Page 14 of Highlander’s Captive

“Are ye certain, Yer Grace?” Craig said. “Do ye nae have more experienced strategists, my father or uncle Neil?”

Bruce grasped his shoulder and squeezed it. “The man who risked his life to take the castle deserves the reward. If it wasna for ye, God kens how long we would have been freezing under those walls. I am very grateful, Craig Cambel. ’Tis yer reward—but also a heavy task. Now ye must protect the castle if the rest of the Comyns, the MacDougalls, or the English want to take it back. Because they will try.”

Bruce studied him intently. “What do ye say, Craig? Will ye take the mission upon ye?”

Craig inhaled sharply. That was a good question. He’d need to be especially careful about trusting people. Managing a castle and protecting it from a siege would require him to be even more observant, even more cautious.

Was he up to the task, to secure the first victory of the King of Scots, the victory that might lead to winning the whole war?

“Aye,” he said. “I wilna let ye down.”

Chapter 4

Amy tried everything. Kicking, moving the bed, yelling, which essentially was moaning, and therefore, useless. Nothing helped. The heavy wooden bed didn’t budge a bit. Finally, she decided to save her energy.

The only thing was, doing something distracted her from the terrible, suffocating tightness in her chest and the tension in her stomach.

The feeling that she knew all too well.

She swallowed, her mouth as dry as paper. At least it wasn’t an abandoned barn, she told herself. It was a castle, after all. There were people all around, and sooner or later, someone would come. Plus, there were windows. There was fresh air and light.

She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

Every single day, going out into the forest and the mountains in Vermont, she was running away from the feeling of being trapped. That was why she did what she did—rescuing people. Because she hated that there were people who felt abandoned and alone.

She wanted to give them hope. To show them that they weren’t alone.

Because once, a very long time ago, she’d needed someone like that.

And they hadn’t come.

As time went by, Amy sweated and breathed and repeated that this would pass.

From outside, the sound of a battle reached her. The clicks of something wooden hitting rocks. Arrows? People screaming in pain, in fury, metal clanking against metal. Then there was the scent of smoke. Then the sound of a battle grew louder, and it seemed it was right behind that door.

Her heart thumped, and her chest tightened more with every scream, with every clash. If another man with a sword came in… There’d be nothing she could do. She was completely helpless. Oh, how she hated that barbarian who’d tied her to the bed.

This hallucination or hologram was all too real. The sounds, the scents, the bindings on her wrists and legs—she doubted she could have hallucinated them. Maybe it was all a high-tech, super-advanced hologram experience. But a hologram wouldn’t be able to touch her like that man had.

And then a thought hit her. She hadn’t noticed it back then, because of the shock and the fear, and then fighting for her life—but when he’d talked to her, he hadn’t spoken English.

He’d spoken something else. Amy’s grandfather from the MacDougall side came to mind. He and Grandma had immigrated to the United States from the Highlands when they were young. Granddad had brought the ancient painting of the family tree going back to the Middle Ages. A MacDougall sword hung in the living room. And for as far back as Amy could remember, he had taught Amy Gaelic by telling her ancient Highland fairy tales and the stories of his ancestors in both Gaelic and English.

Yes, that warrior had spoken Gaelic to her.

And she’d understood it.

How? She’d never learned it to the point of fluency. She didn’t remember more than five or six words.

The door opened.

Speak of the devil—Amy’s captor loomed in the doorframe.

His dark hair was disheveled, and his face had cuts and bruises. Dirt and sprays of dried blood covered his skin and coat. There were also bleeding gashes on his shoulder and his ankle. The heavy quilted coat he wore was torn in several places. He slowly looked her over, his eyes dark and cold.

And smug.

Yeah. Self-righteous piece of garbage. Treating her like he could do anything he wanted with her.