“What do you mean, Gavin’s lost his heart to someone else?”
Niall smiled at Bull, and swept an arm toward the other side of the clearing. Three warriors tossed large rocks. Their naked chests glistened with sweat. They were deep in their challenge to see who could throw the farthest, a reminder of the faraway place where she and Bull had met. Izzy recalled how she had stolen a few minutes away from the potions tent, and watched the handsome athletes.
“Throwing the hammer at the New England Highland Games is a feat of strength and style. Watching these brutes toss large rocks at each other is just plain scary,” Bull whispered, then turned to follow Niall’s indication.
When Izzy glanced at where she had left Jenny sitting by a tree, surprise closed her throat. Gavin had pulled Jenny into his lap. “Stars above, is he--”
“Falling for Jenny? Sure looks like it.” Bull’s fingers clasped her forearm, as if worried she would attack Gavin. Her muscles trembled, but with fear for her good friend.
“But, he wanted me for my land. His pursuit has made the last five years a Hell on earth. Jenny has nothing.”
“Love is blind.”
She glared up at Bull. “Love? How can he love her? They met today!”
Niall and Bull laughed. Izzy marched away to put space between her and two irritating men, and to try to understand Gavin’s motives. If he wanted Jenny in order to gain a financial boon, she ought to warn her friend. Gavin was like all men, she feared. They were not to be trusted with a woman’s heart.
When men got what they wanted, they turned cold and distant. Gavin had done this once she had learned the truth. Had not Bull done the same? When Niall had discovered them together, Bull had not defended their liaison. Instead, he had smiled at Niall’s laugh, as if their encounter was a huge joke. Did Jenny own something Gavin wanted?
Jenny must no’ fall under his spell!
A handsome face and delicious kisses were not worth the danger that falling in love would create. Her heart was hers and hers alone. Anger turned her feet away from the men and she hurried down the trail to the meadow where they had arrived from the future.
Heading out of the trees, she stepped into the open. With her thoughts filled with Gavin, Jenny, and Bull, she was barely aware of the sunshine and sweet-smelling breeze. The waning sunlight warmed her shoulders, while the cool breeze tossed her hair. Each step took her farther from the man she was beginning to love; a man so different from Gavin.
“ ‘Tis good Gavin has lost interest in me. I should fall to my knees in thanks.”
“On yer knees would be a pretty sight indeed,” a voice whispered in her ear.
Izzy could not move. Her feet turned to stone, and her arms froze tight to her sides. When a gray swirl of smoke surrounded her, she could not inhale enough air to keep black spots from forming in front of her face. A sense of falling made her stomach lurch, until blackness shut out all the light.
***
“Where am I?” Izzy did not expect an answer. Whatever created the stinking fog that surrounded her, before she fell senseless, was powerful. Whoever had created it probably did not care to explain his intentions. “I shall figure this out.”
Her eyelids grew heavy. Grit scratched her eyes, as if someone had thrown a handful of sand in her face. Nearly gasping from whatever had caused her lungs to strain to breathe, it felt as if someone had settled a keg of whisky on her chest.
Izzy lay on her back on a hard floor, her bound wrists tucked beneath her bottom. Her captor had trussed her ankles, so she rolled to her side, gathering her knees under her. Pushing to a kneeling position, she glanced around her prison. Sitting back on her haunches, she breathed deep, then crinkled her nose.
‘Twas a mistake.
The unpleasant odor of rotting straw, and damp walls closed in on her. She was in some type of cell with a tiny window and only one door. Would it matter if the door was unlocked? Since she could not even crawl, she was not sure she could get to it.
A currently unnamed someone had bound her, hand and foot. How long was I unconscious? How did I get here? She remembered falling, as well as a high-pitched whistle. Had others followed her into this new Hell?
“Anyone out there? Can ye hear me?”
A muffled moan, from somewhere outside the cell door, was all she could perceive until the distant rumble of footsteps, and water dripping in the corner made her ache to loosen her bindings. Her knees and ankles grew chilled from the damp floor of the cell, and she wanted to get to her feet.
