by Mariah Stone
Or die trying. But he didn’t say that.
When inside, they continued their way up and up, past simple houses with thatched roofs, gardens with vegetables, and a small orchard, as well as cows and pigs and chickens. There were several workshops. Eventually, they came to a simple, wooden palisade wall with a gate. Behind them loomed a square tower, probably the lord’s tower, or donjon.
Owen and Amber exchanged a worried look. With two walls standing between them and freedom, how in the world were they going to escape?
They stopped in the middle of a courtyard at least twice as big as Inverlochy’s. Besides the donjon, there was a large building attached to the wall—probably the great hall. A simple village house with a thatched roof had smoke coming out of the chimney, and judging by the aromatic scent of cooked meat and bread that was coming out of there, it must be the kitchen. Another stone building was connected to the wooden palisade, perhaps a workshop or the smithy, Owen guessed.
The guard opened their cage, and Owen and Amber descended. It felt good to at least stand on the ground. Owen stretched his legs. The guard tied his hands behind his back, and helplessness weighed on his shoulders. Amber’s hands were tied as well, and she jerked them. She looked like a wild cat—cornered and dangerous.
“Move.” The guard shoved Owen.
Hating every step he had to take, he walked forward. The lass strolled by his side, somber and wide-eyed. They marched through the entrance into the donjon, and like in Inverlochy, there were stairs leading underground. Only a few torches illuminated the darkness. Unlike in Inverlochy, there wasn’t food stored in the room at the bottom of the stairs. Here there was an empty room with three heavy doors, each leading in different directions and each with guards standing next to them. Owen’s skin chilled.
The guards opened the door to the right and pushed Owen and Amber into the shadows behind it. As they passed the door, a musty odor of wet stone and mold hit Owen. A couple of torches illuminated a row of iron cages along the cave-like wall. They passed three, and in one of them, Owen saw a man huddled in the corner. The miasma of excrement and unwashed body made bile rise in his throat.
Damned. Someone was rotting in there, and if Owen didn’t do something, soon he and Amber would be, too.
Shadows gathered like dark spirits in the corners of the cells as they walked farther into the dungeon. They stopped at the end of the cave, by the last remaining cage. One of the guards opened it with a giant key. Metal gnashed as the cell door opened. Amber’s eyes widened, desperate, haunted, but the guard shoved her forward. She stumbled and fell, sprawling on the floor.
Anger rose in Owen like a wall of fire. He turned to the guard and headbutted the man’s nose. The satisfying crack of bone made him smile. The rest of the guards moved to push him into the cell as well, but instead of giving them the satisfaction, he walked there himself.
“Piss off, ye bastarts,” he growled.
One of them locked the door. “You’re lucky the lord wants to keep you both untouched. Otherwise, you’d be gathering your teeth from the floor. Now turn around and let me unlock your shackles. And tell your wife, or whoever she is, to do the same.”
Their hands were finally free, and the guards left the cave, leaving only one torch just outside their cell. It cast wicked shadows that danced on the floor.
He tried to think of something to lift his and Amber’s spirits. But all he could come up with were the things that had gone wrong because of him.
His clan had lost the king’s favor. Granted, John Balliol wouldn’t remain king for long after he angered King Edward I of England. The MacDougalls had proclaimed Owen had stolen the gold and attacked Cambel lands unexpectedly. They’d claimed back their lands that the king had given to the Cambels. They’d kidnapped Marjorie, and Alasdiar had raped her and abused her. In the battle for her, Owen’s grandfather died. Then the MacDougalls had come after Innis Chonnel and taken the castle, chasing the Cambels away.
It was during that battle that the MacDougalls wounded and captured Ian Cambel. They secretly sold him into slavery while everyone thought he died. After that, the Cambels made Owen’s father’s castle, Glenkeld, the clan seat, and Uncle Neil and his sons moved there, too.
