An idea occurred to Jack at that moment. Perhaps he could convince the man another way. “Ye like coin more.”
“Nae enough.” The prisoner grinned, flashing bloody teeth.
Jack nodded. He did not think the method was going to work anyway. He turned to Troy and gave him another nod. “Higher.”
Troy pulled the rope another inch, then another. The prisoner’s breathing stuttered. Sweat ran down his temple, and his boots scraped for purchase.
“Give me a name,” Jack repeated, his voice dangerously low.
No answer.
“A name,” he grunted.
Nothing.
Troy shifted his weight. “Just tell us who sent ye, and the Laird might show ye mercy.”
“Make me,” the prisoner spat.
Jack sighed and turned around. His eyes settled on Duncan, who only held his gaze and said nothing. He lifted his hand and wiped his palm on his sleeve, then reached down to his belt and drew his blade. The steel was clean and plain. He held it on his palm for a moment, feeling its weight.
“I am giving ye one last chance. I really daenae want to do this, but it seems like I might be forced to.”
The prisoner stared at him, his bloodshot eyes now filled with tears. Jack knew what they meant. They were tears of resignation. The man would rather die than tell him anything he needed to know.
“Where did yer instructions come from?” he asked anyway, completely certain at this point of the answer.
The prisoner watched the knife, and his jaw clenched. “From a place ye cannae touch.”
“Where?”
“Ask the ghost ye made. If she answers.”
Jack pressed his lips tight. This had something to do with his first wife. Something about the way the prisoner mentioned her niggled at him.
“… the ghost ye made…”
“Last chance,” he warned, shaking himself out of his reverie. “Name. Or place. Or mark. Anything”
The prisoner bared his teeth. “Go to hell, Laird MacLeod.”
Jack pressed the tip of the knife to the man’s chest.
“Me Laird,” Troy called behind him.
“Keep quiet,” Jack grunted, shooting him a glare.
Troy stepped back immediately.
Jack did not raise his voice. “Look at me.”
The prisoner looked.
“This is me castle,” Jack said. “These are me people, and threatening me bride last night was perhaps the biggest mistake ye have ever made in yer life. Nay one will ever touch her while I am still alive.”
The prisoner spat blood again. “Then ye have nay idea what is coming for ye.”
The anger pushed Jack forward, and he drove the knife home in one quick motion. He felt the give and the stop and nothing more. The prisoner’s eyes went wide, then glazed over. His body sagged against the ropes, and the iron around his wrists took his weight almost immediately.
