“Keep trying, darling. You must discover how this man can be brought to his knees.”
Under any other circumstances, such talk about a man would have offended Gwendolen, who believed in truth and honesty between the sexes—not this strategic posturing and game playing. But this impending marriage was hardly a natural one. It was forged from bloody battles and a quest for power, so she could not afford to be so righteous or romantic, nor could she retreat from her duty.
“I don’t know what to ask him.”
“Find out if he plans to follow in his father’s footsteps and raise another rebellion for the Stuarts. If that is the case, we may find ourselves on the wrong side of the law when King George learns of it. He awarded this castle to our clan as a gift of loyalty. We cannot be branded as Jacobites. You must discover Angus’s intentions.”
Gwendolen turned to her future husband, but Onora touched her arm. “Wait. First, try to find out if he is the Butcher of the Highlands. Knowledge like that could be invaluable. The Butcher is the most sought-after rebel in Scotland, and if we were to reveal his identity and turn him in, the King would be in our debt.”
Recognizing the simple brilliance of that plan, Gwendolen turned to Angus and strove to be inconspicuous as she brought up the subject of his past. “May I ask you a question?”
“Aye.”
“Why were you gone from Kinloch for so long? And why did you ever leave, if you love this place so much?”
“Have you not heard the rumors?” He glanced at her with a thin sheen of ice over his eyes.
Determined not to shy away from the question, she met his gaze head-on. “I have heard some, yes, but I don’t put much stock in them. Especially when they surround a man like you, who attracts gossip like the plague.”
“I don’t seek such attention,” he told her.
“Nay, but it finds you, nevertheless. And you still have not answered my question.”
“Nor have you told me what rumors you’ve heard.”
She took a sip of wine. “There are a few different stories. Some say you are the infamous Butcher of the Highlands—the notorious Jacobite rebel who disappeared two years ago after escaping from an English prison. No one has seen or heard from him since. His identity is still a mystery, and many think he is secretly gathering forces to raise another rebellion. Is that what this is?” she asked him directly. “Have you taken Kinloch to create a garrison for the Jacobites?”
He was quiet for a long time. “Nay. I don’t want to raise a rebellion. I want to live in peace.”
She glanced at his face, searching for the truth in his eyes—whatever it was—but everything about him was hard as steel. There was nothing readable in his expression, no hint of vulnerability, no chink inhisarmor.
“You wouldn’t tell me anyway, would you?” she said. “Even if this was to become a Jacobite stronghold, you would guard that secret with your life, for you know my political opinions.”
“Aye.”
“But would you tell me if you were the Butcher?” she asked. “Because I would like to know if I am about to marry someone so…” She was about to say “murderous,” but thought better of it. “Famous.”
Angus glanced at her knowingly, as if he knew exactly what she was going to say the first time. “Did you follow his escapades, lass?”
“Aye, and although I did not agree with his politics or his savage approach to achieving his goals, I was intrigued and strangely moved by his passions. They say he did everything to avenge the death of his beloved, that he loved her so much, he could not exist without her.”
Angus slowly sipped his wine. “I would expect you to condemn him for his methods, not praise him for his motivations.”
She dipped her spoon into her soup. “I am not praising him. I simply found the situation intriguing. That is all. As you know, I am a proponent of peace, and indeed his methods were inexcusable.”
Angus turned in his chair to face her. “But sometimes violence is the only way to achieve peace. Do not forget that your own father attacked this castle in the name of it. Many clansmen were forced to fight, and many died that day.”
Gwendolen nodded, for he was correct on that point.
“And I am not the Butcher of the Highlands,” he added. “You have my word on that.”
She was pleased to hear that she was not about to marry that particular murderous rebel, whose reputation was even more notorious than Angus the Lion’s—but then she reminded herself that if hewasthe Butcher, King George’s army would have marched here straightaway and liberated her clan from the clutches of that Scottish fugitive in an instant.
“Do you believe me?” he asked.
She looked up at him and nodded.
But his eyes turned cold. He picked up his wine. “Good. Because I couldn’t possibly be him. I never had a great beloved, nor am I even capable of such passions where a woman is concerned. That sort of thing clouds a man’s judgment and makes him weak.”
