Page 80 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
“And where ismeson, Bolton? Answer me that. What have ye done wi’ him?” the Laird countered, hoping to take the man off-guard.
An expression that the Laird could not quite catch flitted over his adversary’s face at his words. It might have been guilt, it might have been cunning, it might have been a mixture of the two.
That bastard. He has me only son!
“I give you my word as a gentleman, that I have no notion as to what you are barking about, you Scottish dog,” the Captain said, smoothly.
The Laird gritted his teeth. Once more, he had to make a concerted effort not to reach for the dirk he had secreted in his stocking and plunge it into the English officer’s eye.
Ye need him alive, until ye get Edward at least.
“I want him back, Bolton,” he said in a deep bass growl that was like his son’s voice when he was roused to fury. “I offer a simple trade. Me son fer yer daughter.”
The Captain’s eyes narrowed maliciously. “Is that so? And what would you have me do with all my men once this trade has been completed amicably?”
The Laird raised an eyebrow and fixed the man opposite him with a stare that a farrier could have bent a horseshoe around.
“I’d expect ye to sod off, Bolton,” he said, “and take yer army of mongrels and bootlickers with ye.”
The Laird held Captain Bolton’s eye as the Englishman watched him appraisingly. Despite being a man who it was very hard to shake, the Laird found it a challenge to hold the other man’s gaze for an extended period.
There is something serpentine about those eyes.
Almost, if he had been a man prone to fancy, he might have imagined he could see something stirring in the depths of those eyes.
“Fine!” Captain Bolton ejaculated, all of a sudden. The word struck the Laird’s ears like a whip crack. “Fine.”
“Fine?” the Laird.
Captain Bolton looked at the Highlander, a shrewd twist to his mouth. “You have an accord, MacAlpein.”
“An accord?”
“Must I repeat everything twice? Surely, I should be the one asking for clarification when it comes to pronunciation,” snapped the Captain.
“We have an accord? We are agreed that we’ll trade yer daughter for me son, and that ye shall leave this field and turn yer army south and leave the MacQuarrie lands, and leave the people in peace?”
Captain Bolton gave a snort of impatience. “Yes, yes, you insufferable lackwit. We each bring our captive out, we trade them––under a flag of parlay––and, if there is no skulduggery on your side of course, I will command my men to stand down and we will leave for the English side of the border.”
“These are high stakes, Bolton,” the Laird said. “If you double-cross me, Iwillkill ye. Your men won’t be able to get to me before I get to ye. I care nae if I’m cut down after that.”
The Captain waved a bored hand. “The stakes are of the highest. Either of us could lose our kin. If I cross you then you will strike me down on this very ground, and if you cross me I will order my men to charge.”
The Laird studied the Captain with a careful and dubious eye.
“Come, MacAlpein,” Captain Bolton said, “you may hate me, but I don’t think there is a man alive who can attest to the veracity of my word like you can.”
Much to the Laird’s astonishment, the Captain held out a white-gloved hand.
“After all,” Captain Bolton continued, “I said to you that I would kill your wife if you did not stop in your support of the Jacobite cause, and look what I did…”
It was the sorest trial of Tormod MacAlpein’s life not to kill the smirking English captain there and then. Somehow though, through a supreme effort of will, he refrained.
“Go and bring forth yer captive,” he spat, ignoring the proffered hand.
The Captain lowered his hand and turned to leave.
“Wait!” the Laird said suddenly.
