by Mariah Stone
“Well, pal, that’s not an option.”
“Nae anymore.” He gestured around the cell. “But if ye had gone back right away, we wouldna be here.”
“Unbelievable. Are you still blaming everything on me?”
She’d been wrong about him. Him stitching her wounds, nursing her, the flirting and lingering gazes—none of that mattered. Underneath it all, he was just like every other man in her life. Looking for a scapegoat to blame for his faults.
And she’d always been the perfect victim.
That was the whole reason she was here in this mess. And she’d be a fool not to learn from her mistakes.
“I’m tired,” she said.
Guilt flashed through his face. “I dinna blame everything on ye, lass,” he said. “Ye’re just a shiny distraction I shouldna have been fooled by.”
He turned and paced to the other side of the cell.
Good, Amber thought, he’s finally stopped the interrogation.
But why did it feel like she wanted him to climb on the bench, lie down behind her, and take her in his arms? Why did it feel like his arms would be the safest place on earth?
Chapter 10
It must have been about five days after Amber’s flogging that Owen heard the pounding of many heavy feet on the dungeon’s steps. He hastily shoved the salve back into the pouch and then under the bench. He threw the cloak over Amber’s back and stood to face whoever was coming.
During the past few days, or at least what felt like days, he’d taken care of Amber’s wounds. Thankfully, they seemed much better. The swelling and the redness had subsided, and there was no pus. Muireach came every day with food and water and new salve, potion, and pieces of cloth.
Three guards stopped in front of the cell, and one of them opened the door.
“Come with us,” one of them said to Owen. “Now.”
Owen hesitated, not wanting to leave Amber alone.
She opened one eye, still drowsy from the potion. “Go, Owen,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s nae ye going anywhere that I’m worried about,” he said. But he knew Muireach would keep an eye on her. Throwing a last glance her way, he walked out. “All right, lads, take me to yer bastart commander.”
That earned him a hard smack on the back of his head, and he grinned. They walked down the hallway of the dungeon, and when they entered the landing area, Owen saw someone tall and dark descending the stairs.
“Owen Cambel?” a strangely familiar voice said.
He knew that voice… He glanced over his shoulder. “Hamish…”
Hamish stood before him, as tall and as menacing as ever. Thin battle scars decorated his face, and his black eyes were unreadable.
Great. Another traitor. The wasp nest was getting bigger.
“What’s going on, lads?” Hamish asked.
“Don’t know,” one of the guards said. “Sir de Bourgh asked for the Highlander. He got nothing out of the wife, so I guess it’s this piece of shit’s turn now.”
A look of confusion flashed on Hamish’s face.
“Walk.” The guard shoved Owen.
Hamish followed Owen with a deep frown. This wasn’t good. Last year, Hamish had infiltrated Inverlochy’s troops. He’d pretended to from the MacKinnon clan while spying for the MacDougalls that whole time. The man was a devil. He’d kept his identity a secret for several weeks and eventually killed Lachlan, Owen’s cousin.
If Hamish discovered that Muireach was helping them, there would be trouble. He’d also interfere with their plan to escape. They needed to be even more careful now.
Owen and the guards walked to the other wing of the dungeon. Several heavy doors lined the hallway. They stopped before one of them, and the guard opened it.
The chamber was clearly made for torture. The image of Amber being lashed right here invaded Owen’s mind and brought a painful heaviness in his gut. They must’ve tied her to the giant pole in the middle of the room and flogged her with a whip hanging on the wall.
There was a massive table with roasted chicken, bread, cheese, and apples. De Bourgh stood by the fireplace with his back to Owen and played a jolly tune on a fife. Another man, probably the Jerold Baker that Amber had told him about, sat and sharpened a long knife, tapping his foot to the rhythm of the song.
Clapping and humming the melody, Owen walked into the room. The two men looked up at him and the music stopped.
Owen leaned on the table and tore off a chicken leg. “Please, dinna stop on my account. I’ve been locked up in the darkness for what feels like a lifetime. I’ve missed music and food”—he poured himself some ale from the jug—“and drink.”
