by Mariah Stone
“Aye, well, I’m not marrit, either.”
Owen looked Craig up and down with a dubious smile. “Why is that, I wonder, brother? Does yer cock not work?”
Craig shook his head. “Shut yer hole. Everything works fine, not that is any of yer concern. My fiancée died, if ye remember, before we were wed. Father hasna found a good match yet. But I am in no haste. I need to ken I can trust the woman and her family.”
Owen sighed. “Aye. Trust is important to ye.”
“Trusting the wrong person will lead to the loss of those ye love,” Craig said. “Look at what happened to Grandfather Colin. Look at what the MacDougalls did to Marjorie.”
Pain stabbed Craig and twisted his stomach at the memory of Dunollie Castle ten years ago. Of seeing Marjorie hurt like she had been.
“I wish I had been there,” Owen said.
“Ye were but a lad,” Craig said.
“Domhnall is only two years older than me. If I were there, maybe Grandfather—”
“Nae, dinna dare to blame yerself. I should have been more careful. We all should have.”
Marjorie had Alasdair’s son, Colin, named after their grandfather who’d died saving her. The clan kept his existence secret—especially from the MacDougalls—afraid that John MacDougall would come and take Alasdair’s only child.
Although Marjorie had a bastart son, Dougal could still have found her a good husband who’d accept her. But she would never wed and would never love a man—she had confided that in Craig. Thankfully, their father understood her trauma and didn’t insist.
Craig and Owen were silent, heads hanging over their cups. Where before, Marjorie had been cheerful and sweet, when she’d returned from Dunollie, she’d been a shadow of herself. After a while, she had asked Craig to teach her to defend herself, and he had, gladly. Owen and Domhnall had joined as well. Strength and confidence had come back to her; although, she would never be the same lass she’d been before Dunollie.
“The MacDougall lass,” Owen said. “Did anyone bring her food?”
“Dinna think so,” Craig said. “I shall bring her here. She wilna run with a hundred men in the hall to guard her. And we might get an answer or two.”
Craig stood up and was striding towards the exit, when he saw his father and the Bruce rise from their table and walk in his direction. “Craig, a word,” Bruce said.
The three of them went to a corner where no one would hear them.
“’Tis about the MacDougall lass,” his father said. “Please, listen with an open mind. I already gave my agreement.”
Craig frowned. Something dark turned in his gut.
“What about her?” he asked.
“The news of her being kept here by the Cambels would bring the MacDougalls right to our doorstep to retrieve their daughter. Mayhap even the Earl of Ross himself.”
Craig clenched his jaw. “Aye. But I can withhold a siege. As long as no one kens of the secret entrance…”
“No one kens but Edward, who died in the battle, and the boy ye caught. He told me after I threatened to whip his arse. I shall take him north with me and make him my cupbearer. He’ll come to the right side of this war. He’s a Scot and he kens what’s best for our country—independence.”
“’Tis good news,” Craig said. “So let MacDougalls come.”
“’Tis nae so simple. Risking the castle for one maiden is foolish.”
Craig stepped back. “Ye’re not suggesting to kill her?”
“Son, shut yer hole and listen to yer king,” Dougal said.
Craig’s jaw tightened. “Forgive me, sire. Please speak.”
Bruce’s lips spread in a sly smile, and there was something about the expression Craig didn’t like at all.
“How would ye like to take yer revenge on the MacDougalls while weakening them and the Earl of Ross at the same time?”
Craig cocked his head. “Aye, I would like that very much.”
“Then marry the lass.”
Craig’s stomach tensed. “What?”
“Son,” said Dougal Cambel, “’tis a good plan. Take from the MacDougalls their biggest alliance. Get revenge against them not by violence, but by taking away their future. Benefit the cause of the King of Scots.”
But marrying the enemy? The woman whose brother had assaulted and raped Marjorie? The woman whose family had killed Craig’s grandfather, Craig’s cousin Ian, and many more Cambels?
The woman whose blood was saturated with betrayal.
