“Your duty to whom?” Duncan could feel his impatience mounting. “Your country? Your King? What about God?”
“God, King, country—it’sallthe same.”
“Is that a fact?” Duncan stopped and fixed his eyes on Bennett. “Tel me something. You’ve fought in battles, as have I. You’vekilledmany men, as have I. You’ve even saved the life of your commander, Amelia’s father. But why do you hurt women and children? Why do you burn them out of their homes?”
“My duty is to crush this rebel ion,” he replied. “If that means I must wipe this country clean ofallJacobites, then that is what Iwilldo.”
Duncan took a deep breath, searching for calm. “Do you ever regret the things you’ve done?”
Do you wake up at night drenched in sweat, dreaming ofyour victims staring at you, watching you sleep? Do yousee and feel the scorching flames of hell at your heels, andagonize over the blood you cannot wash off your hands?
“Never,” Bennett replied. “As I said, it is my duty as an officer to serve the King, and I do so without hesitation. Or remorse.”
Duncan looked away. He thought of his father’s iron fist and the pain of that punishing, unrelenting hand as it struck bone—Duncan’s own bones—in far too many lessons about discipline.
“Have you ever been wounded?” Duncan asked, thinking for a moment that Bennett simply did not understand the pain he inflicted upon others. “Have you ever felt real physical agony? Have you been shot, or cut, or beaten? Have you ever been a victim of another man’s wrath?”
Bennett laughed. “Whyallthese questions, Moncrieffe?”
“I just need to understand.…”
“Would you like to see my scars?” Bennett asked. “I can show them to you, if you like. You can see where I’ve been wounded on the battlefield, and how I was once flogged to within an inch of my life.”
Duncan eyed him with mistrust. “The British army does not flog its officers.”
“No, but a fatherwillflog a son to make a good soldier out of him.”
Duncan pondered this. “You were whipped by your father?”
“Yes,” Bennett replied. “Many times. But I cannot imagine it was any worse than what you endured, Moncrieffe. Let us not forget the bishop. Your father was not a man many people would defy. I’m sure you had a very stern and rigorous education aswell, and did what you were told.
Nothing to be ashamed of. I, too, was an obedient son.”
It was true. Duncan had been raised with a firm hand, but he had also defied his father. At the age of thirteen, Duncan had walked in on his mother being slapped around the gal ery. He had quickly sliced his father’s arm open with a broken bottle, and it was a year before the man raised a hand to Duncan’s mother again.
When it did happen, his father came away from that beating with a black eye. After the third, more violent confrontation with a bold son of seventeen, his father gave up the abuse completely.
“I’llbe taking you back to the castle now,” Duncan said, returning to his horse and digging through his saddlebags for a rope, “where you’llwait for Colonel Worthington.”
Bennett scowled. “Give me a sword, Moncrieffe, and let me fight you. It’s only fair, after you stole my fiancée—no doubt gaining her hand by force, just as I gained the upper hand with your former fiancée. What was her name again?
Mary? Megan?”
Duncan spoke in a low voice. “Her name was Muira.”
«Well, Muira was a very pretty Scottish lass, and I made sure her last moments were exciting and memorable. She quite enjoyed herself, I believe. Pity you weren’t there to see it.”
Duncan faced Bennett and palmed the handle of his axe.
“If I’d been there, Bennett, you’d be dead.”
“Is that right? Then why aren’t I dead now? Perhaps you don’t truly have the guts for war. From what I understand, you like to negotiate in flowery drawing rooms, using your whisky to bribe for what you want. What happened to you? Your father was a fierce warrior. He must have been very disappointed with how you turned out. I’mstillnot sure why Amelia has taken a fancy to you when you are nothing but a weak and cowardly Scot and, I am quite sure, a dirty Jacobite aswell.”
Duncan voiced a warning. “You should shut your mouth.”
He thought of Angus suddenly and heard the low sound of his friend’s voice:That woman has made you weak.…
Bennett smiled. “Why? Does the truth grate upon your delicate sensibilities? Here’s another bit of grating truth for you, Moncrieffe.” He took a step forward. “When these charges against me are dismissed—which they most certainlywillbe—the first thing I’m going to do is return to the Highlands. Iwillrape every woman along the way, burn every cottage, and then Iwill killyou,and every member of your household. Iwilltake Amelia back to England with me where she belongs and make her my wife. I’lltake her straight to bed on our wedding night and show her how a real man does it. At least then shewillbe an English whore. You might even hear her screams from your grave—but you won’t be able to do a single bloody thing about it, because you’llbe dead.”
