, the man who’d been his mentor, had died years ago. The man standing before him now was a different person entirely.
“Ye have me now,” Magnus growled. “So there is no need to drag Isabelle into the darkness that lies between us. I’ll not resist. But if ye hurt her, I swear I’ll—”
“I have no intention of hurting Isabelle,” McRae cut in. “I never did. I said I brought her here for her protection and I wasnae lying.”
Magnus narrowed his eyes. “Then what do ye plan to do with her?”
“In the morning, after she’s rested,” McRae replied. “I will escort her to Dun Saith, as my spies tell me ye planned to do all along.”
Magnus blinked at this unexpected twist. What was McRae up to?
“Why would ye do that? Dinna expect me to believe that it’s out of the goodness of yer heart. We both know ye dinna have a heart any more.”
“If I dinna, then whose fault is that?” McRae snapped. He nodded to one of his guards, who quietly left the room. “I will keep my word and see yer woman taken safely to Dun Saith. If...” He left the word hanging.
Magnus took a step forward. “If?”
The door opened and the guard returned, bringing another man with him. He was barrel-chested and sweat and soot-stained, and Magnus felt a jolt as he recognized him.
Armand. The blacksmith from Torloch.
Magnus looked from Armand to McRae. “Why is he here?” he demanded.
“Armand is here at my request,” McRae replied. “He’s a witness.”
“A witness to what?”
McRae turned to the blacksmith. “Why dinna ye tell him what ye told me, my friend?”
Armand cleared his throat and glanced between McRae and Magnus. He had a bruise forming over his eye from where Magnus had hit him earlier this evening and a smoldering anger burned in his eyes when he looked at Magnus. Yet when he looked at Eamon McRae, Magnus saw something else in the man’s face.
Fear.
“Several months ago, this man came to see me,” Armand said. “He placed an order with me for twenty of the finest blades and paid gold up front.”
“What?” Magnus cried. “I did naught of the sort! That’s a lie!”
“I have the order right here,” the blacksmith continued, holding out a parchment. “And I’ll vouch as much before the king’s justiciars.”
“I see,” said McRae. “But there is naught sinister in asking a blacksmith to make swords is there? That only becomes a problem when those swords are used for nefarious purposes. Say, for arming a band of outlaws?”
Magnus went very still. “Yeordered those swords,” he said to McRae. “Yeare the one arming and equipping those outlaws.Yeare the one responsible for their atrocities.”
“Am I?” McRae asked. “Not according to that document, I’m not. Not according to this upstanding citizen, I’m not. That, I’m afraid, is all down to ye.”
Magnus stared at McRae. What had happened to his old mentor? How had he become so dark and bitter? Was there nothing at all left of the man he once was?
“So that’s it then,” Magnus said quietly. “That’s why ye’ve been doing this. It’s about revenge.”
“Revenge?” McRae hissed, his expression twisting. “Revenge? This is about justice!”
“Justice?” Magnus echoed, a bitter laugh ripping through his chest. “Ye call this justice?” He gestured at the blacksmith, Armand, who was now standing rigidly against the wall. “By twisting an innocent man’s words and using him for yer own means?”
“Everything I have done,” McRae replied, not missing a beat, “is in service of justice. I took ye in. I gave ye a home. And ye destroyed me!” He ripped off his plaid, revealing the rest of the livid scar that ran across his skull, down his neck, and then across his back.
“See this?” he roared. “Ye did this to me!”
