by Mariah Stone
Amy sighed. “What’s not to understand? But if you sleep here, you can’t sleep in the bed—understood?”
“We are man and wife. I have every right to take ye. Ye’re mine.”
The ground shifted under her feet, heat suddenly flushing through her.
“Do not even dare,” she said. “You promised, nothing will be done against my will. I do not give my permission for sex. I do not want you, do you hear?”
His face turned dark. “Aye, Amy.” He walked away from her, then turned for a moment. “Dinna fash, I wilna touch ye. Not now. Not ever.”
And he left the room, leaving her breathless…and strangely disappointed.
Chapter 12
Amy didn’t return to the great hall, and her seat felt empty next to Craig. In fact, he felt empty. His mind was not here, not now, but with her, up in the tower. It was their wedding night. The night they were supposed to consummate the marriage.
And his bride didn’t want anything to do with him. Which was exactly what he should expect from this marriage. And he shouldn’t want anything to do with her, either.
So why did her rejection hurt?
And why, now with a cup of uisge in his hands, could he only think of going back to the bedchamber, kissing her and making her his? A quiver of desire ran through his body as he imagined Amy naked under him, her back arched, her head tilted, her sweet mouth open as she moaned his name.
Craig shook his head. What a fool he was. Blinded by the wiles of a MacDougall. Wanting his enemy, the enemy who wanted him dead.
Most likely.
Or someone else, someone among his men, wanted him dead. The thought only darkened his mood further.
As he drank, he looked around the hall, studying every single man.
One of them could be a traitor, looking for the secret tunnel and wanting to kill him.
He had thought he could trust his men and the men of his allies.
Obviously, he was wrong.
Was Amy the one plotting his death?
That could still be possible. He had been certain of it before. But when he’d confronted her, she’d seemed genuinely surprised and even angry at his accusation, which had made him believe her for a moment. That could just be a ploy, though. Having access to him at night, sleeping, unguarded, might very well be the reason she’d married him. Or she could plan to put poison in his food.
Just as any man in the castle could, he reminded himself.
He wasn’t convinced Amy had sent the message, just as he wasn’t sure who the traitor was.
Not Owen, not Lachlan, not any other Cambel—none of them had any connection to MacDougalls or reason for treachery.
Not that he could think of, anyway.
Unless it was someone he wouldn’t have thought of—a Cambel who had ties to the enemy clan.
He saw Lachlan sitting at the same table as Owen, and the other Cambels. The men laughed, their table loud and lively.
Craig had known Lachlan his whole life. They were the same age, and for a time, Lachlan had been fostered with Craig’s family while their fathers were fighting in the south. Now he was a tacksman on Cambel lands and was as loyal to the clan as any Cambel through and through. Never in his life had Craig suspected Lachlan could have a treacherous bone in his body, except…
He had a MacDougall grandmother. Yes, on his mother’s side. Didn’t he?
Craig stood up and went to the table. He touched Lachlan’s shoulder. “Lachlan, a word?”
The man stood up. “Aye, cousin.”
They walked to Craig’s table, where no one was sitting.
“What is it?” Lachlan asked. “Why aren’t ye with yer bride, warming her bed?”
Craig was silent for a moment, studying the man’s face. His brown eyes were foggy and red, his eyelids heavy, his expression carefree.
How could he be a traitor? As long as Craig had known him, the man been honest to a fault.
“Does nae matter. Listen, were ye close with yer grandmother?”
“Was close with both of them.”
“The MacDougall one.”
“Aye, Granny Coline. She died when I was but a wee fart. Still remember her honeyed oatcakes, though. I didna see her often on account of they lived farther away. Did she visit ye from the grave or somethin’?”
Craig couldn’t tell anyone that the pigeon had been intercepted. He needed the traitor to be oblivious, so that whoever it was wouldn’t be jumpy. So that Craig could observe. He’d told Killian to keep silent about the note or he’d be endangering the whole castle. The boy understood—Craig had seen the determination on his face, the importance of the secret weighing on him.
