“Noo, ye wouldna be wantin’ me to solve your crime for ye,” he drawled.
I scowled, tired of this man playing games with me. “I would be quite content with that. If it meant bringing Dodd’s killer to justice. And if your information was accurate.” I knew I was prodding the beast—as the flash of something sinister in his eyes confirmed—but I couldn’t help it. He either needed to tell me what he knew or let me go.
“The caretaker?”
I blinked in surprise, trying to follow the bent of his thoughts. “Yes. Dodd was the caretaker at Dryburgh Abbey. And we assume the body snatchers murdered him when he stumbled on their activities.”
“And that’s what you’re worried aboot?”
“Well, yes. Of course, I want to stop the body snatchings, too. But isn’t the murder of a man more important than the theft of the dead’s bones?”
He lowered his knee, sitting straighter in his seat. “No’ all would say so.”
I frowned. Was he referring to their differences in rank? I supposed it was true that some would care little for the life of an old caretaker, especially when opposed to the desecration of an earl’s grave, but for me there was no comparison. I sympathized with the families whose loved ones’ remains had been stolen, particularly those who were more religious—like the Tylers—and worried about their ancestor’s resurrection, but there was no contest for which crime more justly deserved punishment. Murder trumped grave robbing any day.
Bonnie Brock casually lifted aside the curtain over the window with two fingers. “Perhaps you’re lookin’ at it all wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged, his gaze still on the shadowy world passing by outside as we rounded a corner. “Perhaps ye should be lookin’ into the victims’ pasts. Maybe they werena the saints everyone wishes ye to believe. Maybe they werena such friends to Scotland as ye think.”
I considered his words. Somehow I didn’t think he was referring to the possible theft of Collingwood’s torc.
He turned to gaze at me, allowing the curtain to drop. “No’ all crimes are bad. No’ if the motive is just.” He leaned toward me, and I instinctively pressed back deeper into the cushions. “Sometimes the victims are the real villains.”
I suspected at this point he was talking about more than just the body snatchings, but when I opened my mouth to question him about it, he cut me off, leaning even closer. I covered the pistol with my hand, lest he try to take it.
“You’ve the bonniest eyes.”
Facing his charming smile and the sudden change in the direction of our conversation, I was momentarily at a loss for words.
“They’re like jewels, but no’ sapphires.”
“Lapis lazuli.”
“Is that what they are? They flash when yer angry. I like that.” He tried to reach out and touch my face, but I turned aside. “I bet Gage likes it as well.”
I had a strong suspicion they were flashing now.
“Mr. Kincaid . . .”
“Ah, lassie, call me Brock.”
I considered ignoring his request, but then decided it would only delay matters. “Brock, you’ve given me your information and proved your point. Will you please return me to my brother-in-law’s home now?”
His lips quirked upward, but he sat back, allowing me more breathing room. “But we’re no’ quite finished, lass.”
I scowled. I knew there would be a hidden cost to our agreement. With men like him, there always was. He wouldn’t share such information with me without expecting something in return. That would be completely out of character.
“What do you want?” I asked, hoping he would get directly to the point.
His gaze shifted to stare at the carriage wall just over my head and became oddly flat. I began to suspect he was suppressing some strong emotion. It made me more able to patiently wait out his silence.
“I have a sister,” he replied finally. His eyes focused on me again, allowing me to see the anger and worry reflected behind them. “She started to dandle after one o’ the men yer lookin’ for. I told her to stay away from him. He’s no good. But she didna listen. And when they skulked off, she went wi’ ’em.”
“And you’re worried she’s come to regret that decision.”
He nodded, one sharp bob of his head.
I tilted my head, trying to suppress the sympathy I could feel welling up inside me. For all I knew, Bonnie Brock could have been an ogre to his sister and that was why she ran off. But somehow, seeing the real concern he seemed to feel, I suspected he was no worse than any other brother.
“How old is she?”
“Aboot sixteen.”
So young. “What do you want me to do?”
“Like I told ye, if she was in Edinburgh, I woulda found her in a matter o’ hours. But she’s no’. I want ye to find her. To send her back.”