Page 46 of Highlander's Lady of the Lake

“Wait!” the Englishman shouted. Brock could tell that the man was terrified, the tremble in his voice clear as the burbling of the nearby river, but he didn’t have any sympathy for him. He was the enemy, and Brock had an entire clan to protect from him.

Brock attacked again, but the Englishman parried it. He seemed to be better with a sword than Brock had originally thought, and he was much younger than him. Brock knew that he would have to finish him quickly if he wanted to leave the fight unscathed. Otherwise, he risked using up all his energy before the other man even broke a sweat.

Swing after swing of his sword, Brock forced the man toward the castle walls, trapping him there. But just as he was about to pierce the Englishman’s chest with his blade, the man spoke again, voice shrill and panicked.

“I can lead you to the camp!”

Brock froze, disgust welling up inside him. He spat onto the ground as he looked at the other man, almost unwilling to believe that anyone would be so quick to betray his own people.

“Do ye have na pride?” he asked him. “Do ye have na loyalty?” Or was this just an elaborate plan that the Englishmen had woven, he wondered, a way to lure Brock and his men to the English camp while the Englishmen waited for them, armed and prepared?

“I don’t want to die!” the man cried, and for the first time since he had encountered him, Brock realized just how young he was. A boy, really. Inexperienced. Expendable.

Brock sighed, a hand coming up to thread through his hair as he regarded the soldier. He didn’t have it in him to kill him, and besides, whatever information they could get out of him would be useful.

“Put yer hands behind yer back,” Brock barked at the boy, who quickly obeyed, dropping his sword on the ground in the process. Brock grabbed him by the wrists and began to push him toward the gates, shoving him with every other step. Once they were inside the grounds, the two of them quickly attracted a crowd of curious clansmen.

Brock handed the soldier to Dougal and Glenn, two of the older clansmen that he trusted more than anyone. “Take him to the cells. I’ll come and have a word with him once I speak to the Laird.”

Once the two of them had taken the man away, Brock decided to simply waste some time. There was no reason for him to bother Chrisdean, he thought, not when he didn’t know how much of a help the soldier could be to them, but there was also no reason to question the soldier immediately. Brock wanted the man to stay in that cell for a while, to enjoy the moldy walls and the lack of sunlight. A stay in those cells could make even the most hardened soldier speak in the end.

Brock spent hours chatting with his men, sharing the whisky that he carried with him, joking about the youngest ones in the group, as they all tended to do. Brock saw it as a rite of passage, though he could still remember some of the more accurate insults directed at him when he was their age. There wasn’t much to prepare for, not when they didn’t have a plan yet and when Chrisdean was still recovering.

“Brock!”

It was Mairi’s voice that drew him away from the crowd, and he approached her, his concern growing when he saw the one written on her features.

“What is it?” Brock asked. “Is it Chrisdean?”

“Na, na Chrisdean,” Mairi assured him. “But I canna find Nimue. Na one kens where she is. I’ve looked everywhere in this castle!”

Brock let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. “I’m sure she’s somewhere here, Mairi,” he said. “Or perhaps she went for a ride.”

“Weel, it isna safe out there!” Mairi reminded him. “Did ye forget about the ambush?”

“The ambush was far from here,” Brock reassured her. “And besides, the Sassenachs willna be foolish enough to come near this castle again so soon. I’m sure she’s fine, and she’s here somewhere.”

Where could she have gone, after all, Brock wondered. And then, a terrifying thought occurred to him.

It must have shown on his face because Mairi was quick to grab him by the shoulders, her own face contorted with fear. “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

“Mairi, wait in the castle,” Brock said. “There’s somethin’ I must do.”

“Brock, what is it?” Mairi demanded, her grip on Brock’s shoulders tightening.

Brock turned to face his wife with a sigh, hands reaching for hers and gently holding them. “I caught a spy,” he said. “A Sassenach spy while I was patrollin’ outside the grounds. If they’ve done anythin’ to Nimue, he might ken.”

Mairi gasped, one of her hands coming up to cover her gaping mouth. “Do ye think they may have done somethin’ to her?” she asked. “Do ye think that they have her?”

“I dinna ken how they could have gotten their filthy hands on her,” Brock said. “We’ve been verra careful, Mairi. Ever since the ambush, we’ve been verra careful. If anyone had come into the castle grounds, I would ken; I’m sure of it.”

“Wait,” Mairi said. “Chrisdean said that she left to bring him somethin’ for his cough. Perhaps she strayed too far or perhaps . . .”

Mairi’s voice trailed off, and Brock could see the terror in her eyes. If he were honest with himself, he had to admit that he, too, was feeling the panic rise in his chest at the thought that the English had captured Nimue, but he reminded himself that her father was on their side. Even if they had her, they wouldn’t do anything to harm her.

“Wait in the castle, Mairi,” Brock told her once more. “I will come find ye as soon as I have any news, but dinna say anythin’ to Chrisdean, do ye hear me? Na until we ken for certain. I dinna want to spook the lad for na reason.”

Mairi nodded, and once Brock had her promise, he rushed to the cells, running down the stairs that led there. He quickly spotted the English soldier, the only prisoner that they had, and he stepped up to the bars with a heavy gait, arms crossed over his chest.

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