“Which. Direction?”
Gavin pointed west down the lane. “He’s most like at Farmer Beattie’s house. He seems to have a route he likes to travel while proselytizing for independence.”
Nodding at his friend, Sin kicked his heels into his mount. He tore down the drive, his blood thundering in his veins. He leaned forward in his saddle, anticipation nipping at his heels.
This. This was what he needed. Something, or someone, to beat his feelings out upon. And the man who threatened his wife made the ideal vessel on which to vent his spleen.
He didn’t find MacConnell at the Beattie cottage, nor at the Clacher’s. But the sway-back stride of the man’s donkey greeted him past the MacGregor home.
Coming even with him, Sin reached down, grabbed the man by the back of his starched collar, and flung him to the ground. He jumped off his horse, his boots landing inches from MacConnell’s fingers.
“What the bloody hell are ye on about?” MacConnell pressed to his hands and knees, and Sin assisted him by planting the top of his boot under his collar bone and flipping him to his back.
“Haven’t you heard it isn’t polite to curse in front of your betters?” He stalked in a circle around his prey.
The bounder’s face grew blotchy with rage. He spat into the dirt. “An English title doesn’t make you my better. Ye should hang yer head in shame that yer family sold their pride to the Sassenach for a powerless marquessate.” He climbed to his feet, and Sin allowed it. “Ye think the English respect their Scottish peers? Yer a laughingstock to them. Nothing more than a useful poppet. And ye betray us every time ye cooperate with the invaders.”
Sin shot his hand out and gripped the pup’s neck. So slender. So easy to snap. “Strip me of my title and I am still your better in every conceivable way. But mycooperationwith the English, as you call it, is not why you’re to receive a pummeling. Did you truly think you could threaten my wife without consequences?” He shook the man, satisfaction curling through him as the color drained from the arsehole’s face.
“I meant nothing.” He clawed at Sin’s fingers. “I could never hurt Winnie.”
Sin growled. “Lady Dunkeld to you.”
“I meant nothing.” MacConnell gasped, his eyes wide, imploring, and Sin tossed him away in disgust. The broken bones and bloodied face he’d envisioned weren’t to be. Beating such a pathetic excuse for a man went against all that Sin believed in.
Clenching his hand, he slammed his fists into the man’s stomach, and MacConnell dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Sin cracked his neck. He couldn’t let the sot get off completely free. “Get up.” He toed the man’s thigh. He’d pulled his punch to half power, and the blow had done nothing to alleviate the itch between his shoulder blades.
MacConnell coughed, spittle hanging from his mouth.
“Good Lord.” Sin planted his hands on his hips. “And you expect to lead the rebellion? One punch and you’re mewling like a wee kitten.” Crouching by the fallen man, he grabbed his chin and forced MacConnell to look at him. “You have no idea what battle looks like. You rouse our people into fights and riots, and you skulk in the shadows, with naught but a stiff prick to contribute. Does the sight of other people’s blood excite you?” Sin dropped his chin and wiped his hand on his trouser leg. “You deserve a sound thrashing. To feel the pain of a true beating. Perhaps then you’d understand the harm you’ve wrought.”
MacConnell swiped his sleeve under his nose. “Yer wrong. The people of Scotland will revere my name. There are only a few of us brave enough to finally break our chains of servitude. We’ll be remembered.”
Sin stilled. “Names.”
MacConnell pushed up to rest on his palms. “What?”
“What are the names of these few patriots?” When MacConnell pressed his lips tight together, Sin said, “I will have them. I’m done being polite with you. You will give me the names of your fellow conspirators or …”
“Or what?” MacConnell tilted his chin up, trying, and failing, to look brave.
Sin lifted one shoulder. “There really is no ‘or’. With enough pain, every man can be brought to the point where he’d spill all his secrets.” He looked MacConnell up and down. “Sadly, I don’t think your point will take all that long to reach.”
He grabbed the man’s shirt with his left hand, pulled his right one back.
MacConnell threw his arms up in front of his face. “Abercairn!”
“What?” Sin dropped his hand, disappointment making him frown. He would hold the most cowardly Scot to ever live in his grips when his need for violence was running high. He pushed MacConnell’s chest away in disgust and stood.
“Lord Abercairn asked for my help in getting the public to lay their grievances at the feet of the English.” He scuttled backwards, out of the range of Sin’s boots. “He gave me the blunt to pass around to a couple well-placed blokes to start the first fights. People need to be angry in order to act. I was only lighting the match.”
“And hiding when the powder keg blew.” Sin shook his head. “Why would Abercairn want rebellion? He’s always supported the union in Parliament. Hell, he and the Duke of Beaumont are friends. He wouldn’t try to have him killed.”
“I dunnae know anything about the assassination attempt.” Warily, MacConnell struggled to his feet. The way his gaze slid to the left led Sin to disbelieve his statement. “Perhaps Abercairn isnae as comfortable with the yoke of ownership as the rest of ye lot appear to be. Perhaps he never intended Beaumont to actually get hurt. I cannae tell you his reason.” He smirked. “I can tell ye there’s nothing ye can do to stop us. The stone is already rolling down the hill and ye’d best stay out of its way or else—” He clapped his hands together.
Sin snorted. “Spare me your attempts at intimidation. They only make me feel bad for you.” He glared at the man. “What is your next task? Raising another mob to beat each other black and blue? Inciting my tenants to storm the castle?”