Craig had sworn never to let another MacDougall betray him. And if he married Amy…
A shiver of anticipation went through him at the thought of her naked in his arms. Her soft skin, her lips against his, that red hair spilled against his chest…
What was he doing? If he married a MacDougall, he’d be giving her an invitation to betray him. Even if she was forced to make an oath to be loyal to him as his wife, the marriage vow wouldn’t mean anything to her. She’d be too close. She’d know too much.
This was beyond him.
“Nae, Yer Grace. Forgive me. I canna stand thinking I will need to tie my life to a MacDougall. I am sorry, Yer Grace. We must think of something else.”
Bruce looked long and hard at Craig. “Sometimes personal sacrifices must be made for the good of many.”
“Aye, sire, but I fear ’tis nae sacrifice. ’Tis stepping into a trap.”
Dougal laid his hand on Craig’s shoulder. “Think it over, son. Ye’re a strong man and the man of duty. Ye will do what’s right.”
Craig gave a polite nod while fury boiled in his veins—anger at Bruce and his father for even considering taking a MacDougall into their family.
He turned and walked away, to find Amy MacDougall and ask her everything he needed to know and then lock her up somewhere he’d never have to see her again.
Chapter 6
Amy jerked her elbow from the iron-cast fist of the damned Highlander. He led her through the dark courtyard, illuminated only by the torches. Freezing rain poured, and Amy’s hiking shoes slurped through the mud.
It was one thing to be confined in a room, and another thing altogether to be stuck in this strange, medieval reality. Despite her warm jacket, it was as if the very air pressed on her body from all sides.
“I have nowhere to run away,” she said. “Get your grabby hands off me.”
“Ha! I wilna be fooled by a MacDougall again. Just move yer feet.”
Amy scoffed. Oh, how her hands itched for something heavy to throw at him. They entered the great hall, which was full of people dressed in medieval clothes. She became acutely aware of how her modern jeans and her jacket stood out. The air was stuffy here, smelling of wet wool, woodsmoke, and stew. The wooden floor was dirty with mud. Torches and a fireplace illuminated the hall.
Her stomach growled, and she realized how hungry she was. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, which must have been ten or twelve hours ago given the darkness outside.
Heads turned in her direction, and she noticed the king and Craig’s father at the farther side of the hall, together with a few other older men, drinking and eating.
Craig led her through the aisle between the tables and benches. Men and more men sat at other tables. She glanced around.
“Why are only men here?” she asked.
“’Tis an army. And I let every Comyn servant go, including the women.”
“Why?”
“Because just like ye, they are enemies and potential traitors.”
“Well, lucky them. I’m envious of people who just lost their jobs. They can be as far away from you as possible.”
Craig stopped in front of a table by the fireplace. Other warriors sat there, laughing, but they quieted once they noticed Amy.
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the bench.
She jerked her elbow from his hand, and he released her. “I’m not a dog,” she hissed.
“Nae, ye’re not. Dogs are loyal.”
What a jerk. He doesn’t even know me,
and he makes assumptions just based on my last name.
What did he know of the MacDougalls anyway? She was proud of being a MacDougall. The stories her grandfather told, of the brave warriors and mighty chiefs, of how the clan had sprung from a great warrior named Somerled, of how her ancestors had defeated the Vikings, of how strong and proud they were.
“Suit yerself,” he said and sat down. “Enjoy yer meal standing.”
He handed her a bowl and a spoon. Aha. The heavy object she was hoping for. And the brownish-green stew would stream nicely down his face. Amy’s fingers tensed, and she had to physically stop herself. She would have thrown it at him if she hadn’t been starving.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
She stepped over the bench and took her seat. The table was silent, while the rest of the hall droned with voices, erupting with occasional laughter. Someone played medieval music on a lyre and sang. Badly.
Amy put the spoon to her mouth, but felt the eyes of the men on her. She glanced up. They looked away. She just needed to ignore them.
