by Mariah Stone
A shadow stood over Craig, and his hand jerked to his dirk under the pillow.
“’Tis I, Hamish,” the man whispered. “I see ye canna sleep, either. Mayhap an uisge can help to ease us both into sleep?”
Craig frowned. An uisge to slow his thoughts and lull him into sleep did sound like the right idea.
“Aye.” Craig stood up from his sleeping roll and put on his coat. “’Tis the one solid thought I’ve heard in weeks.”
They walked up the stairs and went onto the wall. They leaned against the parapet, breathing out clouds of steam into the dark air. From here, the river and the loch were black against the shore and hills on the other side, which were grayish from a thin layer of snow.
Hamish handed Craig the drinking pouch and Craig gladly took several gulps. He grunted as the liquid burned his mouth and watched Hamish take a sip as well.
“Wife didna want ye to sleep with her?” Hamish said.
Craig threw a careful glance at Hamish. The man looked out into the vast darkness, his face pointedly calm and indifferent.
“I dinna wish to discuss my wife,” Craig said.
“Aye. Forgive me. ’Tis only that talking about things that trouble me helps when I canna sleep.”
Craig cleared his throat. He felt possessive of Amy—Hamish had often been near her, and now his first question was about her… Why was he so interested in her? He’d never get her as long as she was Craig’s.
“Why couldna ye sleep?” Craig reached out for the pouch.
Hamish chuckled. “Thinking of a woman kept me awake.”
Craig ground his teeth. Amy?
“A woman?” he said.
“Well, nae a woman. A girl. From when I was a wee lad.”
Craig raised his eyebrows, then took a sip. “Aye?”
“I was fostered on a farm after my parents died. She, too. She was the only person in the world who was kind to me. We were thick as thieves. My foster parents were rough with us both, but she, being a lass and younger, was weaker. She got sick because they beat her, and she died.”
Craig shifted his weight from foot to foot and gave Hamish back the pouch. Hamish took several long gulps. “I’m sorry to hear that, Hamish,” Craig said.
“I think of her often. Think what would have happened had I protected her. Would she have grown up strong and bonnie? Would I have marrit her? How would my life be different if she hadna died?”
Craig exhaled. The uisge began burning his stomach pleasantly, loosening his thoughts. Finally.
He sighed. He understood those thoughts, that pain. He hadn’t lost Marjorie, but he had allowed great harm to come to her. What would her life be like if she hadn’t been abducted and abused?
“I swore then to never let a woman be harmed,” Hamish said, then looked at Craig. “I suppose I feel overprotective of yer wife because of that.”
That, Craig understood, too. “Dinna fash about my wife. I am the one who is responsible for her protection, and I’ll never let harm come to her.”
“Aye. I ken. Still. Canna help it. Someone raises his voice at a woman, and something in me rises. I swear, I havna any thoughts of her as a woman, Craig. She’s rightfully yers, and I will never look wrongly at another man’s woman. I hope ye believe me.”
Craig studied him. There was a tone of insistence in his voice, mayhap a wee bit too much pressure in his words, but his eyes shone earnestly, dark under his furrowed brows.
Craig had no reason to mistrust him. In fact, he could very much relate to Hamish’s protective instinct.
Craig clapped the man’s shoulder. “Aye, Hamish. I believe ye.”
“Thank ye.”
“And if ye see anyone lurking around the pigeon house or anything strange, come to me, all right?”
Hamish straightened up. “Why? What is it about the pigeon house?”
Craig trusted him, but not that much. “Nothing. ’Tis only that if she tries to send a message to her father, ye canna allow her to do that. Aye?”
Hamish’s cheek twitched, barely noticeable under his eye. He probably still wasn’t thrilled that anyone could think badly of Amy.
“Aye,” he said finally and gulped uisge.
