Highlander's Captive

by Mariah Stone

  Damn. She needed to find out more about how things worked here. It was the only way she could be convincing.

  Her legs became more restless the longer she was here, tingles going through them in waves. Pacing the room helped to relieve the sensation, but her insides still quivered, and her stomach churned.

  What would be the worst thing that could happen to her? Would Craig hold her here forever?

  At least there were windows, beds. It was dry here and relatively clean. Amy sat in the deep alcove by the slit window and looked outside. The view was spectacular. She could see the village and the army that was still there.

  Although, by the evening they had started to clean the horses, pack things into saddle bags, put barrels and crates onto carts, and generally bustled about. The army was probably leaving soon. It was for the best. Fewer eyes on Amy and more chances to get into the underground storeroom.

  Amy gazed at the landscape. Groves with bare trees, brown patches of empty fields, hills and mountains as far as she could see. Yes, this was different from being in the barn, and it reminded her of Vermont in some way, which brought her comfort. She took a deep breath of fresh, cool air, almost sweet with the scent of rich soil and rotting leaves.

  Nature and broad views always made her feel better. It was small, confined spaces she was afraid of. At least Craig hadn’t locked her up in a cellar.

  But he was smarter than that. Or kinder. Because by keeping her here, he deprived some of the warriors of beds and a roof. Guilt stung Amy.

  She looked through the contents of her backpack. Her phone, which she had already tried yesterday—and, of course, it was useless. The first aid kit. That might come in handy, but she’d need to be careful not to reveal any modern supplies that could bring questions. The flashlight had rolled under one of the beds in the eastern tower, and she’d forgotten to retrieve it. Well, she’d need to find it again, or use candles when she went to the storeroom.

  What would medieval people do if they found it?

  She shook her head, chasing the thought away.

  She had her tampons, her wallet, her passport. That was it.

  Not much to work with. She now regretted not stuffing her backpack with all kinds of unnecessary crap just in case she might need it, like Jenny did.

  No. Amy preferred a minimalist lifestyle. She didn’t need much, living in a small house and being on the road in the mountains or in the center with her team, waiting for search and rescue calls. That gave her a feeling of freedom, a sense of purpose.

  The lack of a toilet and running water, of conveniences, didn’t bother her that much. She could eat pretty much anything and be happy with it.

  The worst thing was that she was trapped in this medieval time. And no one was coming to rescue her.

  She supposed it might be easier if she was welcome here. But Craig and the rest of the men had put her in a tiny box—of being the enemy.

  The only one who was willing to look past that was Hamish.

  Amy spent the rest of the day counting the minutes as they crawled by until she finally let sleep pull her into dark dreams.

  The morning of the next day, she was done with being locked up. She banged on the door. “Let me out! Right now! Take me to Craig Cambel. I demand you take me to Craig! I want to see him—”

  The door opened, and Hamish came in, bumping into her. A small splash of hot porridge from a clay bowl landed on the floor. Amy jumped back.

  “Are ye all right, lass?” Hamish asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  The door closed behind him.

  A cheerful smile spread across his face. His eyes were dark and attentive on her, taking her in head to toe. “Hungry?”

  “Always.” She smiled. He handed her the bowl with porridge, a spoon of honey in the middle. She went to one of the beds and sat on it, placing the bowl in her lap. He sat on the bed opposite hers.

  “I put in some honey for ye, and a little butter.”

  “You shouldn’t have.” She smiled. “I don’t really mind simple porridge. I can eat anything. I’m not demanding.”

  She mixed the hot porridge with the melting butter and honey and took a spoonful. Hamish’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye not? ’Tis unusual for a clan chief’s daughter. Are ye not used to honey and fresh berries and the best all the time?”

  Oh snap. “I guess I’m just different from other clan chiefs’ daughters, you know.”

  He chuckled. “Aye, I can see that.” He studied her. “I suppose ye are nae too happy to be away from home.”

