Page 67 of The Highlander's Captured Bride
“…Various modes of interrogation—” Ethan suddenly realized what his uncle meant and his gut threatened to revolt. He spun to the inordinately calm man and asked, “Are ye sayingtorture? Uncle! Ye cannae dae this!”
“I’ll dae what needs to be done,” his uncle replied, “Take him away to his chambers and bind him without food or water. Let’s give him a while to reflect on if his actions are worth the consequences that will follow.”
“Uncle!” Ethan protested frantically. “Please, nay!”
“It's out of yer hands, nephew,” was his cold reply. “There is naything ye can dae at the point. Let justice takes its course.”
“What justice?” Ethan asked as the men escorted the protesting man out of the room with quiet stares following him. “Did he kill anyone?”
“That is to be seen,” his uncle replied while calmly reaching for his goblet.
Dumbfounded at how his uncle could act so calm in such a crises, Ethan knew there was no possible way he could stomach anything if he even tried to eat or drink what was placed before him. Worried, he ran to Violet’s door and banged on it.
“Violet, love, let me in! I need—”
“Master MacFerson,” a deep, rumbling voice cut his words off and Ethan spun to see a burly man, dressed like the other new guards, coming towards him. “By orders of Mister MacFerson, nay one is to have any contact with any of the O’Cain’s. Please step aside.”
“Like hell, will I!” he snapped. “The woman inside is me betrothed. Ye have nay right to stop me from seeing her.”
“I dae have rights, under the orders of yer Uncle,” the man said. “Please step away. I’d wouldnae like to have to remove ye bodily.”
“This is me home,” Ethan’s voice dipped to territorial growl, “Me faither’s the Laird, I have more rights to order ye than me Uncle does.”
“Nae according to the rules laid down by the Clan’s elders,” the man rebutted. “Mister MacFerson showed me the written record of the rules and it says that the older MacFerson in line from the Laird is the one who had the authority. Again, Master MacFerson, please step away.”
Firming his jaw, Ethan went back to the door and pushed his hand on the door, “Violet,mo ghràdh, let me in. Tell me yer all right—” a rough hand grabbed him and hauled him away and incensed, Ethan spun, angered to the point he would do some damage.
He yanked his arm away, “Dae nae dare touch me.”
When the man inserted himself between him and the door, Ethan dared consider a fight but the man had all the make-up of a bull with iron horns and there was a distinct possibility he would be walking away with a broken limb.
Dropping his hand, Ethan did not dignify the man with a look, but only spun on his heel and walked away. He was bristling with anger against his uncle but knew he would not get anywhere if he tried to get the man to change his mind. He seemed set with what he had ordered and no amount of negotiation would ever change him. He felt like escaping to the stables but changed direction and went to his father’s study.
His uncle was not there so he began to search the room, looking for that so-called set of rules laid down by the elders that he had never heard his father mention even once. He rifled through the drawers and trunks and even searched for hidden compartments around the room. He came up empty.
Slamming his fist on the desk only had pain ricocheting up and down his arm rather than get him anywhere sensible. The best he could do at that juncture was to ask his uncle for that document, but he had to reel his temper in first.
He sank into his father’s chair and stared at the table, his eyes following the faded whirls and twirls in the wood.
How have things gotten to this turn?
Finley was dead, his father was being undermined by his uncle and the only persons who could help them find the murderer were now under guard and soon to be tortured. Mix in the fact he was about to marry the daughter of that man, Ethan doubted that his uncle would let him see her much less carry her to the village kirk.
What had gone wrong? Where had they gone wrong? Where had they strayed off the path and ended up in this malaise?
The answers did not come from the table or the walls of even from deep within himself. Without any solution forthcoming, he heaved himself up. His body felt heavy, almost three times his weight, and he made it to the outside. Sucking in a deep lungful of the fresh air, he headed over to the stables and entered, to see, another set of stable-boys.
Curtly, he introduced himself and asked, “How long have ye boys been here?”
“From morning, Master MacFerson,” one said with a tiny frown. “Why?”
“Did ye see a lass, slender with curly dark hair come in at any time?” He asked, begging internally for any shred of evidence that Violet had been seen by anyone at all.
His answer came in a shake of a head—two heads actually, but only one spoke, “Nay, Master, I—we—never saw anyone like that.”
A vile suspicion began to grow in his mind—what if Violet was not there at all? Had his uncle done something to her? Before he went to question his uncle, he had to find out more. If he did question him and left, who knows what his uncle would demand be done to her. He needed to be armed with facts first before staring his uncle in the eyes and demanding the truth.
Anger was bubbling inside his chest like a pot in fire while he rode out. A gallop at breakneck speed might match the fury inside him and probably calm him. With the horse saddled, he turned to the field and let loose.