“Since I marrit a MacDougall now,” Craig said, cringing about lying to his clansman, “I thought maybe ye kent some of them. Did ye ever go to MacDougall gatherings? Visit yer relatives from yer grandmother’s side?”
“Once or twice, while Granny was alive. A couple of cousins also visited, I reckon.”
“Are ye still in contact with them?”
Lachlan’s face sobered. “Nae. Dinna ken where they are or what they do. Dinna want to, either. Not after what Alasdair did to Marjorie. Do ye need something from the MacDougalls, cousin? Say a word and I’ll find the shites.”
Guilt stabbed Craig. Lachlan seemed to be completely innocent, honest, and oblivious to Craig’s suspicions.
Could the relative he’d known his whole life plot such treachery?
Losing his grandfather and having seen what the MacDougalls did to Marjorie, Craig had sworn to never be so naive and trusting, and to never let another MacDougall betray him or his family.
He just couldn’t allow himself to completely trust Lachlan.
The truth was, he couldn’t allow himself to trust anyone.
“Nae, not now, cousin.” Craig squeezed Lachlan’s shoulder. “I’ll ask ye again if I need to. ’Tis good to ken for now.”
“Aye. Then let me congratulate ye on yer marriage personally and wish ye many years of health and happiness.” He took two cups from the table, gave one to Craig and clunked it with his. “Let us drink.”
Chapter 13
The next morning, Amy woke up with a headache and stomach cramps. Her period had started. Thank God for the tampons she had in her backpack. What did women even do in the Middle Ages?
She didn’t have anyone to ask. Clearly, she wouldn’t ask Craig.
Craig had come to sleep in the bedchamber last night, but he hadn’t gotten into the bed with her. He’d slept by the fireplace, covered in sheepskins and furs. In the morning, he’d left before she’d woken up. So she had privacy to dress. Somehow, it was comforting to have him in the room with her. Being a stranger here, not just from another continent but another time…
It was lonely.
She was used to being alone back in Vermont, but this was different. She couldn’t be herself. Every day here, she pretended. She watched what she said and how she behaved.
But today was a new day, and all she needed to do was get one step closer to the rock in the storeroom. One step closer to getting out of here—which seemed even more important now that Craig thought she wanted to kill him!
So there was a killer in the castle, someone who meant business… And that was all her clan’s doing—well, her ancestors, anyway. Which meant Craig was in real danger.
She wanted to help him, but what could she do about it?
It wasn’t her life, and it wasn’t her business. Her business was back in her own time, helping Jenny out, making sure her little sister didn’t feel abandoned and alone taking care of their dad. Amy had better get out of here as soon as possible.
She was now Craig’s wife and the lady of the castle or whatever, so she needed to run the household.
A perfect excuse to visit the underground storeroom, to check what was available for meals.
She marched through the courtyard into the eastern tower. She opened the door and froze. Two guards stood by the entrance to the downstairs.<
br />
Why would Craig put guards here? What were they guarding? Not the rock, surely…
“Mistress.” One of them nodded, watching her carefully.
“Hello, gentlemen.” She bit her lip. Based on their confused expressions, they had no idea what “gentlemen” meant. Never mind, she thought. Shoulders straight, chin high, continue pretending you know what you’re doing. “I need to see what’s downstairs in the storeroom, to plan for the meals.”
They looked at each other, frowning.
“Now,” she said.
“Canna let ye in, mistress,” one of them said. “Lord was strict about that.”
“Do you want to eat well or continue roasting squirrels and eating hard oatcakes? How about some fresh bread, butter, and a hot stew? Winter is coming, I’ve heard.”
The other guard swallowed saliva. “Can only let ye in with the lord, mistress.”
Amy grunted in exasperation, turned away, and marched to the kitchen. “Lord this, lord that,” she mumbled under her breath. “We’ll see.”
