Page 22 of Highlander’s Captive

Oh God, poor Jenny must be freaking out, looking for her. Amy needed to act, to find a way to access the rock.

Craig took a large gulp and grunted, clearly satisfied. Amy followed his example, enjoying the burn of the moonshine. If this was supposed to be the origin of whiskey, it was a great one.

“Lass,” Craig said. “I’m nae jailor. My task is to keep the castle safe and secure, and ye in it. Just answer my questions. I need to ken what yer purpose is for being here. Why were ye with the Comyns?”

Was it better to lie? She did need to get access to the underground storeroom. Maybe she should play it nice, after all. What if her stubbornness only led to Craig tightening his grip?

“I’ll answer your questions,” she said, her voice sounding unnatural to her own ears, everything tightening within her. She hated lying. But if it would take her closer to home, that’s what she needed to do, even though her whole being felt repulsed. “I was invited here as a guest.”

“As a guest? By whom?”

“I’m friends with—” Oh shoot, did the Comyns have a daughter? Or a son? Any children? “Lady Comyn.” That was vague enough.

“Lady Comyn.” He sounded disgusted. “Ye even speak like the Normans, like the Comyns. Are ye nae a Scot?”

“Of course I am.” Oh God, she was doing more harm than good with the lies. “What else should I call her?”

Craig shook his head. “I suppose ye’re right. Bruce himself has Norman blood. So yer father agreed for ye to visit Lady Comyn. How long did ye intend to stay?”

In the twenty-first century, it would be a couple of days, maybe. But here, with no communication and long travel times—especially in winter, which was coming—the visits were probably much longer. “Just a couple of months.”

“’Tis nae my place to judge the current female fashion, but why are ye dressed like a man?”

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Those medieval people and their canons about women’s clothing and behavior. Amy was probably breaking every single rule without even trying.

“It’s for hunting.”

Craig hemmed and looked her up and down. The gaze burned through her clothes and brought blood to Amy’s cheeks.

Oh, get a grip of yourself. You’re not a schoolgirl!

“And does yer father expect messages from ye?” he continued, seemingly oblivious of her reaction. “From any of the Comyns?”

“No. He trusts I will be safe here. The castle is supposed to be impenetrable. How did you get in here at all, by the way?”

He chuckled. “That is none of yer concern, lass. When is yer wedding?”

“My wedding?”

“Aye, dinna play the fool. I ken about yer wedding to the Earl of Ross.”

Oh no. What if this was a test? What if he knew the exact date?

“Father is still not sure about the date because of the war,” she said.

“So he isna expecting ye anytime soon? Or is he coming to Dunollie?”

What the hell was a dunollie?

“No.”

Craig held her in his dark green gaze, and it was though he looked right through her, getting under her skin, digging up the truth. Amy’s breath caught, she stiffened, trapped in her own body. He was going to see right through her.

And then she’d never see home again.

“Ye’re lying,” Craig said. “I dinna ken what. I dinna ken why. But I see that ye are. Which is another confirmation I shouldna have trusted ye to tell the truth.”

He grabbed her upper arm in his steely grasp and pulled her to her feet. Amy tried to free herself, but he only held her tighter.