He gulped the ale and moaned appreciatively.
“Ye have a good cook and some great ale, Sir de Bourgh.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
De Bourgh cocked one eyebrow and set the fife aside.
“Please, enjoy it while you can,” he said, his voice terse. “I brought you here to see if you’d be more talkative than your wife. How is she, by the way?”
He had the audacity to ask about Amber after what he’d done to her… Scalding hot waves of fury cascaded through Owen. He tightened his fists to stop himself from grabbing one of those sharp torture instruments and putting it through de Bourgh like a spit through a pig.
This was a good start. He’d disoriented the bastart and thrown him off his game. He couldn’t lose the advantage now.
Breathe, he reminded himself. Breathe.
“Ye well ken how she is,” he said. “And I will talk. Why nae talk while there’s music, food, and drink? A good, safe place to sleep. A roof above my head. What’s nae to like?”
He took the chair at the head of the table, the one he assumed was de Bourgh’s. He tore off a piece of bread and chewed. Hmm, the bastart did have a good cook. De Bourgh’s nostrils flared, his lower jaw jutted out, and his lips flattened into a line as thin as a thread.
Good. Owen wanted him mad. He needed to find out how to get out of here, and angry de Bourgh was much more likely to slip a crucial piece of information.
“’Tis much better food than what yer man brings down to the dungeons.” Owen drank some more. “So while I’m enjoying yer hospitality, ask yer questions.”
De Bourgh let out a long, loud exhale, almost a growl. Then he straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and walked to stand by the table. His eyes darkened, and the expression on his face made Owen’s smile fade a little.
De Bourgh snapped his fingers, and Jerold Baker was at Owen’s throat in a flash. He was surprisingly strong for such a thin man and lifted Owen up. Something radiated heat next to Owen’s throat. He looked and saw an iron-hot rod there, and broke out in a sweat.
“You think you can be coy with me?” de Bourgh asked, his teeth bared. “You think you can make me forget what matters? You’re no guest, and I’m no host. Make no mistake, your life and your wife’s life are in my hands. I won’t show any mercy. I won’t make a mistake. Success here will ensure my children’s future, and that is not something I will play with. So if you and your wife want to stay alive, you will answer me.”
Owen gave a small nod.
“What is the Bruce planning?” de Bourgh said.
Owen needed to be smart. He needed to say enough so that de Bourgh would believe him, but still not give him anything important.
“He kens about ye and yer plans to take back the Highlands.”
De Bourgh narrowed his eyes and shrugged.
“Hmm. I’ll bite. How many men does he really have? Did he have everyone with him at Inverlochy?”
“I think five thousand.” That wasn’t true. The Bruce didn’t have more than two thousand men, but Owen knew the enemy feared the Bruce and thought he had many more. The skill and cunning of the Highlanders, their knowledge of the territory, and the unexpected moves they took were the Bruce’s strength, and Owen wasn’t going to let his king down.
De Bourgh pinched
his lips in consideration. “Five thousand is a large force, but there’s a difference between an army of trained warriors and simple farmers holding swords for the first time.”
“He has knights.”
It was true. He did have knights. When the Bruce returned from the west where he’d been hiding, several Scottish knights joined him, and the more success he had, the more men followed him.
“The rest are battle-hardened warriors,” Owen said.
Another lie. The Bruce accepted anyone who wanted to join him. Most were passionate and dedicated. But they weren’t all trained warriors like those in the English army.
De Bourgh narrowed his eyes. They glistened like black glass beads under his eyebrows. “Lies. They cannot be.” He nodded to Jerold Baker. “Time to show our Highlander what happens to liars in Stirling.”
The red-hot rod came closer to Owen’s neck. The burn sent a blinding pain through him and snatched his breath away. But before the rod could dig deeper into his flesh, the door opened.
A tall man with shoulder-length white hair and a short gray beard came in. It was the same man who had given Owen the gold for the king all those years ago.
Chief of the MacDougall clan, John MacDougall of Lorne.