Nevertheless, she was also tired of eating scraps. And she wanted to help out, so she was looking forward to establishing some sort of order in the household.
She already ran the local search and rescue station in Vermont, with eight people in her team. This couldn’t be much harder. And it would be much less dangerous—no lives depended on her actions. Unless she put a poisonous mushroom in a stew by accident… But she trusted herself enough to not make people sick from her cooking.
She entered the empty kitchen, still dirty from yesterday’s cooking.
She needed a team of cooks and a team of cleaners. Since Craig had let the professionals go, she had to recruit help from the men she had in the castle. The best method was probably to choose men based on experience. Likely, many of them knew some cooking, but she doubted anyone would want to clean.
She should make a rotation plan, so that everyone would share the burden. Otherwise, they’d need to be paid or rewarded in some other way.
The kitchen was a huge room, a separate timber building. There was a giant fireplace on one end with a big cauldron hanging from a chain. In the middle of the room, was a massive wooden table where vegetable peels and remnants of butchering remained from the night before.
Men, Amy thought.
There was, of course, no running water, so she’d need to send someone to the well in the courtyard regularly. But, thankfully, there was a slop drain for dirty water—just a hole in the wall leading to the castle gutter.
Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling. When she’d first arrived, there had been fish hanging to dry around the fireplace and in the chimney, but now it was gone.
A stone oven stood on the opposite side of the room from the fireplace. Amy had seen some of the men use it to bake breads and pies. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to bake. She remembered her mom baking in the farm kitchen. Amy used to help her, but it was such a long time ago, she no longer had any idea what to do. She wasn’t a big cook, either. She usually made mac and cheese from a box, put a frozen pizza in the oven, or heated up a microwave dinner. She needed to remind herself how to make real food.
Right. She went into the pantry at the back of the kitchen. It was chilly there, with the weather significantly cooler than when she’d first arrived, which, she supposed, helped the cabbages, leeks, onions, and dried peas to last longer. There weren’t any potatoes, tomatoes, or carrots. She saw plums, apples, and pears, but they were going bad already. She saw cheese and pots of butter, which was heavily salted, probably to preserve it. Sacks of flour stood by the walls—and remembering the scent of wheat from growing up on the farm, she knew this wasn’t it. Probably the sacks held either oats, barley, or rye.
Smoked meat and fish hung suspended from the ceiling. Eggs lay in a basket. She’d been feeding the chickens, which were in a pen right in the stables—probably to keep the birds warm.
Amy remembered caring for chickens and geese on the farm. They’d even had cows and horses. She’d loved the animals and even wanted to become a veterinarian. But once she’d gotten through one year of vet school, she’d known it wasn’t for her. She’d missed working with people.
There were also small pots with spices—cinnamon, ginger, and pepper—no doubt imported and very expensive. Salt was in a small sack on the shelf. A casket with vinegar stood in the corner. She could use it to clean the surfaces, and maybe even to clean wounds if it came to it. Yeast was there, too—no doubt for bread and ale.
That was it. Her small kingdom.
What could she do? Clearly, she couldn’t cook alone for the whole castle. Craig had mentioned there were a hundred people or so. Someone would need to bake bread, because she couldn’t. Her best, most effective cooking would no doubt be making stews and soups. She would just throw meat and vegetables into that giant cauldron, maybe even oats to thicken it. If that wouldn’t feed a hundred people for a day, she didn’t know what would.
She could roast the meat the men hunted, and make stew from the fish they caught. Someone would need to help with peeling, chopping, and cleaning vegetables, kneading dough for bread and pies, and general cleaning.
She needed to talk to Craig about assigning people.
Walking out of the kitchen, she hit a rock-solid human body, almost losing her balance. The tall man steadied her, grasping her by the upper arms.
“Whoa, lass,” Hamish said.
Amy quickly stepped away from him. “Good morning,” she said. “Looking for breakfast?”
“Aye, break the fast. My head is splitting from the feast yesterday. Something to ease the hunger would be fine.”