The walls of her cell appeared as damp as the floor, but the door was solid wood and held one small, barred window. Dry wood would be warmer.
Sliding back to her side, she rolled like a log toward the door, then gathered her legs beneath her a second time. Pressing her back against the rough wood of the cell door, she pushed to her feet. Her damp, filthy clothes clung to her skin, but the chill from the wet stone floor no longer invaded her body.
An image of Bull’s hot and needy invasion caused a delightful heat to spring to her cheeks. The sudden dampness between her legs had nothing to do with her prison. She shook away an image of his sculpted muscles, then worried she might never see him, taste him, or touch him again.
I am in a pickle.
“Jenny used to say that.” Whenever her friend had a problem, she would talk about pickles. Jenny had introduced her to sour pickles, sweet pickle chips, as well as deep-fried pickles. None were a food for which Izzy could acquire a taste, much to Jenny’s dismay.
She hoped Jenny was okay. The last time she had seen her friend, Gavin was caring for her. Gavin’s actions made no sense.
“He swore he would no’ stop until he married me.”
What did Jenny have to tempt him? Was he simply using her, while waiting for their marriage to commence? And where was Bull? Had he witnessed someone taking her? Was he even now attempting to rescue her? Was he battling unknown assailants, and endangering his life?
“What else can go wrong?”
“I can think of several things, lass.” The deep voice slithered through the cell door’s tiny window, creeping into her cell, and chilling her skin to the bone.
She barely held back a squeak, then regained her senses and hopped to the adjacent wall. She glared at the face of an older man, with a thick head of silvered hair tied at his nape. He peered through the window, then raked his gaze up and down her length. She straightened her spine against the cold, damp wall and raised her chin in defiance.
“Laird Sinclair. ‘Tis this yer doing?”
“Ye be my guest, Isobel MacHamish, and here ye shall stay. Tulac Castle sits on a hill in western Langwell town, and it is verra’ impressive, so enjoy yer visit.”
“Release me at once!”
He ignored her demand. “I have business to attend to, but ye and I shall dance. And soon.”
The man was daft. “I will never dance with the likes of ye.”
He snorted a sinister laugh that twisted through her gut. “Lass, yer truly an innocent. Ye will soon find out there are many ways to dance. Unfortunately, ye will no’ dance at our Highland festival this night.”
A Highland festival? She was about to ask for a better explanation, but his breathing grew shallow, and he glared at her breasts.
“Do ye know why my warriors fight for me?” he whispered.
“Because they be part of yer clan?”
“Many be of Sinclair blood, but I also believe in mercenaries. Such men shall follow me into any battle, if I cover their palms with coin.”
“A clan war is a fierce thing, but a battle filled with mercenaries is a bloodbath.”
“Aye, yer words ring true, but Niall and Gavin have no’ yet realized how important this is for leadership. Niall will take my place someday, and he'll learn soon enough, no’ to rule the losing side. Gavin is another story. I hear that he wants to be a farmer.” The Sinclair laughed.
“Gavin has the right to choose his fate.”
“He dared to tel
l me, his laird, he was to marry a bitch from another clan, and rule her farmland. Little does he realize that all his property--your property--would revert to me. To my control.”
“Over my dead body!”
“That can be arranged.
CHAPTER 12
Izzy bit the inside of her cheek, to keep from cursing the bastard who threatened her, and her property. His insolent speech, and claims against her farm, struck her as far too close to the truth. She needed to escape her cell, and save herself.
“In the meantime,” The Sinclair continued, “enjoy the sounds and smells of our celebration. I find that bringing the men together for tests of superior strength, good food, and ale gets them in the mood for battle.”
His face vanished from the door’s small window, and his footsteps signaled his departure. “I also throw them a few women, so ye best keep yer mouth shut. Do as yer told, or ye shall find yerself bedded by a dozen of my most blood-thirsty warriors.”
