The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(112)

He shook his head to clear it of those thoughts, spraying droplets of water from his sopping hair. “Thanks for the bath,” he replied. “Next time would you mind sending down some soap?” He sniffed. “It stinks down here.”

The man chuckled. “After a while, you won’t notice. I’m glad you are in such good humor. You’ll need it. They’re bringing in someone special for you.” He paused for effect. “The Extractor. I’m sure you’ve heard of him?”

Lachlan’s blood went cold. The Extractor was the King of England’s most feared torturer, known for being able to extract information from even the most unwilling of prisoners.

Lachlan’s mind filled with images—memories of what he’d gone through before and things he’d learned of since.

But he gave no indication of the effect the words had on him. “You can save him a journey; I’ve met men of his ilk before.”

Though his features were largely masked by the shadow cast by the light behind him, Lachlan could see the guard smile. “We’ve heard you can be difficult. But he’s not coming all this way just to meet you.” He turned his head. “Bring her in.”

God, no! Lachlan’s heart hammered. Every muscle in his body flared with the urge to fight. But he knew he couldn’t react.

“Stop!” Bella shouted. “Where are you taking me?”

The fear in her voice cut at his heart. But he knew he couldn’t do anything.

He heard the muffled sounds of struggle from above as two men dragged her in. He forced himself to lie perfectly still as they forced her head down into the opening where he could see her.

“Lachlan! Oh, God, Lachlan is that you? What have they done to you?”

His mouth curled in anger. “Get that bitch out of here.”

She gasped, recoiling in shock. “Lachlan, please, I’m so sorry. There was nothing I could do.”

“Do you think I want to listen to your explanations? You betrayed me,” he spat malevolently. “Get her the f**k out of my face!”

He heard her broken sob as the men pulled her back. His chest burned. When the original guardsman’s face appeared again, Lachlan added, “I’ll be looking forward to watching what your visitor has in mind for that bitch. When he’s done, I want a turn.”

Her soft cries tore at his heart as they led her away.

The guard frowned, as if that hadn’t gone as he’d planned. “I thought you were lovers?”

“She’s the reason I’m here. Do you think I give a shite what happens to her?”

It was obviously not the reaction the guard had been expecting.

Which was exactly what Lachlan was hoping for.

The guard shook his head. “You’re a cold-blooded bastard, MacRuairi. But you’ll have some time to think about it. The Extractor won’t be here until tomorrow night.”

And before Lachlan could say anything more the door slammed shut, sending him into a sea of blackness.

Lachlan knew he couldn’t count on them to believe what he’d said about Bella. The thought of what they might do to her to get him to talk …

His gut twisted. He wouldn’t last long. He could hope to delay them with lies, but for how long? How long before he was faced with the choice of watching the woman he loved suffer agonizing pain or betraying his friends?

He should have known better than to offer bold proclamations of his ability to withstand any kind of torture to Bruce. Everyone had his breaking point. Even he.

Bella’s was her daughter. How could he blame her for what she’d done? When faced with an impossible choice, she’d chosen to protect her daughter. The moment of betrayal he’d felt had turned to understanding when he’d learned the truth. He could only imagine what they’d threatened to get her to agree.

And what was she going through now, being imprisoned again?

He needed to get out of here as soon as possible. His mind went to work in the darkness. It was so pitch black he couldn’t see his own feet. There was one good thing about learning from the guard what they intended: Lachlan’s fear for Bella had outstripped the panic of being in another dank hole.

He scooted around the perimeter of the room, inching toward the pile of bones. It wasn’t easy with his hands chained behind his back, but he dug through the grisly pile, tossing aside anything that was too big. Eventually, he found a piece that might work—it was about the size and length of his little finger.

He stood. After finding a rock at the right height, he held the bone as firmly as he could and banged his hands backward. He swore when the impact caused him to lose his grip. He had to sweep his hand around in the dark a while to find the bones. But the second time, it worked. The bone splintered in half.

He examined both pieces and chose the sharper of the two, which he honed further by filing it for a while against the rock.

When it was about the right shape and size, he carefully went to work on the manacles. It took him an hour, mostly because he didn’t want to rush and chance the bone snapping off in the lock, but eventually his hands were free.

Feeling around in the dark was easier now, and he worked his way around the room until he found what he’d noticed before: a small rectangular drain.

Berwick Castle had been built on a motte adjacent to the sea. At one time, part of the motte had been surrounded by water. The drain had been necessary to prevent the chamber from flooding with water. An iron grate covered it, but if he could work it free he might be able to squeeze through it and find his way out.