  She smiled. “Not too happy, that’s right.” Though she felt more cheerful with the hot porridge in her hands and Hamish’s friendly presence than she had since she’d arrived.

  He nodded. “When did ye hear from yer father last?”

  All these damn questions… She took another spoonful of porridge, feeling Hamish’s eyes on her. “When I left home—”

  The door opened, and Craig stood there, tall, and broad-shouldered, and so handsome her breath caught.

  Hamish jumped up, and just for a split second, his hand jerked to his claymore. But then he relaxed and forced a smile.

  “Craig—”

  “Hope I didna interrupt anything,” Craig said, his eyes narrowing on Amy and Hamish.

  Craig didn’t like what he saw one bit. It was the first time he’d seem Amy with her face carefree and the corners of her lips up in a small smile. Was it because Hamish sat so close, his knee almost touching hers?

  Surely Craig’s stomach was tense only because he didn’t like his men getting too friendly with the enemy. Not because he hated that it was Hamish who’d made her smile.

  And not Craig.

  “Ye didna interrupt,” Hamish said. “I brought Amy her meal, ’tis all.”

  Craig studied Hamish for signs of a lie. Hamish was a MacKinnon, and the clan was loyal to the Bruce. They had hidden him when he was chased by the English and the enemy clans. Which had saved the king’s life and brought him to where he was now.

  “Aye,” Craig said. “Thank ye. Bruce and the troops are leaving north as we speak, so is yer clan. Surely ye dinna want to be left here.”

  Hamish glanced at the window.

  “My clan and I decided ’tis best I stay and help ye with the castle,” Hamish said. “If ye agree, of course.”

  Craig glanced at Amy who was eating another spoonful of her porridge.

  “I didna ken ye wanted to stay. May I ask why?”

  “To help ye protect the castle, of course. Bruce will get more supporters after neutral clans hear of Inverlochy. But ye will need good warriors.”

  But that was not the reason. He wanted something here—no one just stayed back without their clan.

  “But what is it to ye?” Craig said.

  Hamish let out a nervous chuckle. “Sire, yer questions have the most amazing ability to make one want to shite himself. If ye’re looking for bad intentions, ye’re looking in the wrong place. I didna have a home for years, always on the road. ’Tis good for a warrior to have a rest under a roof and behind four strong walls. All I wanted with Amy was to keep her company. The lass didna do anything. She isna responsible for her brother’s and father’s deeds. Dinna punish her for what she doesna deserve.”

  Craig studied Amy. She sat at the end of the bed, the bowl in her lap, the spoon in her hand. Her beautiful blue eyes glared at him, shiny and big.

  Aye, Hamish was right that the lass hadn’t done what her family did. But with a straight back like that, with those eyes telling him she wouldn’t budge, she was every inch a MacDougall. Which meant she wasn’t all that innocent.

  “Ye can stay, Hamish,” Craig said. “Ye speak the truth. I need a strong warrior like ye. But ye shouldna become friendly with the enemy clan. Ye dinna ken what information she might fish out of ye.”

  “Aye, but she—”

  “Hamish,” Craig said. “Please, leave us.”

  Hamish looked at Amy, as though to make sure she would b
e all right alone with Craig, gave a polite nod and left.

  When the door closed behind him, Craig turned to Amy and spread his hands. “Ye demanded to see me. So here I am.”

  She put the bowl on the bed and stood up as well, crossing her arms over her chest. She stood with her feet wide apart, her legs long and sculpted and there for him to appreciate. Her long, wavy red hair spread across her shoulders. Her full lips flattened, anger flaring in her eyes.

  “I want out of this room,” she said. “You said you’d ask your questions and then let me have my freedom. So. Let me out of this damn room. I would like to walk about the castle. I want fresh air.”

  Oh, she was amusing. A chief’s daughter, making demands when she had no place to make them.

  “Ye want, ye want…” He walked towards her and stopped, admiring her pretty mouth. “And yet ye fail to keep yer side of the bargain. Ye lie. Ye hide something.”

