by Mariah Stone
She peered in the slit that formed between the door and the frame. It was another storeroom with more casks, barrels, crates, and sacks, all illuminated by several torches. Stairs lead to the upper floor. The room was round, its walls were solid and made of rock and mortar.
The stairs had just been ruins before, but they looked almost new now.
What the hell was going on? Had Sìneag’s words been true? Had Amber fallen through time to when the castle was still whole…seven hundred years ago?
No, that was crazy.
She had to get out of here before she started believing in fairies and magic toadstools. Climbing the stairs, she noticed how solid the smooth stones were under her feet.
She opened yet another door and froze, stunned.
No ruins, crumbling rocks, or darkness. Like the one downstairs, this room was round and illuminated by five torches. Another flight of circular stairs led somewhere up. Along the walls were swords, shields, bows, and arrows, as well as leather armor and chain mail. This room smelled acrid, like animal fat, and iron, and…blood? Shadows cast by the torches danced like the teeth of a giant dragon. The small hairs on the back of Amber’s neck stood.
As though hypnotized, she walked towards the heavy door and became aware of voices, grunts, and the clash of metal on the other side.
She laid her hand on the massive handle. Don’t do it, a logical, careful part of her screamed.
But she’d already pulled at the handle, and the door moved. She stepped back to let it open and walked out. Cool air brushed against her heated cheeks. The scent of blood and spilled guts hit her.
What did I get myself into this time?
The castle wasn’t in ruins anymore. It stood whole. The towers rose high into the sky, not crumbled stumps anymore. The courtyard was a battlefield. Men in armor swung swords at one another, hacking flesh, piercing bones. Some fell, wounded or dead. The ground was saturated with blood. The gates were busted open.
RUN!!!
A man in armor stared right at her, his face distorted in a grimace of surprise and battle rage. He lifted his sword and launched straight at her.
Chapter 3
Owen slashed a warrior’s neck, turned, and cut through another man’s side. Battle rage took him, turning him into a whirling, cutting, thrusting being.
But no matter how many warriors he killed, more were coming. There was no end. His ears filled with the cries, groans, and ringing of metal against metal. His breath loud, his muscles taut with the strain, he kicked, and fought, and wet the ground with enemy blood.
And then he stopped in his tracks. By the eastern tower, someone fought an English warrior with no weapon.
A woman?
Owen ran closer, wiping his eyes from sweat to make sure he was seeing it right. She had kicked the man’s sword from his hands and used her legs and arms in an elegant, graceful way he’d never seen before. She whirled and kicked her boot into the man’s face, and he fell backward. He propped himself on one elbow and reached for his sword, but she stepped on his arm. She leaned down and delivered a punch like a battle-hardened warrior. The Englishman fell back and lay still.
She straightened and looked around, and all breath left Owen’s body. She looked like she came from another world. She was tall and graceful in a predatory way, but big eyes were wide. Her voluminous hair fell in small curls around her face, making her also look innocent. Her skin was dark, the color of brown honey, and she was so beautiful it hurt to look at her. He’d never seen anyone who looked like her…
But he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
A familiar face flashed in his peripheral vision. Kenneth Mackenzie was down on one knee, holding his stomach as a giant English knight raised his blade for a deathly blow.
“Arrrghhh!!!” Owen darted forward and smashed into the knight. He pulled out his dagger and stabbed the Englishman through the slit on his helmet. The man fell in a heap of metal and flesh.
Kenneth lay on the ground with his hands clutching his stomach. Owen sank to his knees by his side. He’d seen enough injuries to know the gaping, bleeding wound was fatal.
If only he hadn’t been distracted by the woman, maybe he could have saved Kenneth.
“Cambel,” Kenneth whispered. “Good. Ye’re here. No one is more qualified than ye to take charge now. Save Inverlochy.”
Owen swallowed hard.
“Ye dinna ken what ye’re talking about,” he rasped. “I canna—”
Owen’s chest tightened. He couldn’t make this wish come true, no matter how much he’d wanted to. He was the worst man to trust with responsibility.
“Surely someone else can,” Owen said. “Someone from yer clan… Angus? Or Raghnall?”
“If nae ye, ’tis lost.” Kenneth closed his eyes briefly. “No time. My sword, Owen. I wish to die with my sword in my hands.”
“Aye…”
That, he could do. Pain tore the back of his throat as he found the blade and put Kenneth’s bloody hands around the hilt.
Kenneth looked at him. “For freedom. For Scotland. For me. Show them…”
His words trailed off, and he stilled. The vein on his neck stopped pulsing, and his eyes glazed over.
Owen crossed himself and lowered his head. Kenneth’s death was on his hands. If he hadn’t allowed himself to get distracted by that beautiful woman… What was she doing here in the middle of a battle? She didn’t belong here.
His throat tightened.
Take charge, Owen…
He rose and looked around. Clearly, the Highlanders were losing. Each Scot fought two or three English at a time.
He should call “Cruachan!” He should cry out something that would lift their spirits. He should do something to change the situation…
His brother Craig was a leader. His father was. So was his cousin Ian. Owen was a jester who was only good at failing things. His arms hung helplessly.
