Her guards hurried to obey. Moray’s breaths were labored, and blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. It suddenly felt warm and cramped in the cottage as Adaira stepped closer to the western heir. Her heart was beating far too swiftly for her liking, but her face was composed and cold. The expression her father taught her to wear when it came to justice.

Adaira yanked the blindfold away from Moray’s eyes. She watched the harsh lines in his brow ease as he stared up at her, as if he believed she would save him.

“Before I remove this gag from your mouth,” she began, “I want you to know that we kill Breccans who trespass into the east with ill intent. You’re here on my lands, uninvited and unexpected, and I can only presume you came either to betray me or cause pain to my clan. I’m going to ask you questions, and I expect you to answer everything with honesty. If you understand and agree to that, nod your head.”

Moray’s eyes smoldered, but he nodded.

Adaira pulled the gag from his mouth, and he coughed. One of the guards brought her a chair, to sit before the Breccan, and she was about to take a seat when Jack stepped forward.

“Laird?” he said, and while his voice still sounded strained, he stepped toward her with confidence. “May I share a suggestion?”

“Go on,” she said. But he didn’t have to explain. Jack unsheathed the dirk at his belt. His truth blade. Adaira accepted his offering and returned to stand before Moray.

“Are you going to cut my throat before giving me the chance to speak?” Moray asked. “Because I have a story you will want to hear.”

Adaira ignored his sarcasm and the curiosity she felt at his taunt. “While your blood runs from this blade, you will be compelled to answer everything I ask you in truth. I’m going to cut you now, because I don’t trust you to speak honestly without it.” She sliced his skin, just below his knee. Moray didn’t react; the sting of blades was familiar to him.

Adaira finally sat, her eyes fixed on his. But she could see his blood running in thin ribbons down the hide and leather of his boot.

“Why are you in the east, Moray Breccan?” she asked.

He bared his teeth. He was trying to resist answering, but the enchantment was in his blood.

“To steal a lass,” he replied.

Adaira was prepared for this answer, but his acknowledgment of his intent still hit her like a fist. She struggled to tamp down her rising gorge, to keep her mind sharp and uncluttered from emotion.

She asked, “Were you the one who stole the other Tamerlaine lasses?”

“I was.”

“Where are the three lasses being held?”

“They’re in the Keeper of the Aithwood’s cottage.”