Kenny hesitated on the first step. “Ye’re certain ye want tae go in yerself?”
“Aye,” Baird replied, his tone soft as a blade sliding from its sheath. “This is between him and me.”
“And the list?” Kenny asked cautiously. “Dae ye want me tae pass copies tae the others?”
“Nay.” Baird’s voice hardened. “Only I need it.”
In the next moment, the dungeon swallowed them whole. Cold seeped from the stones, damp clung to the back of Baird’s throat, and the torchlight flickered in thin, miserable lines across the floor. Kenny closed the iron door behind them. There was no way back, and Baird knew it.
The prisoner hung where Baird had left him. He was chained to the wall, slumped but conscious, his face a ruin of bruises and dried blood. New purple shadows ringed his eyes. His lip was split anew, while his breath rasped through cracked lips.
For a moment, pity stirred in Baird’s chest. That man looked half-dead, like a cornered animal. But then Baird remembered Malcolm collapsing at the altar. He remembered Davina with a blade pressed to her throat. And pity died on the spot.
He stepped forward. “I need the name of the traitor.”
The prisoner let out a hollow, rasping laugh. “Then ye might as well kill me now, laird. I’ll nae speak. Nae fer ye and nae fer any man.”
Baird clicked his tongue lightly, as if bored. “I had a feeling ye’d say that again.”
The man blinked, confusion threading through his exhaustion.
“So,” Baird drawled, “I did a bit of research of me own.”
He reached into his coat and withdrew the folded parchment. Kenny watched in still silence, with his arms crossed. Baird unfolded the page with deliberate slowness. The prisoner’s gaze flicked toward it, then away, as if sensing danger without understanding it yet.
“I asked meself,” Baird continued, “if ye would nae give me the name I wanted, what other names might matter tae me?”
The man stiffened, sensing danger. Baird’s eyes settled on him. Then, he looked down at the list.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” His tone was almost pleasant, as if he were reading the menu for an important feast. “Morven.”
The prisoner jerked as though struck, his chains clanking against stone.
Baird glanced up, watching the man’s face drain of color. “Yer sister, is she nae?”
Silence answered him, but the terror in the scout’s eyes was louder than any scream.
Baird continued. “Eilidh. A fine name. Sounds like a maither’s name tae me.”
The prisoner’s breathing turned ragged and frantic, but Baird didn’t pause.
“Ronan,” he read next. “Yer braither, aye?”
A strangled sound tore from the man’s throat.
“And lastly…” Baird let the paper lower slightly so he could look the prisoner dead in the eye. “Mairead… yer betrothed.”
The scout’s face went utterly white, white as winter snow. His knees buckled, but the chains held him upright. If the room had been warmer, he might have sweated. As it was, he trembled violently, while his breath came in harsh, panicked gasps.
His voice cracked on a whisper. “How… how dae ye ken those names?”
Baird stepped closer, folding the parchment with a neatness that bordered on cruel discipline.
“Because ye would nae give me the name I needed,” he said softly, “so I found the namesyeneed.”
The scout shook his head desperately, and there was fear crawling across every inch of his battered face. “Leave them out of this?—”
“Speak,” Baird demanded, “and they remain safe. Refuse… and I start asking questions aboutthemnext.”