“Well, I’m just looking for Craig so that he can assign people to work in the kitchens. I need bakers and cooks and a butcher…”
“I can help ye,” he said. “I have watch duty on the southern tower after dinner, but I can help ye now.”
She’d learned by now that dinner meant lunch for them, eaten from midmorning to noon. And supper was actually like American dinner, eaten in the late afternoon or evening.
“Well, I really appreciate it, Hamish. Can you bake bread?”
“Aye. I grew up on a farm. I ken how to cook and bake.”
Something warmed in her. “You also grew up on a—”
Oh damn.
She shut up. The truth had almost slipped out. She wasn’t a great pretender.
“I mean, like many other people. You grew up on a farm—that’s great!”
He narrowed his dark eyes, studying her. For a few moments, they grew cold and suspicious. She laughed nervously.
“If you can start on the bread, that would be great. Do you know where Craig is?”
He nodded slowly. “Aye. Seen him near the eastern tower.”
“Great. Thanks, Hamish.” She nodded to him, smiled, and walked away as quickly as she could. But she felt his eyes on her back.
Chapter 14
The next day…
“Fergus, could you peel the parsnips better, please?” Amy said. “Look, you’re leaving such big patches of skin unpeeled.”
Fergus, one of the two middle-aged warriors helping her, stopped peeling the parsnip and threw her a heavy glance from under his eyebrows.
She’d organized the cooking like a conveyor belt. She had no idea how big kitchens worked, really, but her common sense told her they’d be faster and more efficient if one person had one job, just like Henry Ford had intended. One washed, the other peeled, and Amy cut. One of the older men butchered recent game that hunters had brought. And the other two—a teenager and an older man—kneaded dough and made bread.
“Ye mean, like this, mistress?” He threw the half-peeled parsnip to Amy.
Instead of landing on or near the cutting board, the parsnip hit Amy right in the head. The men snorted and then laughed out loud. Tears burned the backs of Amy’s eyes, but she ignored the pain. She’d be damned if she’d let these jerks see her cry.
The parsnip rolled on the floor
towards Fergus.
Keeping her face cool, Amy blew a strand of her hair off her face, then wiped it to the side with the back of her hand.
“Please pick it up, Fergus, and finish the job,” she said.
He held her gaze for a moment, then turned to Angus who stood by his side washing the vegetables in a large pot. “Do ye ken the story of Kenneth MacDougall, who fecked a goat because he thought it was his wife?”
Rage hit Amy in a hot wave, and her cheeks burned.
“Nae,” Angus said.
“Aye, ’twas because the goat smelled just like her.”
The kitchen exploded with the laughter of all five men. Amy stood with her hands on her waist, watching them coldly.
“Very smart and funny, Fergus,” she said when the laughter died out. “Now, finish the parsnip, or I will shove it up a certain part of your body you’d least want it to be.”
Fergus’s smile died. “Dinna threaten me, mistress. Ye’re not the one commanding me. I’ll be damned if I take orders from a MacDougall. ’Tis my lord I answer to.”
Amy straightened her back. “Well, your lord told you to work in the kitchen under my orders.”
“He said work in the kitchen, so I work in the kitchen. He didna say a word about pleasing the little red MacDougall arse.” He pushed the parsnip with his boot, and it rolled back to Amy. “Now finish yer own peeling if ye dinna like my work. Or find yerself another cook.”
He spat the last word and returned to peeling another parsnip.
The men threw dark glances at her and returned to their work while Amy stood speechless, fuming.
She was just about to pick up the parsnip and acknowledge her defeat in front of her staff when a movement from the door caught her eye, and she turned to see Craig.
He entered, taking up all of the space with his presence. The air was sucked out of Amy’s lungs from the sight of him, making her forget all of her anger and indignation about Fergus. Craig’s hair was a little damp and clung to his forehead… Did he take a bath? The thought of his body, naked and wet and tall and hard…