  She pursed her lips, and they wrinkled a little—so pretty. He had the sudden urge to run his thumb along her bottom lip. She swallowed, and he looked up, their eyes locking again. He could sink in those eyes, as blue as deep lochs, with long lashes the color of the mountains in autumn.

  “I just want freedom. I’ll drive you crazy if you keep me here a day longer. I’ll bang on the door every day, I’ll break things, I’ll make your guards hate their job.”

  An eyelash lay on her cheek, and he raised his hand and gently touched it with his finger. It came away on his fingertip, so delicate and long and beautiful.

  Flushed, she watched him with something that resembled his burning need to touch her. To kiss her. To feel the softness of her hair, the silkiness of her skin.

  He gently blew on the eyelash and it disappeared from his fingertip.

  “Aye, I understand the desire, lass,” he said.

  Her eyes brightened and a smile began spreading on her lips. “You do?”

  “Aye, of course I do.”

  “Well. Thank you. Because I’d love to leave this room and go around the castle freely—”

  “Are ye ready to talk then? Answer my questions?”

  He saw her lips close and her throat moving as she swallowed. She was nervous.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice jumping. “I was ready the last time.”

  He let her go, and she frowned at him.

  “If ye mean when ye answered me with yer lies, that didna count.”

  She glared at him, angry, scared, red-faced, eyes burning.

  “So you’re not letting me out of here?”

  “Nae, ye may go out. I am nae monster. But ye will have a guard with ye at all times.”

  And before he could forget his anger because of how pretty she looked right now and taste her lush lips, he walked out.

  Chapter 8

  One week later…

  Craig looked at the view of the River Lochy and Loch Linnhe and the lands beyond, from the parapet of the northern wall. He breathed the chilly air in deeply and breathed out a cloud of steam.

  “Anythin’ troubling ye?” asked Owen, standing at Craig’s side.

  Craig cocked his head. “I’m in trouble, man.”

  “Oh, the almighty Craig Cambel is in trouble?” Owen chuckled.

  Craig threw him a sideways glance. “Aye. I am. I’ve never run a household, least of all a castle. And ’tis bloody obvious.”

  Owen cocked an eyebrow. “If ye refer to the campfires in the courtyard and men grilling their own game, aye, I’d say ’tis nae very traditional for a grand castle. But I havna heard anyone complain.”

  “They wouldna complain. But they wouldna do anything about it, either. The problem runs deeper, Owen. Bruce’s army took a lot of the supplies when they left, which is understandable. But what we have won’t last us through the winter. I have about a hundred men. All of them warriors, none servants. We dinna have a cook, no boys to carry water from the well, no one to bake bread, cut vegetables, and make cheese.”

  “Aye, well, ye ken they aren’t used to having a cook. They’re happy to get out every day to hunt and fish.”

  “But everyone needs to cook for themselves. Time for training is wasted, and the courtyard is littered with campfires. ’Tis simply unsafe. Especially if the enemy arrives suddenly.”

  Owen shrugged. “I suppose. Ye’re still a good constable.”

  “Supervising the patrols and the men-at-arms, training, and planning the defense in case of a siege, aye, mayhap. But the household suffers. No one cleans, washes, or mends clothes. Besides, we need carpenters, masons, and simple manpower to repair the damages from Bruce’s catapult.”

  “But ye dinna want a local mason.”

  “No. Ye ken my position about the locals.”

  Owen shrugged as if to say, Then what do you expect?

  Well, aye. Then he also shouldn’t mention there was the matter of the stables. He needed a blacksmith to make horseshoes and mend the weapons, as well as farriers and stable boys to take care of the horses and clean the stables.

  “Maybe letting go of all the servants wasna such a great idea,” Owen said.

  “I need people I can trust. I sent a messenger back home to hire people from Cambel lands.”

  “It’ll take weeks until he’ll find people and bring them back. Maybe even months with the winter coming.”

  “Aye. And I need someone now. Someone to organize the men into cooks and cleaners and oversee them while I’m busy training warriors. And someone to coordinate the watch as well as the cleaning and maintenance of the weapons.”

