Amelia scrambled out of bed and hastily locked the door behind him.
* * *
A key had been used in the escape. Someone in the castle had set Bennett free.
Duncan crossed over the bridge at afullgal op. The wind in his hair and the sound of Turner’s hooves clattering noisily upon the stones sharpened his senses, focused his resolve.
The Moncrieffe militia was assembling and would soonfollowand spread out across the fields. Others were searching inside the castlewalls, some guarding the English soldiers, but Duncan knew that Bennett was gone and had escaped alone. The guard at the gate had confirmed it. He had looked Bennett in the eye as a knife plunged into hisbellyand twisted savagely.
That guard was now dead, and Duncan was no longer calm. Nor conflicted. He felt only one pure, unambiguous emotion.…
The sun was rising in the sky, and he had the advantage of both speed and knowledge of the terrain. He thundered across a dewy meadow toward the forest—any soldier’s clear choice for cover—and charged into the shadowed growth. Once inside, he cantered through the wood, leaped over afallen log, then reined his horse to a halt. He paused and listened.
A mourning dove gave a plaintivecall, and a gentle breeze whispered through the leafy treetops. He closed his eyes and sat verystillin the saddle, alert and focused. A twig snapped. Footsteps pounded over the ground. A hundred yards away perhaps?
His eyes flew open. Digging his heels into Turner’s thick flanks, Duncan vaulted forward, deeper into the bush.
Seconds later, he saw a flash of red to his left and wheeled Turner hard over.
Duncan ducked forward, keeping his head low to avoid the slash of branches while he nimblypulledhis axe from the saddle scabbard.
Bennett was running hard. He was out of breath.
Panicked. He glanced over his shoulder.
Duncan gave a savage roar as Turner’s heavy hooves pounded over the mossy ground. Then everything went dark andstillinside Duncan’s head as he leaned back and swung his axe through the quiet morning air.
Chapter Twenty-two
Duncan reined in his horse and dismounted. He strode back to where Bennett was huddled in aballon the ground, hiding his face in the cradle of his arms. He was without his hat—for it had been sliced in two.
Duncan roughly shook him by the shoulder, as if to wake him from slumber, and Bennett responded by lying back in the moss and raising his hands over his head. It was a total, clear message of submission.
Duncan searched Bennett’s belt and pockets for the knife he had used tokillthe guard, located it, then wiped the blood off on the moss and slipped it into his own boot.
“You’re the Butcher, aren’t you?” Bennett asked.
“I am the Earl of Moncrieffe,” Duncan replied. “Now get up.”
Duncan paced back and forth, axe in hand, while Bennett rose on unsteady legs.
“I wouldn’t have recognized you,” Bennett said shakily.
“You look different in the costume of a savage. That’s why I thought you were the Butcher.”
Duncan ignored the insult. “How did you escape?” he asked. “Who released you?”
“One of my own men. He had a key.”
“Where did he get it?”
“I don’t know that. I didn’t bother to ask.” The panic in his voice slowly began to subside.
Duncan continued to pace back and forth like a caged tiger. “You have to pay for your crimes,” he said. “You cannot get away with the murder of innocent women and children.
You cannot escape from it.”
“I have done nothing but my duty,” Bennett replied.