Then there was Lachlan…
Last year, Craig had been appointed constable of Inverlochy Castle by the Bruce. Craig had asked Owen to keep an eye on everything while he was gone and had specifically forbade him to invite anyone from the Inverlochy village in case they might spy for the enemy. But Owen had thought a couple of pretty lasses wouldn’t harm anyone. Those lasses had refused to go without chaperons. So their mothers had come, their fathers and brothers. The whole castle had soon swarmed with feasting people. In the chaos, Hamish Dunn, a MacDougall spy, killed Lachlan, thinking he was killing Craig. The two had looked quite similar, being cousins.
All that was on Owen’s conscience. Because he’d been such a failure. Because he been distracted by beautiful women and drinking and rebelling against his father.
But he could perform a small act of kindness now and make sure Amber was all right.
Owen turned to her. “Are ye well, lass?”
She rubbed her wrists. “I’m okay. You?”
He chuckled to himself. He’d only heard that strange word—okay—from two people. Amy, Craig’s wife, and Kate, Ian’s beloved.
“Aye, I am okay,” he said, tasting the word on his tongue.
She walked to the opposite wall and slid down until she was sitting on the floor.
“What now?” she said.
“Now we wait.”
Time crawled. In the overwhelming darkness, with only a glimmer of firelight, Amber’s mind raced.
Now that she’d been in this medieval reality for several days, she had no doubt she’d traveled in time, just like Sìneag had said. It was insane—and yet it was the only explanation she could think of. Why else was Inverlochy Castle whole now? Why else were men carrying swords, spears, and shields? What else could explain the lack of technology, the thatched buildings, the lack of electricity and cars, and the people traveling on horseback.
The same questions kept spinning in her head. How could I have let this happen to me? What possessed me to think time travel was safer than trying to escape the police? And how did I run from being put in prison in my time only to land in one in the fourteenth century?
The biggest question of all was whether she would’ve been able to clear her name if she’d been brave enough to stand up to Jackson. No. Jackson would’ve won. She’d grown up being a scapegoat. Her brothers had made sure of that.
Owen sat somewhere by the opposite wall where the light didn’t reach. Only his boot was visible, and it wasn’t moving.
“How can you be so calm?” she said.
He didn’t reply for a while, and Amber thought he must have fallen asleep. “’Tis nothing we can do to change the situation, lass. So we better save our energy. I wager ye the price of a good horse that we’ll need it.”
Amber scoffed. “I wish I could be as calm as you. Have you been in prison before?”
She heard a rustle, and Owen suddenly stood before her, tall, golden, and imposing, like an ancient god. “I havena, nae. Have ye?”
A painful knot formed in her throat. “No.”
He studied her with a frown. “Ye should calm down, lass.”
Amber rose to her feet and paced the room. She broke out in a sweat, her chest tense and aching, her feet heavy and cold. She rubbed her forehead with a shaking hand.
“I didn’t do anything, Owen,” she said, and her quiet voice reverberated against the rocky walls. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m not even from—”
She had the sense to cut herself off before she said she wasn’t even from this century.
“Ye’re nae from what?”
There was something in his voice that made her stop and look at him. Something like…
Hope?
No, that couldn’t be right. Why hope? What was he
hoping she would say?
“I’m not even from around here,” she finished. “I have nothing to do with your king or your enemies. Or you. And yet I’m the one paying a price.” She shook her head. “It seems injustice and corrupt government is everywhere.”
And in every epoch.
Owen narrowed his eyes. “Did something happen to ye, lass? Some injustice?”
Amber stopped pacing. He watched her coolly. His face, half lit by the light of the torch, was so stoic and calm, as though he were at home and not in the icy cold bowels of an enemy castle. He looked like a demigod, with his perfect, gorgeous face, and his golden hair glowing from the light of the torches. Well, he was a warrior after all, facing death was not new to him.
But it was also not new to her.
And yet, somehow, being in this prison was worse than going out on a mission in Afghanistan. At least she’d signed up for that. She’d been empowered.
Here, she was powerless.
Just like in her childhood.
