Laird,” Daroch ordered.
The man sputtered before rushing him, sword aimed at his throat.
Daroch side-stepped his attack easily, and thunked him soundly between the shoulder blades with his staff, sending the man sprawling face-first into the dirt.
The man was likely still sore at the hours he’d spent as Daroch’s guest some weeks past. The curses that were spat from his mouth along with the mud validated the theory.
Perhaps guest was too kind a word.
Shrugging, Daroch slipped through the open door and slammed it closed, barring it against the angry MacKay steward and turned to find another sword held just as directly to his throat.
“Druid,” the soft, low voice of Rory MacKay held a lethal note Daroch instantly respected.
“Laird,” he returned the man’s greeting, meeting Rory’s deadly amber gaze with one of his own. “If I were ye, I’d look into finding more competent protection.”
“Lorne is one of the most capable, deadly warriors to see a battlefield.” Rory glanced at the door, but only for a moment, a look of resigned respect teasing good humor into his brawny features. “I imagine he’s still cross with ye for leaving him stranded when I sent him for ye.”
“Lower yer sword,” Daroch commanded slowly. He would not trade good—natured conversation with the man who may have murdered three innocent women.
Rory instantly sobered, stepping closer and narrowing his eyes, the dangerous tip of his weapon pressing against Daroch’s jugular with precision. “State yer business, Druid, before I run ye through.”
For a moment of pure male instinct, Daroch wanted to test the man. Rory’s name was heralded as one of the best warriors in the Highlands that didn’t claim to be Berserker or Shape shifter. Daroch rarely ventured out of his cave and he’d still heard of the man. They stood remarkably similar in height, and though Daroch’s shoulders and arms were wider, the Laird’s trunk was thicker.
“Why run me through, when ye can tie me up and set me on fire?” Daroch put a winter’s worth of chill in the words and watched as the Laird’s face transformed.
Rory lowered his sword as though it had become too heavy to lift. Shame and regret darkened his eyes and he turned away, treading the few steps to the council table to settle his bulk into the Chieftain’s chair.
“I thought I was a cold-hearted bastard,” Daroch advanced on him, shaking with the strength of his rage. “But three innocent lasses, burned alive. Do ye ken the pain of it? Have ye no compassion at all, no humanity? Why have the Banshees not reaped their vengeance?”
A hollow, wry sound escaped the Laird. “Believe me they tried, but the man responsible is already dead by my own order. I stole their vengeance from them, but not their lives.”
Daroch hit the table with his staff. “Doona lie to me! I vow I’ll see ye burn as they did. I can prove the bricks used to raze the washhouse to the ground came from this very castle.”
“Set to blaze by my twin brother, Angus, and his men.” Rory put his knuckles on the table and rose to his feet, bringing their faces flush. “All of whom are dead upon my command.”
Daroch searched the man for signs of deceit. His breath was steady, his eyes undilated and clear, the pulse thrumming in his temple slightly elevated, but none more than had been at Daroch’s threat. He spoke the truth.
Aggression sizzled in the air between them for a tense moment.
“Who are ye to storm my castle and accuse me of such atrocities? What business is it of yers?” Rory’s voice lowered to a more reasonable register, but his meaning was apparent.
“I’m—” Daroch paused. No one. He was nothing to these Banshees or to their Laird. If he truly was a smart man, he’d be relieved Kylah had finally left him alone and go about his business. But he couldn’t. The ghostly lass had reached her wee glow into his darkness and illuminated something he’d long forgotten he’d even possessed.
His heart.
“I’m buggered.” He sank into the chair behind him and tossed his head against the wooden back. He was so close. So close to reaping a vengeance of his own. He couldn’t afford a comely distraction like her. Not now. “Ye requested that I help eliminate a Banshee back when ye were tormented with them. How did ye end up ridding yerself of her?”
The Laird threw his bronze lion’s mane back and laughed so hard he fisted his hands in his blue and green plaid. “It’s