This was clearly a lost cause. The battle was over.
A female grunt made him look up. The woman was fighting a knight who could crush her under the weight of his full armor. Owen raced towards them, his heart thumping, and met the knight’s sword with his own. He pushed against the man with all his might, and the warrior fell.
The woman glared at him, her nostrils flaring, her full lips pressed tightly. Small droplets of sweat ran down her forehead. She was so pretty and dark and furious, like a goddess of war.
He needed to get her out of here, but how? The secret tunnel! Then he’d come back and help his fellow Scots.
Before the knight could stand up, Owen grabbed the woman’s elbow and tugged her after him. “Come. Quickly.”
She gasped, but the knight was already rising to his feet. Owen shut the door behind him and bolted it. Then he rushed down into the underground storeroom, pulling the strange woman behind him.
Amber fumed as the warrior dragged her down the stairs. Freeing her elbow was impossible, like trying to escape a metal vise. Another man who’d decided to be a hero and take charge of her, as if she couldn’t survive without him.
She’d had the situation under control. How dare he!
As soon as her feet touched the stone floor of the underground storeroom, she jerked her elbow from his grasp. His blond hair glowed golden in the torchlight. They made his handsome face covered in dried blood, bruises, and cuts look devilish. His green gaze pierced her, the intensity in his eyes all-consuming. Standing now among barrels, casks, and chests, she suddenly became aware that he held a bloody sword in his hand and was almost twice as large as she was.
What did he want? Was this a trap?
Damn her curiosity, damn that woman, Sìneag, and damn this guy.
She took a step back. “You try to lay one finger on me, and you’ll be missing it.”
He blinked, his eyebrows snapping together.
“I’m nae going to hurt ye, lass,” he said.
“Why did you drag me in here? What do you want from me?”
His confuse
d frown deepened. “What do I want?” He scoffed. “A little thank ye, mayhap? I just saved yer life. Believe it or nae, I am trying to help ye. Even if me being distracted by ye cost a great warrior his life…”
She gasped. And now he was blaming her for something? “I didn’t need your help.”
His jaw muscles worked under his short, blond stubble. He narrowed his eyes, and fire played in them. Something light and feathery tickled her insides as he stared her down with that intense glare.
“Ye didna need my help, did ye?” He shook his head, marched towards the door at the other side of the room, and opened it. “Quickly now, so that I can return to the battle.”
Her face fell. “Quickly where?”
“There’s a secret tunnel. It’ll lead ye out of the castle.”
There was a pounding on the door of the ground floor. Then loud thumps as though someone was trying to break through. Amber’s heart raced a hundred miles per hour.
“Ye need to go, lass,” the Highlander said. “They’re about to burst in.”
The door above cracked, and the pounding became stronger. He was right, they were about to break through. Just like back in the other Inverlochy—the old ruins of Inverlochy, not this castle that stood undamaged and tall and full of freaking men in armor.
She could try to use the rock… The trouble was, even if all this time travel was true—which, as ludicrous as it sounded, looked insanely real—she couldn’t go back to where she’d come from. On the other side of that rock were men and women in uniform ready to put her in shackles for something she hadn’t done.
What was the lesser evil?
No, she couldn’t go back. She had to take her chances. She wasn’t even sure all this was real.
A loud crash and the sound of many feet came from upstairs. The man grabbed a torch from the wall, took her by the hand, and tugged after him.
“We must hurry!” They went through another heavy door into the back room, where she’d first opened her eyes. The Highlander locked the door behind him.
He ran past the Pictish rock to the end of the cave-like room, towards a small pyramid of casks stacked on top of one another.
“Good man, Kenneth, for blocking the tunnel,” Owen said. “But ’tis our only way out now. Help me remove them.”
He threw the casks off, and Amber helped as steps pounded down the stairs. The last cask revealed a large, flat, round rock. The Highlander hooked his fingers under it and lifted. A dark opening with stairs appeared.
Amber swallowed.
“Go. The tunnel leads to the other side of the moat.”
Amber took the torch from his hand. Was she insane? How was this any safer than using that weird rock? Back in her normal life, she knew she’d end up in prison, possibly even get the death penalty.
Here…who knew?
She was still free and no one was accusing her of anything or calling her a murderer—except this guy who’d blamed her for distracting him. No surprises there. Men were great at pointing fingers at her for their problems.
She stepped down into the tunnel, and a cold, earthy air enveloped her. The English were now at the second door and beat rhythmically against it. Amber walked to the very bottom of the tunnel. It was so low, she had to double over to walk forward. Roots hung from the ceiling and the walls and the floor were a combination of rock and wet soil. Water dripped from somewhere. Breathing here was almost like drinking muddy water.
The Highlander descended after her, and she heard the soft thump of the lid close. The sounds from outside disappeared, and a strange silence reigned.
She didn’t want to think that a whole castle stood above her, several feet of rock and soil.
Foreword
Just like she’d learned in Afghanistan, look ahead and don’t overthink it.
They walked for what felt like an eternity. Her back ached, and her thighs burned. The guy behind her breathed heavily, that and their steps and the crackling of the torch were the only sounds in this tomb.