“What happened to me—”
Was she ready to reveal her deepest secret? The whole reason why she’d ended up here in the first place?
No. She couldn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust anyone. Trusting people, trusting the people who had all the control, had gotten her into this mess.
Never again.
“Injustice is everywhere,” she said. “Happened to me. Happened to you, I bet. We’ve all been there.”
Owen shifted his weight on one leg and crossed his arms on his chest.
“Aye. Happened to me, too, lass. And yet I’m the calm one and ye’re the one losing yer wits.”
“Ah, go to hell. You have no idea.”
She shouldn’t snap at him. She let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t the one from a different time. He was home here.
Feeling like the ground was sinking from under her feet, Amber walked to the wall and leaned on it. The rocks were cool and damp against her hands. Owen came to stand next to her and touched her shoulder. She didn’t mind. In fact, warmth spread where his hand lay on her even through her jacket. His concerned face appeared next to hers.
“Lass, ye need to breathe,” he said. “Come now, let’s do it together. Deep breath in.” He sucked in air. “Hold. Deep breath out.”
Amber did as he told her. She took in a lungful of cold, moldy air and held it in her lungs for a moment before releasing it. She repeated that over and over. Each time, the tension released a little, until she finally felt like herself again.
She met Owen’s eyes. “How do you know about breathing techniques?”
She didn’t imagine many medieval Highlanders were knowledgeable about the power of meditation and breathing.
He shrugged. “I ken archery. Ye must stay calm even in the midst of battle. To stay calm, ye breathe.”
Amber became aware his hand was still on her shoulder. Soft, pleasant charges of electricity went down her arm and into her chest in waves. Her breathing sped up again, and her ragged heartbeat drummed in her ears. How could a simple touch from a man make her feel like that?
No. It couldn’t. She wouldn’t let it. She wouldn’t make herself powerless against any man. Not again.
Amber shook his hand off her shoulder, and a flicker of hurt passed over his face.
“Thanks for the tip,” she said.
He was right about archery, of course. She knew it, too, from shooting guns. She knew it from kung fu. She also did yoga and meditation sometimes. And yet it all escaped her when she was around him.
Owen walked away from her and with a carefree expression, he stretched out on the cold floor in the middle of the room and put both of his hands behind his head. He stared up at the dark ceiling with such a dreamy expression, as though he were cloud watching on a beautiful summer day.
“You certainly look like you’ve mastered the breathing exercises,” Amber said as she sat back down with her back against the wall.
He chuckled. “Aye. ’Tis nothing I can do to change the situation right now. So why waste my breath?”
Amber wished she shared his attitude. “So you know archery?”
“Aye. I do. Not every warrior does though, but as a wee lad, I wanted to ken both the sword and the bow.”
“Why?”
His shoulders tensed, and his face suddenly lost the carefree cloud-watching expression. “Because my older brothers are all excellent swordsmen. I’m the youngest son and was always left to roam on my own. Archery was a way for me to distinguish myself.”
A knot tightened in Amber’s throat. Her whole childhood, she’d wanted to be noticed, too. Growing up, her brothers had always been her father’s favorites, allowed to do anything they wanted. As a girl, she’d been expected to behave according to the rules and do everything right.
She’d always wanted to break free and travel. It was one of the reasons she’d joined the army.
“How many brothers do you have?” she asked.
“Two. And two sisters. Well, to be precise, Craig and Marjorie are my half brother and half sister.”
“I have three brothers, all older.”
Owen rolled to his side and propped his head with one arm. The light of the torch was reflected in his golden bristles. “Are they warriors? Yer brothers?”
“One is. Well, he was. He retired.”
Jonathan, the oldest, had gone into the military. He’d served in Iraq until retiring because, as he explained officially, his wife had insisted. Her second brother, Kyle, was a lawyer. Daniel, the third brother, was a struggling artist going from job to job and quite a disappointment to their father.
“Oh, aye?”