Chapter 16
Three days later…
Amy woke up early after a night of tossing and turning. She couldn’t get the kiss they’d shared three days ago out of her head—or her body. The brush of his lips against hers, the sweet, sweet tongue that had caressed her and promised wicked things. The heat of his body as he’d pulled her against him.
That kiss made her forget everything. She had dissolved in him, brewing in the promise of sheer bliss. His hard muscles under her palms as she’d put her hands on his chest. His smell—oh, his smell. She wanted to inhale it forever, to inhale him.
Oh God. She was crushing on a damn Highlander from the fourteenth century.
He never came to their room, and Amy didn’t blame him. In fact, for the last few days he’d been absent from the castle. With a few of his men, he had gone out to collect rent and taxes from the new lands.
So she’d only seen him last night, when he’d come home. It was better this way, anyway. She’d stopped herself when he’d kissed her, but if he came again and they were in one room, with a bed and furs and the fireplace…and he started undressing and…
No. Stop thinking of him shirtless!
Amy jumped off the bed and dressed. The medieval clothes took longer to put on—the shift, the laces, then the dress itself. No bra. She didn’t miss that. But she missed underwear. There were these thin, woolen pantaloon things she didn’t want to wear, because they had been worn by the lady whose room she now occupied. And even if she’d washed them, she felt weird about wearing someone else’s undies.
Amy went to the kitchen to start preparing breakfast. During the last three days, she had gotten into a routine. Breakfast, cleaning, cooking the large cauldron of stew, and baking bread—both of which would be eaten for lunch and dinner. Highlanders always had oatmeal for breakfast, or porridge, so that’s what she cooked for them.
It was still dark outside as Amy carried a couple of buckets of water from the well in the courtyard. She started the fire. Poured the water and the oats into the cauldron, which had been washed thoroughly yesterday.
She went to fetch another bucket of water for cleaning later. The sky began to lighten, and the castle started to wake up. Men went about their morning business and began gathering in the great hall. Someone cried out beyond the gates.
“…speak to the lord…need a horse…”
The guards opened the gates, and a woman and a man hurried inside. They looked frantically about them, and the woman raced to Amy. “Please, where’s the lord. The new lord?”
“I’m his wife.” Amy put the bucket of water on the ground. “What is it?”
“We are from Inverlochy village. My name is Alana, my husband is Diarmid. My mother—” The woman sobbed. “We canna find her. She sometimes wanders about, forgets things. We looked last night and this morning, she didna come back. She probably went to gather herbs in the mountains and forgot how to get back home. We need a horse—the army took all horses from the village. Please—”
Amy nodded. Search and rescue. That was what she did. She could find the woman—she could try. Without a car it would be difficult, of course. On a horse, easier. Amy knew how to ride a horse; she’d learned on the farm. But Craig wouldn’t let her out of the castle. Well, she’d need to make him.
“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll find Craig.”
She turned and rushed towards the Comyn Tower. He had probably slept with his clan in the lord’s hall below the bedchamber. As she hurried to the entrance, he stepped out of it, walking towards her.
She stopped as though she’d hit an invisible wall, her breath stolen. Craig’s tunic was still undone at the base of his throat, showing a smattering of dark chest hair. His face still sleepy, his hair disheveled, he was putting on his coat as he walked towards h
er. He pinned her with his gaze, his face cool and indifferent but his eyes burning.
Suddenly, Amy was thirsty, and the ground shifted beneath her feet. Craig stopped right in front of her, looming over her like a mountain.
“Good morning,” she said. “I was just looking for you.”
“Aye, ye found me,” he said, his voice caressing her. “What is it?”
“Those people.” She gestured behind her. “They came for your help. The woman’s mother has gone missing. I think she has dementia. I mean, she probably forgot how to get home. They need a horse to go looking for her in the mountains.”
Craig frowned and studied the two visitors.
“Where did they come from?”
“The village. Apparently, there are no horses left. I can go look. The woman is at risk of freezing to death if she spent the night in the mountains. We must hurry, or we might be too late.”
