“Walk,” he bit out.
The intruder staggered and obeyed. He cradled his broken wrist against his chest and stumbled when the ground dipped, but Jack kept him moving.
“I told ye, just lookin’. Folks wanted to ken if she was here. Nay harm intended,” the intruder sputtered.
Jack could tell the man was using words as a final resort, but he was past that by now.
“Nay harm,” he said flatly. “Ye mentioned her name and still think I am going to make this easy on ye?”
He lifted the man by the collar and threw him over the fence, hearing his body hit the dirt with a thud. Jack landed a breath later and yanked him back up.
The intruder made one last try. “Ye are breaking me arm,” he said, as if realization had just dawned on him.
“Already done,” Jack said.
He adjusted his grip on the man’s collar and hooked his fingers at the back of his neck to steer him clean through the next step. They reached the threshold, and he planted his feet, squared his shoulders, and shoved the intruder forward. The man stumbled and caught himself on one knee.
Duncan and Troy came quickly from the hall, with two guards behind them. Their swords hissed out of their sheaths as theycircled the intruder. Duncan took in the bent wrist and the blood at the corner of the man’s mouth.
“Jack,” Duncan gasped. “What in God’s name?”
“Take him to the dungeons,” Jack ordered. “I will question him at first light.”
Troy gave a sharp nod. “Aye, me Laird.”
The guards seized the intruder and dragged him away. He whimpered when his broken wrist knocked into stone, and blood dotted the floor behind, but they didn’t stop. One guard kicked the fallen knife ahead of them so he would not have to stoop to retrieve it.
Jack turned toward his study, and Duncan fell into step beside him.
“Ye do plan to tell me what is going on here, do ye nae?”
“In due time,” Jack responded, his voice clearer than the night sky.
“In due time?” Duncan raised his hands in despair. “A patrol heard a shout. Now, we have a man with a broken hand in chains, and ye look like ye want more.”
Jack pushed the door to his study open and stepped inside. The smell of smoke flattened under the weight of old books and paper. Jack shut the door, and Duncan shut it again, harder, as if the first attempt had been too gentle with his temper.
“What is going on?” Duncan pressed. “Ye will tell me if there is trouble brewing, will ye nae?”
“Of course,” Jack assured. He stepped behind the desk but did not sit. “There is nay trouble.”
“Nay trouble,” Duncan echoed. “Then what do ye call the man with the broken wrist?”
“A question that needs answers,” Jack said.
Silence fell between them, and nothing could be heard except the sound of the clock ticking somewhere in the cupboard.
Duncan exhaled and ran his palms over his face, a sign of his frustration with his brother. “Ye broke his wrist before askin’ a single question,” he said. “That looks like an answer ye already had.”
“He reached for his weapon when I was questioning him about Emma.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “So, this is about her?”
“I would be very careful as to what I say next to if I were ye,” Jack warned, his eyes flashing.
“So it isabout her?” Duncan asked again, stepping closer with his arms folded.
“It is about whoever sent him,” Jack replied.