  He looked to his left and saw Amy MacDougall walk up onto the parapet, and Hamish with her—her guard today. She nodded to Craig and stood by the tower, looking at the view.

  She was dressed now in a lady’s attire, probably tired of her hunting clothes. And watching her now, with her hair spilling over her gray woolen cloak, her cheeks and nose rosy from the chill, she took his breath away.

  He’d moved her to the only private bedchamber—the lord’s bedchamber in the Comyn Tower—and he slept downstairs in the lord’s private quarters, along with Owen and other Cambels. Craig was used to the simple life of a warrior—sleeping on the ground while on the road with his father and his uncles. At home he shared a bedchamber with his brothers. But he could imagine Amy, the only woman in the castle, needed some privacy.

  For the last week, he’d been catching himself staring at her, glancing around the castle, hoping she’d walk nearby or want to ask him something. Even demand something from him, protest against her guards. But she barely spoke to him unless spoken to. And he hated to see Hamish near her, bringing her an apple or an oatcake.

  No, he wasn’t jealous. There was nothing to be jealous about.

  “Ye want someone to run the household,” Owen said. “There she is.”

  Craig stiffened.

  “Ye can marry her,” Owen said. “’Tis what Bruce asked of ye, innit?”

  Marry her—again, the thought that had tormented Craig.

  “It would break the MacDougall and Ross alliance,” Owen insisted, “which would weaken Bruce’s enemies but also be revenge against the MacDougalls from us Cambels.”

  Aye, well, both reasons were strong enough.

  “But I can never marry a MacDougall,” Craig growled. “’Tis a sure way to be betrayed.”

  “And ye dinna think she can help ye with the household as yer wife?”

  Craig studied Amy’s profile in the distance. Aye, she was probably trained to run a noble house, so he could give her some of the tasks. He’d already seen her with the horses—cleaning them, talking to them, feeding them. She seemed to know what she was doing. She’d also cooked a simple soup once. But she should know how to organize a working kitchen and cleaners even if he gave her warriors to command and not servants. He’d assign her men, and she’d be the one to manage them.

  There was something else he liked about the idea.

  As her husband, he’d have the right to kiss her and bed her, hold that long-legged
body in his arms, inhaling her scent. That would be an advantage on top of everything else… He’d never force himself on her, of course. But if she was willing, he wouldn’t say no to her. More than that.

  He wanted her.

  “But she’s a MacDougall,” he said, again. “A treacherous, despicable MacDougall. I canna imagine binding my life to one forever.”

  “Ye dinna have to bind yerself forever,” Owen said. “Just long enough to hold the castle and break up her marriage with the Earl of Ross. Then let her go.”

  Craig straightened and studied Owen, trying to understand if his brother was secretly a genius. “Handfasting?” Craig asked.

  The ancient Celtic tradition of a trial marriage for a year and a day.

  “Aye, handfasting,” Owen said.

  “I like the idea more and more,” Craig muttered. “I can just imagine the face of John MacDougall when he would find out that his daughter was now marrit to a Cambel.”

  Aye, Craig hoped that the man would wonder what Craig was doing to his Amy. If she was safe. If she was unharmed.

  If she was held against her will and suffered.

  Because that was exactly what Craig, his father, his brothers, and every clansman had wondered and feared with Marjorie. Only in Craig’s case, their worst fears had come true.

  Craig clapped his brother on the shoulder, nodded, and marched towards Amy. She looked up, and her serene expression changed into a tense mask. She straightened and met him with her chin high.

  Amy studied Craig’s handsome face. In this light, his eyes were like September leaves, still green but with fall’s brown already touching them. They were a little slanted, she noticed, and framed with thick black eyelashes.

  And there was something in them, something she didn’t like one bit. A spiteful decisiveness. Whatever he’d decided, she wouldn’t let him take away her freedom again.

  “Good morning to ye, mistress,” Craig said.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He chuckled. “Care to take a walk with me?”

  “Where?”