Finally, Amber saw steps before her.
“This is it?” she said.
“Aye. Must be.”
She nodded and carefully climbed the stairs. She gave him the torch and pushed the lid at the top of the tunnel open until it fell with a loud crash.
Thirty pairs of eyes glared at her. Men in armor stood on all sides, swords pointed at her head. The English.
“Back! Back!” she cried to the guy behind her.
Too late.
The closest man leaned down, grabbed her by the collar, and pulled her up. The guy burst out of the tunnel after her, waving his sword and the torch at the same time.
“Grab them!” said someone with an authoritative voice. “They escaped from the castle.”
Twenty men rushed forward and pretty much swallowed her companion under their combined weight. Two men grabbed Amber’s arms. She thrashed and beat against them, but they held her tightly.
A bald man in his forties wearing heavy armor approached on a horse. He had the piercing gaze of someone in charge. Just like Major Ronald Jackson, the man responsible for all the bad things that had happened to Amber.
“Two Highlanders,” he said. “Put them in the cage. I’d like to speak to them later.”
“Sir de Bourgh,” one of the men holding her said in the way of agreeing.
“Take them to Stirling,” de Bourgh said.
No! No! Was that another castle? A dungeon? She’d escaped prison in another time only to be put in a medieval one?
They pulled her somewhere to the side, into a cage attached to a cart pulled by a horse. English warriors put the Highlander in with her and locked the door.
“No! You have the wrong person!” Amber cried.
That would be exactly what she’d be crying to the police. Was this all a nightmare? Please, let this be a bad dream! No one believed her—not in either situation.
“Damnation!” The Highlander rose and looked somewhere in the distance, holding the cage bars. “Is that the Bruce?”
Amber followed his gaze, and her eyes widened. An army approached the castle. First came the cavalry, after them, infantry. They mowed down the English forces, cutting through them like a knife through butter. Amber could hear the rumble of hooves even from here. The ground vibrated.
“Sir de Bourgh,” the Highlander called. “Ye’ve already lost. ’Tis the Bruce. Ye’ll never win against his forces. He has a history of winning with a few hundred men against thousands.”
De Bourgh’s face reddened. “Retreat!” he called. “Everyone, retreat!”
The cage started moving, and Amber pressed her face to the bars as Inverlochy Castle faded in the distance.
Chapter 4
The cart with the cage shook as it rolled over the rocky path, making Owen’s teeth rattle. His head bumped against the bars, and he sat straighter in the corner.
Damn it.
Again, he’d messed things up. He should have gone through the tunnel first. Instead of trusting the lass, he should have peeked out to check everything was clear before carefully sneaking out of their escape tunnel.
She’d distracted him—again—this magnificent creature who had come out of nowhere and knocked down trained, armored warriors with her half-dance, half-combat performance.
As the woods and mountains passed by, he couldn't stop staring at her. Her brown skin, her tall, willowy figure with muscles of a warrior, the face so bonnie his heart skipped every other beat. She had breathtaking eyes—huge and green with a hazel starburst around each pupil. She bit her full lower lip, and a frown creased her forehead. He ached to reach out and smooth it with his thumb.
And the way she was dressed…
He hadn’t dwelled on it in the heat of the battle, but now that he had time to think it over… Something tightened in his stomach. Blue breeches—much like those Amy, Craig wife, had worn when she’d been found—hugged her long, beautifully sculpted legs. Her short leather overtunic reached the top of her hips. Her s
hoes had thick soles—something else he’d only seen on Amy.
Women from his time didn’t wear things like that. They didn’t fight like her, either. And she’d been near the eastern tower, where the Pictish rock had been. Owen’s heart thumped in his throat.
Was this woman another time traveler?
“What’s yer name, lass?” he said.
She looked up at him and hesitated, as though giving up her name would be such a bad thing.
“Amber Ryan.” Her face smoothed. “What’s yours?”
Amber… What a bonnie name. One he’d never heard, and one that suited her. All warm, and yet tough. And she had the same accent as Amy and Kate, but even more melodic. Almost like she sang the words.
“Owen Cambel.”
She became completely still, eying him with something that resembled a shock. Then she pursed her lips, gave a nod and looked at her hands again, avoiding eye contact. Oh, there was nowhere for her to run from here. He’d get back her attention. He’d get his answers.
“Why were ye in Inverlochy, Amber Ryan?”
She raised her chin. Her gaze was as hard as those amber stones. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“But it verra much is, lass. See, because of ye, we’re both now prisoners.” He contemplated her. “A woman on the battlefield, distracting warriors… Do ye see why I might be interested?”
“What are you accusing me of?”
“Are ye a spy?”
She scoffed. “As you see, I’m a prisoner, too. And his men almost killed me, in case you didn’t notice.”
“I did notice,” he spat. “In fact, I’ve noticed too much…” He stopped himself before he could say another word. This was just like thirteen years ago with Aileene. He’d been distracted by a lass in danger and brought disaster to his people.
This time, he’d failed to save Kenneth. If Kenneth were alive, mayhap they could’ve held the castle until the Bruce arrived.
“Take charge…” Kenneth had said.