The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,75
guard, but just before the nail struck his skull, Livingstone tackled Ciar from the side.
Again, he fell on top of the rotting timbers, nails lacerating his thigh and arm. “Get off me!”
“Gladly, but nay until you’ve faced Wilcox. Ye kill this bastard now, and you may as well set sail for the continent, ’cause you’ll never rest another day in Scotland.”
Ciar pushed up, sending Livingstone crashing onto his arse. The man was bloody right, and that made him want to tear every piece of remaining timber from the barn with his bare hands. “We ride,” he growled, heading for the horses.
Outside, Riley smirked beneath the rim of his dripping tricorn hat. “’Tis still our word against yours, Dunollie. The governor will never believe your story—not after you kidnapped three of the king’s dragoons.”
Ciar scowled all the more. Riley was the next scoundrel who deserved a thrashing.
He mounted and wiped the blood off his cheek with his sleeve. He most likely looked as bedraggled as his prisoners.
* * *
When Ciar muscled his way into the governor’s offices, a slight secretary moved in front of the door, his monocle dropping from his eye. “You cannot go in there. Guards, stop him!”
Ciar grabbed the man’s shoulder and brusquely ushered him out of the way. He’d managed to talk his way through the gates, and he wasn’t about to let this runt of a man stand in his way now. “I’m going in, and no one will block my path, especially you.”
MacIntyre and his men followed with the prisoners while Ciar yanked on the latch and burst into the chamber.
Three officers looked up from a table with Wilcox at the head. “Dunollie?” He thrust his finger at the lieutenant. “Seize him.”
“Not today!” Ciar boomed, drawing his sword from its scabbard. He panned the blade across the room. “No one will lay a finger on me until I’ve had my say.”
Wilcox tipped up his chin, resting his hand on the hilt of his silver-handled pistol. “I would be within my rights to shoot you dead where you stand.”
Ciar didn’t lower his weapon. “Perhaps not after you’ve been presented with the evidence. Livingstone, MacIntyre, Kelly, bring in my prisoners.”
He glanced over his shoulder as the men filed in, crowding the governor’s rooms.
“You dare to arrest soldiers of the crown?” demanded the lieutenant.
“May I introduce…” Ciar gestured with his sword. “Tommy MacIntyre’s heir. He has identified certain effects belonging to his father. Things found in the possession of these three miscreants.”
Riley gripped his bound fists over his chest. “You’d do anything to keep your neck out of a noose, MacDougall.”
“Do not try to hide your finger, sentinel,” said MacIntyre. “Me da’s ring was the first thing I spotted when you were sitting that nag.”
Ciar threw a questioning glance at Kelly while the Irishman shrugged. Evidently Tommy Jr. had been saving for this moment to reveal yet another bit of evidence.
“Riley cannot deny it, ’cause there’s proof—’tis engraved with TM.”
Wilcox nodded to the lieutenant, who sauntered up to Riley and held out his palm. “Let me see it.”
Riley made a show of struggling to take off the ring while Ciar’s blood boiled. “Stop with the theatrics.”
When the band finally slipped off, the lieutenant held it to the candlelight. “Looks like the letters have been filed.”
MacIntyre leaned in and shifted the ring. “I can still see the T. Look there.”
“It proves nothing,” Riley said, smirking.
If only I could slap the grin from his vainglorious face.
With a tilt of his chin, Ciar motioned Kelly forward, who produced a leather-wrapped parcel. “More evidence, if I may.”
Wilcox leaned across the board. “Make it fast. You men are filling my rooms with the stench of wet wool and interrupting the king’s business.”
“This won’t take long.” Kelly placed the bundle on the table, opened it, then held up a pocket watch. “We found this on Manfred.”
Tommy Jr. pointed. “It belonged to my father and has T. MacIntyre etched on the back, and the engraving hasn’t been filed.”
The lieutenant concurred, the ring still in his pincers.
“I’ll take that.” Tommy Jr. snatched the ring, slipped it into his sporran, then pointed to the second item in the parcel, a knife. “And that’s me da’s sgian dubh. You’ll have to take my word on it, but it has a nick about a third of the way up where it hit a wee stone.”
The lieutenant unsheathed the blade and examined it. “There’s a nick, but Dunollie could have given these things to you just to pin the murder