That earned him a hard smack on the back of his head, and he grinned. They walked down the hallway of the dungeon, and when they entered the landing area, Owen saw someone tall and dark descending the stairs.
“Owen Cambel?” a strangely familiar voice said.
He knew that voice… He glanced over his shoulder. “Hamish…”
Hamish stood before him, as tall and as menacing as ever. Thin battle scars decorated his face, and his black eyes were unreadable.
Great. Another traitor. The wasp nest was getting bigger.
“What’s going on, lads?” Hamish asked.
“Don’t know,” one of the guards said. “Sir de Bourgh asked for the Highlander. He got nothing out of the wife, so I guess it’s this piece of shit’s turn now.”
A look of confusion flashed on Hamish’s face.
“Walk.” The guard shoved Owen.
Hamish followed Owen with a deep frown. This wasn’t good. Last year, Hamish had infiltrated Inverlochy’s troops. He’d pretended to from the MacKinnon clan while spying for the MacDougalls that whole time. The man was a devil. He’d kept his identity a secret for several weeks and eventually killed Lachlan, Owen’s cousin.
If Hamish discovered that Muireach was helping them, there would be trouble. He’d also interfere with their plan to escape. They needed to be even more careful now.
Owen and the guards walked to the other wing of the dungeon. Several heavy doors lined the hallway. They stopped before one of them, and the guard opened it.
The chamber was clearly made for torture. The image of Amber being lashed right here invaded Owen’s mind and brought a painful heaviness in his gut. They must’ve tied her to the giant pole in the middle of the room and flogged her with a whip hanging on the wall.
There was a massive table with roasted chicken, bread, cheese, and apples. De Bourgh stood by the fireplace with his back to Owen and played a jolly tune on a fife. Another man, probably the Jerold Baker that Amber had told him about, sat and sharpened a long knife, tapping his foot to the rhythm of the song.
Clapping and humming the melody, Owen walked into the room. The two men looked up at him and the music stopped.
Owen leaned on the table and tore off a chicken leg. “Please, dinna stop on my account. I’ve been locked up in the darkness for what feels like a lifetime. I’ve missed music and food”—he poured himself some ale from the jug—“and drink.”
He gulped the ale and moaned appreciatively.
“Ye have a good cook and some great ale, Sir de Bourgh.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
De Bourgh cocked one eyebrow and set the fife aside.
“Please, enjoy it while you can,” he said, his voice terse. “I brought you here to see if you’d be more talkative than your wife. How is she, by the way?”
He had the audacity to ask about Amber after what he’d done to her… Scalding hot waves of fury cascaded through Owen. He tightened his fists to stop himself from grabbing one of those sharp torture instruments and putting it through de Bourgh like a spit through a pig.
This was a good start. He’d disoriented the bastart and thrown him off his game. He couldn’t lose the advantage now.
Breathe, he reminded himself. Breathe.
“Ye well ken how she is,” he said. “And I will talk. Why nae talk while there’s music, food, and drink? A good, safe place to sleep. A roof above my head. What’s nae to like?”
He took the chair at the head of the table, the one he assumed was de Bourgh’s. He tore off a piece of bread and chewed. Hmm, the bastart did have a good cook. De Bourgh’s nostrils flared, his lower jaw jutted out, and his lips flattened into a line as thin as a thread.
Good. Owen wanted him mad. He needed to find out how to get out of here, and angry de Bourgh was much more likely to slip a crucial piece of information.
“’Tis much better food than what yer man brings down to the dungeons.” Owen drank some more. “So while I’m enjoying yer hospitality, ask yer questions.”
De Bourgh let out a long, loud exhale, almost a growl. Then he straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and walked to stand by the table. His eyes darkened, and the expression on his face made Owen’s smile fade a little.
De Bourgh snapped his fingers, and Jerold Baker was at Owen’s throat in a flash. He was surprisingly strong for such a thin man and lifted Owen up. Something radiated heat next to Owen’s throat. He looked and saw an iron-hot rod there, and broke out in a sweat.
“You think you can be coy with me?” de Bourgh asked, his teeth bared. “You think you can make me forget what matters? You’re no guest, and I’m no host. Make no mistake, your life and your wife’s life are in my hands. I won’t show any mercy. I won’t make a mistake. Success here will ensure my children’s future, and that is not something I will play with. So if you and your wife want to stay alive, you will answer me.”
Owen gave a small nod.
“What is the Bruce planning?” de Bourgh said.
Owen needed to be smart. He needed to say enough so that de Bourgh would believe him, but still not give him anything important.
“He kens about ye and yer plans to take back the Highlands.”
De Bourgh narrowed his eyes and shrugged.
“Hmm. I’ll bite. How many men does he really have? Did he have everyone with him at Inverlochy?”
“I think five thousand.” That wasn’t true. The Bruce didn’t have more than two thousand men, but Owen knew the enemy feared the Bruce and thought he had many more. The skill and cunning of the Highlanders, their knowledge of the territory, and the unexpected moves they took were the Bruce’s strength, and Owen wasn’t going to let his king down.
De Bourgh pinched his lips in consideration. “Five thousand is a large force, but there’s a difference between an army of trained warriors and simple farmers holding swords for the first time.”
“He has knights.”
It was true. He did have knights. When the Bruce returned from the west where he’d been hiding, several Scottish knights joined him, and the more success he had, the more men followed him.
“The rest are battle-hardened warriors,” Owen said.
Another lie. The Bruce accepted anyone who wanted to join him. Most were passionate and dedicated. But they weren’t all trained warriors like those in the English army.
De Bourgh narrowed his eyes. They glistened like black glass beads under his eyebrows. “Lies. They cannot be.” He nodded to Jerold Baker. “Time to show our Highlander what happens to liars in Stirling.”
The red-hot rod came closer to Owen’s neck. The burn sent a blinding pain through him and snatched his breath away. But before the rod could dig deeper into his flesh, the door opened.
A tall man with shoulder-length white hair and a short gray beard came in. It was the same man who had given Owen the gold for the king all those years ago.
Chief of the MacDougall clan, John MacDougall of Lorne.
Jerold Baker moved the rod from Owen’s face, but the scent of burned flesh and hair lingered in the room. Owen didn’t notice the pain anymore. Rage and hatred rose in him like in a wall of fire. MacDougall’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed.
“I see ye’re busy crushing Scottish flies, Sir de Bourgh,” he said without taking his eyes off Owen. “Canna say I disapprove. I wanted to crush filth for a long time.”