Jerold Baker moved the rod from Owen’s face, but the scent of burned flesh and hair lingered in the room. Owen didn’t notice the pain anymore. Rage and hatred rose in him like in a wall of fire. MacDougall’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed.
“I see ye’re busy crushing Scottish flies, Sir de Bourgh,” he said without taking his eyes off Owen. “Canna say I disapprove. I wanted to crush filth for a long time.”
“Oh, yes, you must know each other,” de Bourgh said. “Owen Cambel was just telling me about the Bruce’s army.”
MacDougall came in and let the door shut behind him. “It wilna be the first time he’s betrayed his king.”
A low growl escaped Owen’s throat. “Ye treacherous pig. Ye well ken ’twas yer betrayal, nae mine. Ye orchestrated the whole thing. Ye have looked for a reason to dishonor my clan in front of the king for years.”
“He gave part of MacDougall lands to yer clan. What did ye expect?”
“I expected our ally to be honorable and just. But ’tis better this way. We ken yer true nature, and I’m glad we’re allies with ye nae more.”
“Shut up.”
“Aye, try to shut me up. Ye wilna. While ye go lick the arse of the Sassenach king who couldna care less about ye, the true Scottish king is gaining power.”
MacDougall marched to Jerold Baker and went to grab the rod, but he winced and laid his hand on his side. He cursed, took the rod with his other hand, and pointed it at Owen’s cheek. The heat burned his skin even without touching it. “The true king, ye say? The true goddamn king who killed my brother-in-law, Red John Comyn. How’s that honorable and just, huh, Cambel?”
“Red John Comyn deserved it. He was a traitor. He wanted the English Crown to rule Scotland.”
De Bourgh cleared his throat. “John, perhaps you can wait until we’re done. I need information from him.”
But MacDougall only waved de Bourgh off. Owen chuckled. Anything that would postpone the torture was good. MacDougall was wreaking havoc on de Bourgh’s plan.
Jerold Baker took the rod from MacDougall’s hand and shoved it into a bucket with water. It hissed and steamed.
“And so what if the English Crown rules,” MacDougall said. “’Tis only for the better. It makes us stronger—”
“We’re stronger if we’re free,” Owen said. “But ye’ll never ken true freedom. Once the Bruce is done with ye, all ye will be able to do is to flee. Ye’ll be licking English arse for the rest of yer life as a fugitive.”
“And how do ye imagine the Bruce will do that? MacDougall is the strongest clan in the Highlands. And we have the English army to back us up. He’ll never win. He’s finished.”
“Finished? Ye’re the one who’s done.” Owen laughed right in MacDougall’s face. Fury boiled in his stomach. He should stop now before he said something he’d regret. But already the words were bubbling out. “He’s coming to take Lorne. That’s why he’s back. Yer peace treaty is about to expire. He’ll take Lorne like he took Badenoch and all other Comyn lands.”
MacDougall’s face fell.
Damnation.
I’ve done it again. I’ve messed up.
De Bourgh took a long black whip in one hand and slapped the palm of his other hand. “You will tell me everything.”
“Ye dirty toads,” Owen growled.
MacDougall threw his arm back and slammed his fist into Owen’s face. Bone-crushing pain exploded in his cheekbone. Another blow landed on his jaw. James Baker held Owen by the shoulders like he were just a sack of meat.
Owen had to give it to MacDougall, he was still a powerful man, even though he was much older now. The third blow landed on Owen’s temple, an expert hit meant to bring real damage.
It plunged Owen into darkness.
He woke up without opening his eyes. De Bourgh’s and MacDougall’s voices rang in his head as they argued.
They were some distance away, but he was still in the torture chamber. His head ached as though split in two. Bile rose in his stomach. He was lying on something hard.
“He said five thousand men,” de Bourgh said.
“Do ye believe him?” MacDougall asked.
“It would certainly explain his rapid success in the east. How he got rid of all Comyns, how he got Earl of Ross to sign a peace treaty…”
“Aye. If ’tis true, the situation is worse than I feared. The peace treaty the Bruce signed with us ends in two sennights. After that, he will come for us.”