He raised one brow. “We?”
Amy looked at her feet. Right. “Look, like I told you, I’m a good tracker, and I have found and rescued many, many people. I know how to help with injuries—you’ve seen Caoimhe. I promise, I’ll be useful. And I won’t run away.”
He held her in his gaze for a long time, and Amy felt as if an invisible lie detector scanned her, digging deep into her soul. Those piercing green eyes… A shiver ran through her as she wondered if he really had discovered the truth just by looking at her.
“Do ye give me yer word?” he said.
“Yes. I do. I can’t have that woman be left to die. I have the capacity to help her, and I just want to try.”
“I’m probably insane to be trusting a MacDougall when I have sworn to never do that again. But I will be with ye the whole time. And if ye try something—try to run away or to get a message to someone—I will lock ye up again. Once broken, my trust will never be restored. Aye?”
Amy nodded. At least in this, she wouldn’t be deceiving him. If, one day, he found out how much she was actually deceiving him—and he would—he’d never forgive her. He had said it himself. His trust would never be restored.
And somehow, she wanted to have his trust. It was like a precious, fragile gift she wanted to keep alive. She could—at least for now.
“Aye,” she said automatically. “I won’t run away, I tell you. And if I try anything, you may lock me up again.”
Craig gave a curt nod. “Good.”
He walked to the couple. “I will help ye,” he said. “I will go personally as well as my wife.”
Their faces softened, the masks of worry and anxiety gone, replaced by elated smiles. The woman took Craig’s hand. “Thank ye, lord. Thank ye.”
Amy followed him and stood by his side. “Is there a route she normally took when she went there?”
“Aye. Up the brook, towards the waterfall. But we looked there yesterday, and she wasna there.”
Craig nodded. “Ye can show it to us. We should get the horses.” He turned to Amy. “How many men do ye need to come?”
“Just you. Two will be enough—you have to know where to look. More people who have no idea what they’re doing will be useless.”
“Are ye certain? They can call her name.”
“I’ll be faster. They could destroy all her tracks without knowing where to look, and then we’ll never find her.”
“I will at least ask Owen to come—”
“Does he know how to track?”
“Only for hunting.”
“Do you know?”
“Also for hunting.”
“I’m telling you, two people will be more than enough. You and I will suffice. Or send Owen with me.”
You and I… That sounded so good. As though Craig thought the same, a tiny smile spread on his lips.
“I’d even go alone,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t let that happen, would you?”
He chuckled. “Ye can dream.”
Amy shook her head and sighed. “I’ll go fetch blankets, and we need some food and water.”
“Aye.”
Soon, the horses were saddled, and things for the rescue were gathered—Amy even took her backpack with the first aid kit, hidden under the fur cloak she’d found in Lady Comyn’s chest.
Holding her breath, Amy climbed onto the horse. Finally, she’d leave the confinement of the castle, and at least do what she was good at, what she’d been called to do.
The gates opened and Craig and Amy rode through them, crossed the bridge over the moat, and continued into the village. Even though Amy was already used to the idea that she was in medieval Scotland, she still studied the thatched-roof houses, the people, the carts. There was a bigger world out there, a medieval world, that she hadn’t even seen yet. Excitement washed through her like a wave.
They rode for half an hour, until the hills began rising and turning into mountains. There, Alana and Diarmid showed them the trail that Elspeth—that was the name of Alana’s mother—usually took.
They began climbing. Thick forest—pine, birch, and aspen—grew here. The tops of the tall mountains were covered with snow. Amy breathed in the sweet, freezing air, her lungs burning from the fast ride. The sun rose, and she knew the thin layer of snow covering the soil and fallen leaves would begin melting soon.
Amy halted and climbed down from the horse. Right there, in the snow-covered frozen mud, was a footprint—a medium-sized, slightly supinating footprint.
“I see a footprint,” she said.
Craig jumped down his horse as well. Amy studied the ground and trees around them.
