“My source is a foot soldier in Robert the Bruce’s army. The bastard means to come here and take England’s last stronghold. I swore to fight every Scot I could. ’Tis why I’m here. I want to help you fight the Scots, not the reivers.”
Bennett moved closer and studied him with narrowed, searching eyes. Torin remained still and without a trace of guile under his scrutiny.
“Tell me, did you truly kill those four reivers with no help from my men?”
“I had to act quickly or we would have all died. They would have stolen my horse.”
“Hmm, quickly. Aye,” Bennett said, stepping away. “You would have to be quick to kill four men before mine could help.”
“I knew what had to be done and I did it,” Torin replied with a tepid smile. “I’m sure you would do no less.”
“Of course.” Bennett pinched his chin between his thumb and index finger and walked back around to his table. “You have given me important information about the Scots. Try to find out more.”
Torin lowered his head and concealed the shadow of a satisfied smirk. He was in. Now, he just needed a reason to strike up a friendship with the warden.
“Do the same with Miss Hetherington and report everything back to me,” he ordered and then waved his hand at him. “You may go.”
Torin moved toward the door and stopped at the large shelf of books against the rear wall of the solar. Bennett read. “May I have a look?” he heard himself ask, already reaching for a volume by Monmouth.
“Do you read, Sir Torin?” Bennett asked, surprised, curious.
Torin smiled, finding what he needed. “Aye, perhaps we could discuss Monmouth over some wine, when you have a moment or two.”
“After our last meal tonight,” Bennett said, with a trace of exuberance in his voice that wasn’t there before. “I will have time then.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Aye,” the warden beamed. “So do I.”