She began eating—it wasn’t a particularly tasty meal. It lacked salt and seasoning, but it was food. And if she didn’t eat now, when would she?
A tall man sitting across the table slid a silver cup to her. He eyed her from under his brows, a dark, probing look with more meaning than she could understand. He was in his thirties, she guessed, a tall, lean warrior, his skin weathered.
“Something to wash that down, lass,” he said. “Looks like ye need it.”
Amy glanced into the cup and smelled it. Whiskey. No. Not quite. Maybe whiskey didn’t exist yet. If she remembered correctly, the information board said Inverlochy Castle was taken by Bruce in 1306 so this must be the fourteenth century.
“Thanks,” she said and took a sip.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the burn that went slowly down her throat and settled in her stomach, warming her.
“My name is Hamish MacKinnon,” he said.
“Hamish,” Craig said, “she’s nae a guest. Ye dinna need to be friendly with her.”
“Aye, I ken, but she didna commit a crime, either. Let her have her peace for now.”
Craig scowled at her. “I suppose.”
Amy smiled at Hamish.
“Thank you,” she said and gave his cup back to him.
Hamish shook his head once. “Drink up, lass. I’ve had enough. Looks like ye need it more.”
“So there are nice people in Bruce’s army after all,” she said and could almost hear Craig’s teeth crack.
“Ye have a strange accent,” a blond man sitting to Amy’s right said.
He looked similar to Craig and Dougal with his green eyes.
“Do MacDougalls have such an accent?” he asked Craig.
“Nae, Owen,” Craig said. “Hers is peculiar.”
“Were ye raised somewhere else?” Hamish asked.
Amy was chewing the stew and slowed down. At least she could tell the truth about this part.
“Yes. I mean, aye.”
“Where?” Hamish said. “In Ireland? Ye sound a little like the Irish.”
God, she hated lying. “Yes.”
“Why?” Craig asked.
Oh, darn it. She should have paid more attention when her grandpa told the story of the MacDougalls.
“What is it to you?” she asked. Best defense was offense, right?
“I need to ken who ye are and what ye’re doing here,” Craig said. “Ye will answer me. Every question.”
His words tied around her, digging into her, suffocating her—but she wouldn’t let him. “Or what?”
Craig’s lips flattened into a line. “Or ye will be sorry.”
Hamish opened his mouth—no doubt to soften the situation—but Craig raised his palm, and Hamish closed his jaws.
“I don’t care,” Amy said. “You said you won’t harm a woman. Or were those just words?”
“Aye, I did. I never break my word,” Craig said, his voice a low, purring warning. “And I dinna throw empty threats.”
His heavy gaze lay on her, and Amy’s breath caught. A shudder went through her—but it wasn’t fear. It was something like heat. Their eyes locked, and Amy’s throat dried. For an eternity, she softened and melted, and forgot everything around her. Then too soon, he withdrew and looked into his cup.
“Look, lass. Ye’re going to stay here for a long time. Dinna hope yer father will come for ye soon. But even if he does, I wilna give ye to him and he wilna take the castle. I dinna wish for ye to feel what my sister felt.”
Hamish and Owen pointedly stared at their bowls at the mention of Craig’s sister. What happened to her? Was his sister locked up somewhere? Taken against her will?
“What did she feel?” she asked, her voice rasping.
Craig’s mouth tightened. “Ye ken what I talk of. I wilna disrespect Marjorie by telling about the worst days of her life.”
Amy exhaled softly, unwelcome tears stinging her eyes. The memories of the worst days of her life pressed against her psyche. No. This was not the time to let those dark emotions drown her.
Craig looked around the table. “Owen, Hamish, Lachlan, can ye three leave our guest here and me alone?”
“Aye, brother,” Owen said, and Hamish nodded, although, Amy thought, unwillingly. The three men rose from the benches and joined another table, where someone greeted them cheerfully, and laughter erupted.
Craig poured more of the strong stuff from the bottle to their cups.
“What’s it called?” she said. “It’s not whiskey, is it?”
“’Tis uisge-beatha.”