“Which is why we need to do something drastic.”
“Aye. Listen. He has Highlanders who ken the territory well. But so do I. Let’s use his weapon against him. Let’s surprise him in Lorne. I suggest we repeat the successful strategy we used at the Battle of Dalrigh. We took him by surprise and completely destroyed his forces. I will have my men and yer men hide in the hills by the Pass of Brander. We can use galleys to cross Loch Awe so that he doesna see us coming. We can use the terrain against him—something he’d been doing so well against ye.”
Owen’s breath caught in his chest. Mayhap he hadn’t messed up after all. If he could get this information to the Bruce, they had a real chance to stop de Bourgh and the MacDougalls and turn the tide of the war.
But first he had to get out of here alive.
Chapter 11
A weak metallic clank woke Amber up. Her heart drummed hard against her rib cage. She listened for footsteps, but none came. Had she imagined the noise?
She’d been so worried about Owen when they took him, but she was too exhausted and had dozed off eventually. What condition would they bring him back in? Would Jerold Baker flog him, too? Worse? How would she be able to care for him if she could barely stand?
She was lying on her side and pushed herself up to sit. The movement made the undertunic Muireach had brought her slide across her back and rub against her cuts. Pain radiated through her body, but the cold air was welcomed against her feverish skin. Her jeans were loose now. When was the last time she’d felt full?
She wondered how much time had passed since they took Owen away. She missed her watch, the one her mom helped her fix.
Amber remembered the scent of her mom’s chocolate chip cookies and mint tea. Her melodic southern accent. Her soft, gentle hands on Amber’s forehead when she was ill. Amber had loved the girls’ days she and her mom spent together while her dad and brothers played ball.
She remembered her mom washing hair straightener from her hair, and after that, leaning over the kitchen table together, examining the insides of the antique watch spread out on their white tablecloth. They’d read a book on clock mechanics and studied the tiny wheels and barrels with curiosity.
She’d asked her mom why she didn’t throw the watch out, but her mom had just held the tweezer
s in her long black fingers and picked up a tiny barrel and set it in its right place.
“I can’t bring myself to do that. Your grandfather gave it to me when I married your dad,” she’d said, her dark eyes shining and dampening from the memory. “He bought it with his first profits from the barber shop he opened in New Orleans. He said it was a family heirloom, and I should give it to my firstborn son.” She’d handed the tweezers to Amber, her slightly darker fingers brushing against Amber’s. “You try, hon.”
“But you haven’t given it to Jonathan.”
“I did,” her mother told her. “That’s why it keeps breaking. He has no interest in it. I think it’s so fascinating, how it all works, the mechanics of it. I wish I’d followed my dreams and become an engineer. Don’t make my mistakes, Amber. Do what you want to do with your life. Don’t allow men to define you.”
Amber knew her mother loved her father, but she’d also understood what her mom meant. Her father was a rock, dependable and strong. But he could also be stubborn, controlling, and fixated on his beliefs.
Her mom had given her the family heirloom, and that was where her fascination with mechanics had begun. She’d loved looking at the watch. It had brought her a sense of peace and control, as well as a connection to her mom. When she’d lost it while out on an operation in Afghanistan, she’d been crushed.
Now, not knowing how many days had passed since they’d been brought here, how many minutes or hours since the guards had taken Owen, made her stomach squeeze with anxiety.
“Who did that to ye, lass?” a male voice rumbled.
Amber’s whole body jerked and she spun around. A man stood on the other side of her cell. He was tall and dark with wide shoulders. His face was half hidden in the shadows, but she swore she could see scars disappearing into his beard. He was dressed like a warrior, not unlike the Highlanders she’d seen at Inverlochy, with a long, quilted coat, woolen hose that covered his legs below the knee, and pointy leather shoes. Everything he had on was dark, and a sword handle peeked from behind his shoulder. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt the physical weight of his gaze on her.