The Sinclair’s voice was merely a distant rumble, but Izzy understood his last words. She was in no mood to enjoy the Highland games, or a Scottish festival; not while tethered hand and foot. If The Sinclair rewarded his men on the night before a battle with food, she comprehended the reasoning. But, ale? A drunken warrior was less than useless.
The laird’s claim, about throwing clan women to his men, made her skin crawl. Were the women volunteers, or did the laird force them to spread their legs? Would mercenaries treat them well, or defile them as they screamed?
What about me?
He thought her an innocent. Would the laird return to her cage, grab her, and throw her to them? Swordplay and tossing javelins would keep the men occupied, as long as the sun still shone, but nightfall crept near. What would happen after dark?
If they practiced archery, his warriors most likely participated, while their blood heated with the possibility of death in battle. Another shout captured her attention.
She hopped closer to the window. Had a warrior hurled the hammer? Grunts and slaps grew louder. Did men wrestle other warriors, their naked skin dampened with perspiration?
The eerie dirge of a lonely bagpipe split the air, and drums kept pace. Bagpipers and drums delivered warriors to battle, but they must be helping stage the festival events.
The savory smell of roasting meats and vegetables, made her stomach growl. Her mouth watered from the scent of fresh-baked bannock. Hunger and thirst were gaining hold, and a mouthful of crusty bannock, what Jenny called bread, would be a delight. The threats that The Sinclair voiced weighed heavily, but death was not imminent. His threat, about throwing her to his men, was to fill her with fear. Would he feed her first? Or, would he leave her alone in her cell until she grew so cold, stiff, and hungry that she would beg to be used?
She shivered, and not only from the frigid wall against which she leaned, bound, and at anyone’s mercy. A moan, from another prisoner, seeped into her cell, but she could not help them; not until she found a way to unbind her numb limbs. Pulling at her restrained wrists, she worried she would lose the use of her hands, if she did not get free, and soon.
Footsteps echoed down the stairway. How The Sinclair arrived at her cell, without her sensing him, had shaken her sanity, even though she was unfamiliar with the man. He was as tall as his sons, but huskier. His smile had not reached his eyes, which were filled with loathing.
She must stay vigilant. There was only one reason why she did not remember walking down that staircase. “I was unconscious.”
Why? Had magic taken her, the same way powerful magic had thrown Bull, Gavin, Jenny, and her back in time? When she awakened in the cell, trussed like a beast, she had smelled the grass and caught a glimpse of blue sky through the tiny window. Fresh air was a welcome gift.
At least I have fresh air, she thought, but concentrate on the footsteps. Someone approaches.
If The Sinclair was returning to mock Izzy, or to throw her to his men, she had no defense. She leaned against the damp wall near the window, and waited. She would show no fear, nor would she give in to the terror.
I am of the Highlands. I am as strong as any man.
Muttering a small prayer for the safety of Bull and Jenny, she waited. The Sinclair had not mentioned her friends, so he might have grabbed only her. Gavin and Niall will look out for Jenny, until Izzy escaped.
“And, I shall escape!”
When a face appeared in the door’s small window, she jerked to the tip of her toes. The pain was invigorating, and made her ready for anything.
“Stand back,” said a feminine voice. The woman was shorter than her earlier visitor, which gave Izzy an idea. If the visitor was small, here was her chance to escape. If she overpowered her, and could find a knife on the woman’s person, she would run up the stairs and out of the castle.
The door creaked open, but a fully armored warrior marched in, and pointed a long, sharp blade at Izzy’s throat. She stiffened.
“Ye shall have no problem with me, sir,” Izzy said.
“Turn around.”
Dirty hair and sallow skin could not hide the old scar traversing his neck, and his raspy voice was low. The threat was clear. Izzy raised her chin higher, glared back at him, then did as he asked. With a whoosh, his weapon sliced through the ropes binding her hands, and her ankles.
He waved the sword toward the cot. “Sit over there.”
Izzy perched on the very edge of the tiny bed, in the driest corner she could find. The owner of the mysterious feminine voice entered. Gray hair in a prickly bun perched on the top of an old woman’s head. Her eyes flitted toward the prisoner, before she set a crude metal tray on the far corner of the cot.