“Well, my father expected his first son to follow in his footsteps. But honestly, I don’t think Jonathan ever saw himself being career military like our dad.”
“Yer da is a war chief?”
“Something like that. Was. He’s dead.”
Her father had died of a heart attack two years ago. He’d been a US Army major, a proud man who’d valued discipline and rules more than anything. He saw very definite futures for each of his children. For his sons: the military, the law, and medicine. His daughter could be a teacher or a stay-at-home mom.
If her father had known her mom had encouraged a spirit of independence and adventure in Amber, he’d have been more careful about allowing Amber to go camping with the Girl Scouts and to parties in high school.
When she joined the army, she’d thought she’d kill two birds with one stone. She’d travel and impress her father.
Neither was true. She’d ended up stuck in Afghanistan for the duration of her service. And her dad had still considered her weak.
“Sorry to hear that, lass,” Owen said.
“Thank you.”
“But ye ken battle, too, dinna ye? What I saw at Inverlochy… I havena seen anybody fight like that.”
Despite herself, Amber felt blood rushing to her cheeks. No freaking way! She was blushing. She hated that she reacted to Owen in all these emotional ways.
“Yes. I’ve seen my share of combat, but it’s very different from battles here.”
“I daresay. Where did ye learn to fight like that?”
The burning in her face intensified. Surely it wasn’t adoration that she heard in his voice? And surely it wasn’t that hint of adoration that made her blush like a virgin?
“Home,” she said. “It’s not a big deal, simple military training, that’s all.”
It wasn’t quite true. She enjoyed kung fu and had taken the classes on her own initiative. Standard military training didn’t include martial arts. It gave her more strength and power, and she loved how graceful it was. Every time she had to use a gun, she cringed internally. Martial arts was a dangerous way of fighting, but it was much more elegant.
“I’d be interested to learn a trick or two,” Owen said.
Amber had just opened her mouth to reply that they weren’t tricks, and learning would require a long time, when the door at the entrance
to the dungeons gnashed, and the heavy steps of several men marched closer and closer.
Owen jumped to his feet, his eyes dark and sharp. With her stomach sinking, Amber rose to her feet as well.
Three guards with torches in their hands stopped before their cell. The light hurt Amber’s eyes. One of them reached out to unlock and open the cell door. Owen shifted towards Amber and stood between the guard and her.
“Move, Scot,” the guard said. “Sir de Bourgh is expecting yer wife.”
Chapter 7
The door closed behind Amber with a full thump, leaving the guards behind it.
She let out a shaky breath as she took in her surroundings. It was another dungeon, not unlike where she and Owen were being held, with thick walls of solid rock, and a dome-like ceiling.
In the middle stood a massive table with dark stains that made Amber think of blood. Sir de Bourgh sat at the table, a chicken drumstick in his hand. He chewed without taking his eyes off Amber, his smooth skin reflecting the fire in the giant fireplace.
A man stood by his side, tall and slender. An uncooked spaghetti noodle came to mind. Deep creases around his mouth and on his forehead gave his face a sad expression like he knew the day of her death and was unpleased by it.
A cold shiver ran through Amber, despite the fact the room was much warmer than the dungeon she and Owen were being kept. The shiver turned to an icy wave when she looked at the wall.
An array of instruments hung there—heavy iron handcuffs and cuffs for feet connected by an iron rod; sharp spikes; whips; giant knives and axes; something like a bear trap and other tools that made blood thicken in her veins.
High above the table hung a giant cylinder with pins and chains reaching to the floor. By the fireplace, there was a chair with the same dark stains as the table.
This was a torture room.
Amber’s throat went as dry as a desert. Horror snaked down her spine. Sweat would have broken through her skin if she’d been sufficiently hydrated. Instead, her head ached as though stricken by a huge hammer.
She once participated in the extraction of a journalist being held by terrorists in Afghanistan. The man’s face had been beaten to pulp, his ribs had been broken, and there’d been burns on his hands and feet. That was the closest she’d ever come to torture.
