Christ and bedamned, she had known.
His gut twisted at what was revealed to him.
His jaw clenched. God help him, he refused to concede defeat to the arrogant son of a whore. “FitzSimon!” he called out. The older man halted abruptly and pivoted to face him. “I’m afraid you’ve little choice in the matter,” Iain contended, his tone unyielding. “You’ll be sending down the boy now, or you’ll be burying a king as well!”
FitzSimon’s hands fell from his sides, his interest pique. “What say you, MacKinnon?”
“At this verra moment,” Iain lied without compunction, “the rest o’ my men have Henry’s camp surrounded, awaiting word from me.” He didn’t care how he achieved his aim, only that he did. “As God is my witness,” he swore, “deny me my flesh and blood this day, and I’ll smite your bastard king with my verra own hands!”
FitzSimon seemed to consider the threat. “You lie, MacKinnon!” he proclaimed after a moment’s deliberation.
It was a challenge, Iain thought, and smiled. “D’ you think so?” he asked coolly. His mount pranced restively beneath him, tossing its head and sidling backward, reflecting his own agitation. He snapped the reins. “But are you willing to risk it, FitzSimon? Shall I bring the whoreson here and slay him before your verra eyes? Will you believe it then?”
“Bastard!” FitzSimon returned. “I think you would not! What, then, would prevent me from delivering your son to you skewered upon my lance?”
Iain’s careful control snapped with the threat. He surged from his saddle, standing in the stirrups, his fury evident in every rigid inch of his body. “So help me, FitzSimon! I wouldst lay waste to every inch of this God-accursed land! I wouldna relent until your black heart rested in my hands! And I swear by Jacob’s Stone that I willna rest until your blood salts this land! Return my son to me this moment!”
The older man seemed to recoil a little, but he took a step forward and said, glaring down, “Arrogant Scots bastard! What prevents me from putting an arrow through your bloody skull as we speak?” FitzSimon’s men moved into position at the threat, prepared to carry it out, but FitzSimon raised his hand, staying them. “Best you tell me now,” he demanded, “afore you tempt me too far.”
Iain removed his helm in a defiant gesture, smiling resolutely. He was heartily glad for the lone man he’d left upon the rise in the distance.
“Look to my back, FitzSimon,” he suggested, his expression one of utmost confidence. “Do you spy the watchman upon the hill?”
FitzSimon shaded his eyes and peered into the horizon as bade of him. His face, when he gazed down once more, was visibly strained. He’d obviously spied the glitter of mail.
There was no way FitzSimon could know how many men he’d brought with him, or how many lay in wait beyond the hill. He couldn’t know that Iain had brought every last man save one to the bargaining table. “You canna reach him in time to prevent my men from carrying out their orders,” Iain said. “They lie in wait, even as we speak. And still... the choice is yours. Do you care to try me, FitzSimon?”
FitzSimon’s face became a mask of guarded fury. “How is it you learned of Henry’s approach?” he asked, stalling shrewdly. He turned to speak harshly to one of the men, and the man hastened away.
Iain settled once more within the saddle, recognizing the first sign of concession. His smile hardened. “You have your daughter to thank for that,” he yielded. And then advised, “Ad dinna be thinking to send a man to warn the king’s army. I’ve anticipated that, as well. He willna make it oot the postern without an arrow through his skull.”
FitzSimon lost his composure all at once, stamping his foot and carrying on furiously, shouting obscenities. Iain was taken aback by the callow display. “God damn that worthless bitch!” he spat, and then stood, facing down Iain in silence.
Iain sensed his victory in that instant, and demanded, “Send down the boy, FitzSimon, and I’ll leave be your king in one piece!”
“How can I be certain you speak the truth, MacKinnon? Show me your proof.”
“What proof can I offer, save Henry’s head, FitzSimon? Nay, I’m afraid you’ll have to trust me on this one.”
“Trust you?” FitzSimon scoffed. “Only a fool would trust a bloody Scotsman! Even were I to return the boy, what assurance have I that you will not fall upon Henry still?”
“Only my word,” Iain countered. “Send down my son and I pledge you my word that I’ll no’ harm your thieving king. All I wish is Malcom’s return, naught more. Gi’ him to me, FitzSimon, and I’ll take my men and go at once.”