Page 21 of Highlander’s Captive

He looked similar to Craig and Dougal with his green eyes.

“Do MacDougalls have such an accent?” he asked Craig.

“Nae, Owen,” Craig said. “Hers is peculiar.”

“Were ye raised somewhere else?” Hamish asked.

Amy was chewing the stew and slowed down. At least she could tell the truth about this part.

“Yes. I mean, aye.”

“Where?” Hamish said. “In Ireland? Ye sound a little like the Irish.”

God, she hated lying. “Yes.”

“Why?” Craig asked.

Oh, darn it. She should have paid more attention when her grandpa told the story of the MacDougalls.

“What is it to you?” she asked. Best defense was offense, right?

“I need to ken who ye are and what ye’re doing here,” Craig said. “Ye will answer me. Every question.”

His words tied around her, digging into her, suffocating her—but she wouldn’t let him. “Or what?”

Craig’s lips flattened into a line. “Or ye will be sorry.”

Hamish opened his mouth—no doubt to soften the situation—but Craig raised his palm, and Hamish closed his jaws.

“I don’t care,” Amy said. “You said you won’t harm a woman. Or were those just words?”

“Aye, I did. I never break my word,” Craig said, his voice a low, purring warning. “And I dinna throw empty threats.”

His heavy gaze lay on her, and Amy’s breath caught. A shudder went through her—but it wasn’t fear. It was something like heat. Their eyes locked, and Amy’s throat dried. For an eternity, she softened and melted, and forgot everything around her. Then too soon, he withdrew and looked into his cup.

“Look, lass. Ye’re going to stay here for a long time. Dinna hope yer father will come for ye soon. But even if he does, I wilna give ye to him and he wilna take the castle. I dinna wish for ye to feel what my sister felt.”

Hamish and Owen pointedly stared at their bowls at the mention of Craig’s sister. What happened to her? Was his sister locked up somewhere? Taken against her will?

“What did she feel?” she asked, her voice rasping.

Craig’s mouth tightened. “Ye ken what I talk of. I wilna disrespect Marjorie by telling about the worst days of her life.”

Amy exhaled softly, unwelcome tears stinging her eyes. The memories of the worst days of her life pressed against her psyche. No. This was not the time to let those dark emotions drown her.

Craig looked around the table. “Owen, Hamish, Lachlan, can ye three leave our guest here and me alone?”

“Aye, brother,” Owen said, and Hamish nodded, although, Amy thought, unwillingly. The three men rose from the benches and joined another table, where someone greeted them cheerfully, and laughter erupted.

Craig poured more of the strong stuff from the bottle to their cups.

“What’s it called?” she said. “It’s not whiskey, is it?”

“’Tis uisge-beatha.”

The water of life, or moonshine, Amy understood. “Right,” she said. “That’s what I mean.”

Dubious, Craig studied her for a brief second, then raised his cup. “Slàinte mhath,” he said. Cheers in Gaelic, Amy remembered from the hotel brochure on whiskey tours. She should have taken one back then.