The water of life, or moonshine, Amy understood. “Right,” she said. “That’s what I mean.”
Dubious, Craig studied her for a brief second, then raised his cup. “Slàinte mhath,” he said. Cheers in Gaelic, Amy remembered from the hotel brochure on whiskey tours. She should have taken one back then.
Oh God, poor Jenny must be freaking out, looking for her. Amy needed to act, to find a way to access the rock.
Craig took a large gulp and grunted, clearly satisfied. Amy followed his example, enjoying the burn of the moonshine. If this was supposed to be the origin of whiskey, it was a great one.
“Lass,” Craig said. “I’m nae jailor. My task is to keep the castle safe and secure, and ye in it. Just answer my questions. I need to ken what yer purpose is for being here. Why were ye with the Comyns?”
Was it better to lie? She did need to get access to the underground storeroom. Maybe she should play it nice, after all. What if her stubbornness only led to Craig tightening his grip?
“I’ll answer your questions,” she said, her voice sounding unnatural to her own ears, everything tightening within her. She hated lying. But if it would take her closer to home, that’s what she needed to do, even though her whole being felt repulsed. “I was invited here as a guest.”
“As a guest? By whom?”
“I’m friends with—” Oh shoot, did the Comyns have a daughter? Or a son? Any children? “Lady Comyn.” That was vague enough.
“Lady Comyn.” He sounded disgusted. “Ye even speak like the Normans, like the Comyns. Are ye nae a Scot?”
“Of course I am.” Oh God, she was doing more harm than good with the lies. “What else should I call her?”
Craig shook his head. “I suppose ye’re right. Bruce himself has Norman blood. So yer father agreed for ye to visit Lady Comyn. How long did ye intend to stay?”
In the twenty-first century, it would be a couple of days, maybe. But here, with no communication and long travel times—especially in winter, which was coming—the visits were probably much longer. “Just a couple of months.”
“’Tis nae my place to judge the current female fashion, but why are ye dressed like a man?”
Oh, for Christ’s sake. Those medieval people and their canons about women’s clothing and behavior. Amy was probably breaking every single rule without even trying.
“It’s for hunting.
”
Craig hemmed and looked her up and down. The gaze burned through her clothes and brought blood to Amy’s cheeks.
Oh, get a grip of yourself. You’re not a schoolgirl!
“And does yer father expect messages from ye?” he continued, seemingly oblivious of her reaction. “From any of the Comyns?”
“No. He trusts I will be safe here. The castle is supposed to be impenetrable. How did you get in here at all, by the way?”
He chuckled. “That is none of yer concern, lass. When is yer wedding?”
“My wedding?”
“Aye, dinna play the fool. I ken about yer wedding to the Earl of Ross.”
Oh no. What if this was a test? What if he knew the exact date?
“Father is still not sure about the date because of the war,” she said.
“So he isna expecting ye anytime soon? Or is he coming to Dunollie?”
What the hell was a dunollie?
“No.”
Craig held her in his dark green gaze, and it was though he looked right through her, getting under her skin, digging up the truth. Amy’s breath caught, she stiffened, trapped in her own body. He was going to see right through her.
And then she’d never see home again.
“Ye’re lying,” Craig said. “I dinna ken what. I dinna ken why. But I see that ye are. Which is another confirmation I shouldna have trusted ye to tell the truth.”
He grabbed her upper arm in his steely grasp and pulled her to her feet. Amy tried to free herself, but he only held her tighter.
“Ye will stay locked up until ye talk.”
Chapter 7
Amy paced the barracks. She was now in the southeastern tower, not the one she’d come from.
Not the one she needed to get back to if she ever wanted to return home.
Craig had left her here the day before, and now a night had passed and another day, and he still hadn’t come.
Hamish had brought her food yesterday and taken out her chamber pot. And she knew there were guards on the other side of the door.
But she had screwed up. She had screwed up big time. She knew she was a terrible liar, and Craig—oh, smart Craig!—saw right through her.
