The scout trembled, his face a swollen ruin of blood and defiance turned to fear. Baird tilted his head.
“Would ye like some water?”
The man blinked, stunned. His brow lifted in disbelief. “Is… is that a trick?”
“Nay.” Baird turned toward the door. “Bring water.”
The guard outside had clearly been listening. He appeared at once, carrying a pitcher and a wooden cup. Baird didn’t touch it. He did not go near enough for the scout to mistake this for mercy. He only nodded to the guard.
“Let him drink.”
The guard stepped forward, cupping a hand beneath the man’s chin to steady him, then raised the pitcher. The water spilled into the prisoner’s mouth in eager, half-choking gulps. He dranklike a starved animal, with water running down his neck, mixing with blood.
“Slowly,” Baird instructed.
The guard eased the flow. The scout sagged, panting, while water was dripping from his chin as though he’d forgotten what it felt like to swallow without pain.
Only when the man finally drew a ragged breath did Baird speak again. “Now, tell me why ye came.”
The man swallowed and fear shivered through him. The water soothed nothing but his throat. His fear trembled more noticeably now, stripping away the earlier bravado.
“We… we were sent tae the castle,” he said finally, voice raw. “Nae tae raid the damned village. The village was just where we hid when yer patrols came too close.”
Baird’s eyes narrowed. “Sent fer what?”
The man hesitated. His gaze flicked to the stone floor, then upward, as though expecting salvation from the ceiling. None came.
“Tae pay someone,” he whispered.
The room went still.
“Pay whom?” Baird asked quietly.
The scout closed his eyes, shoulders tightening against the chains. “Our… inside man.”
Inside man.
The words sank like iron into Baird’s gut. That was the traitor inside his walls, someone with access to Malcolm, to the council chambers, to Baird himself. A cold, surgical certainty pierced him.
Baird stepped closer. He was in no rush, but he was still in possession of that slow inevitability of a man who now saw the shape of the truth.
“That inside man,” he said, “is also the one who killed me braither.”
The scout flinched not in denial, but in confirmation he could not hide. Baird’s jaw tightened until it ached. His pulse beat hard in his wounded arm.
“Tell me his name.”
The man’s eyes shot open. Baird could see panic flaring. “I cannae.”
“Ye can. And ye will.”
“Nay,” the scout choked. “Ye dinnae ken what they’ll dae tae me if I speak it.”
Baird leaned in, and his voice dropped to a low, lethal murmur. “Ye should be afraid of what I’ll dae tae yehereif ye dinnae.”
The prisoner swallowed, but his answer came fast, almost desperate.
“Better tae die here at yer hand than go home a traitor.” His breath shook. “If I speak his name, I’ll be hunted by me own. There’s nay place in the Highlands where a Sinclair oath-breaker lives long.”