“What are ye searching for?” Craig said.
“I need a straight, forty-inch stick to track the footprints.”
He found a branch that was more or less straight.
“Will this do?” he asked.
“Yes, can you please cut off the smaller branches?”
He nodded and removed them with his knife, then handed her the branch.
“May I have the knife?” she asked.
His eyes shone with alarm. “Why?”
“I need to make some notches on the stick to measure the size of the foot and the length of the gait. To make sure we’re tracking her steps and not someone else’s.”
Craig eyed her and the imprint dubiously. “I have never heard of such method. If this is a trick…”
“I’m telling you, I’m good at this. We’ll find her. Let’s hurry.”
He handed her the knife and she put the stick over the footprint and marked the length from the tip of the stick. The sole pattern was flat, with a flat heel. Of course people didn’t have shoes with patterned rubber soles back then, she thought.
Amy crouched and slowly swiped the stick parallel to the ground above the imprint from ten o’clock to two o’clock. Her attention near the tip of the stick, she looked for the next sign.
“There!” She pointed.
A little less than a foot in front of her was the next imprint, not as deep as the first one and therefore less visible. She moved closer and sank to her knees, careful not to touch the track. It was only partial, with a visible heel. She marked the distance between the heel of the first one and the heel of the second one.
“Definitely an older person. You see how the edges of the heels are a little smudged?”
Craig crouched down next to her. “Aye.”
“She shuffles her feet. Maybe she’s tired. But likely, it’s her age.”
Craig nodded. “Ye’re right. I wouldna ken what to look for. How did ye learn all this? Who taught ye?”
Vermont Mountain Search and Rescue.
“There was a man back home,” she said. It was vague enough to be the truth, and it felt good not to lie to him. “He’s been a tracker his whole life, and he taught me.”
“But why were ye interested in tracking at all?”
She exhaled shakily, her chest tensing from the memory of the abandoned barn, the cold nights, the sucking hunger in her stomach, the dry, cracked lips from dehydration.
But she couldn’t tell him that. Not just because she couldn’t reveal she was from another time. She couldn’t bring herself to tell this to anyone. She couldn’t admit her own shame and the cowardice that had led her to that situation.
Something else, much later, had made her choose search and rescue as a profession.
“A child was lost,” she said.
It was in New York, where she had moved to become a vet. Her neighbor’s son had wandered off.
“I couldn’t let him wait alone, desperate, hungry, and cold. I found the boy—by chance more than by knowledge. I had no idea back then how to do any of this. But when I found him—when I saw the tears of relief on his face, when he hugged me, shaking, and wouldn’t let go of me until I brought him to his mother—I knew this was what I wanted to do. What I was destined to do. To never let anyone get lost like that. To assure them that someone was always coming to their rescue.”
Craig stared at her, blinking. “’Tis very noble of ye, Amy. Very kind.”
She shrugged. “I wish more people knew how to track and rescue. But even one person can make a difference. Even if it’s just one life I can save, I think it’s all worth it.”
Craig exhaled sharply. “Are ye sure ye’re a MacDougall?”
She chuckled. “Yeah. Blowing your mind right now, aren’t I?”
“And yer father allowed ye to do this, a woman? Wandering about alone in the mountains, in the woods?”
Amy licked her lips nervously. Right, women in this time were probably not allowed to do much outdoors. “Well, my teacher was with me most of the time.”
Craig narrowed his eyes. “I havna heard of such a thing. This sounds very strange.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I do, strangely. I see ye’re telling me the truth, but I canna imagine John MacDougall letting his only daughter put herself in danger like that. Or does he nae care for ye?”
Amy looked at the ground. Her father certainly didn’t care for her. “Yes, you got it right, Craig. But we should hurry. Poor Elspeth is waiting.”
She looked at the track and swept above the ground with the stick again to find the next imprint. They continued like that while the tracks were still fairly visible in the mud. Craig made sure the horses followed.