On the tray were several pieces of day-old bannock. Nothing more. No roasted meat or vegetables, and no butter. Water sloshed over the lip of a small tankard. Not enough to keep her alive more than a day.
“Eat,” the woman ordered. She turned to leave, wiping her small hands on her apron.
“Thank ye for yer kindness,” Izzy said, aiming her words toward the woman's retreating back.
The woman paused, then gazed at Izzy over her left shoulder. “I be Anice.”
“Out with ye, old woman!” the Highlander said. He went to shove her out of the cell.
“Leave her be!”
Izzy jumped to her feet. When the warrior turned to face her, Anice ran out of the cell. Sneering at Izzy, his eyes gazed up and down her bodice. His massive chest rose, and his breathing grew rapid.
“Maybe later, lass.” The warrior marched from the cell, and slammed the door behind him. After the key turned in the lock, Izzy’s breath whooshed out. She did not like the way the warrior stared at her. With her chance to escape thwarted, she prayed someone would aid in her rescue, and soon.
As the sun lowered in the bit of sky visible from her cell, shadows filled the corners of her prison. Sitting quietly, she listened for anyone’s approach, while nibbling at the food. Restraint was not prudent. Hunger tore at her innards, but gaining strength to survive her next move proved prudent.
Chewing the dry bannock, she washed it down with tepid water smelling of moss. The tankard emptied in seconds.
With her hands and wrists freed, she was ready to go. The moment someone came to aid in her rescue, she would escape. She was no fool. The Highland warrior had locked the cell door, so she could not escape without assistance. Might Anice return to help her? She looked familiar. Had she not glanced sympathetically in Izzy’s direction?
Finishing her meal, she stood and tried to look out the window. “Even standing on the cot, the window is too high.”
Voices, carried on the cool breeze, grew in volume. The breeze chilled her shoulders and tousled her hair, so she jumped back onto the stone floor. She had lost her hair tie somewhere between the meadow, where someone had abducted her, and here.
She had lost her shoes, and the cold stone floor turned her feet to ice. Backing away from the window, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the
wood cell door. It was dry and warm, compared to the rest of the damp stones of her cell walls. A stray beam of dying sunlight fell upon her face.
What can I do to survive this, whatever this is?
Why had The Sinclair taken her? Such an event would not convince her to marry his son. Could he force her into marriage?
“Work on escaping, and I will no’ have to worry about marriage.” An image of a naked Bryce Buchanan rose, and she trembled from head to toe. Marriage to a man from his world would come to no good. They were too different.
She stiffened. Had not her Laird, Kirkwall Gunn, married a woman from Bull’s time? They had made it work, even though rumors claimed that his wife was a witch. If Izzy had listened and learned from Dorcas, a powerful witch, maybe she could escape without help.
“I am no witch, but I have these potions,” she whispered, and slipped her hand into her pocket, and clutched the tiny glass bottles. Could they help her escape? Since her eyes could not gaze upon what was occurring outside, she listened. Every clue could aid her escape, should a chance arrive. A familiar combination of musical sounds grew louder. Pounding drums echoed across the valley she could not see. The din reverberated along the walls, causing dirt and cobwebs to shake and fall. When steel banged against steel, she imagined dozens of warriors had paired off and practiced swordplay.
Curious, Izzy climbed on the rickety cot once more. She stretched on her tiptoes and spied the top half of a huge log moving across the field. Voices thundered with the roar of men urging the person who carried it. The unseen athlete, most likely a warrior as large and muscular as the captor who visited her cell--or Bull--tossed the caber. It flew end over end. The outcome was successful, since voices rang out, accompanied by cries of victory. Was it only this morning that her eyes beheld kilted men, as they turned the caber among the throngs of visitors at the New England Highland Games?
I wish I were there now.
***
Bull stared in the direction Izzy had stormed. Worry slashed through his chest, and he rubbed at the phantom pain. He understood why she’d left.
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