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“I’m glad to see ye before I go, my boy,” Duncan said. “Ye must take the estate now. Live there. My sword is yers now.”

Ian bowed his head. “Aye, Father.”

“Now go, Ian. I must rest.”

“Aye.”

Ian let his father’s hand go and watched as he closed his eyes and breathed evenly but weakly. He was probably asleep. Ian couldn’t move. He stood there taking every small part of his father into his memory.

Then he left the room, silently. He needed something strong to dull the ache that was spreading in his body like a wound. Coming here, seeing everyone he loved and grew up with, and seeing his father dying was too much. He needed to get drunk and forget.

He asked someone in the courtyard where he could find some ale or uisge, and they pointed at the eastern tower.

“Cellar,” the man said.

Ian went down the curved stairs to the underground storeroom. There, he looked through the casks and barrels and chests, and finally saw what he was looking for—a small barrel with an unmistakable scent.

And then he heard something. Like a moan or a quiet call. He looked around. There was a door. The moan repeated, and he could swear it came from the other side. Putting the barrel down, he took a torch from the wall and opened the door.

It was pitch-dark. The room was more like a cave going into the distance. The moan came from somewhere farther in, he thought. He continued into the room, shining the torchlight around the space.

Someone lay on the floor.

A woman.

She was blond, her shoulder-length hair spilled over the ground. She was dressed like a man, wearing tight blue trousers and a light-blue tunic that fell past her hips. She had a bag over her shoulder. She looked unconscious, although she moved her head a little and then moaned again, frowning but not opening her eyes. She wasn’t a thin woman but curvy and long-legged. And pretty. So pretty he froze to marvel at her features for a moment.

Ian sank to his knees by her side. She had a small bleeding wound at her hairline, a large bruise at the top of her forehead, and scratches all over her face and hands. Her clothes were partially torn.

Ian cupped her face gently. “Lass!” he called. “Lass! Can ye hear me?”

“Mmmm.” She turned her head.

“All right. I need to get ye out of here.”

He put the torch on the ground so he wouldn’t burn her and took her into his arms, then the torch, careful not to bring it too close.

He needed to find the steward and see if she was one of the maids, because there weren’t many women in the castle, and all of them were maids. But first, he needed to get her help.

Now, with a purpose to aid someone, the ache in his chest diminished. He only hoped the lass was all right.

Chapter 3

She opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. Pain split her skull in two. She moaned and touched her head. Bandage.

She lay in a room with round stone walls. A simple slit window let daylight in. She turned and saw that there were more beds, some chests by the walls. Everything looked massive, heavy…

The word “medieval” came to mind.

Where was she? How had she gotten here?

She half rose on her elbows, wincing at the aches in every part of her body. Her head spun and nausea rose in her stomach. She thought she was going to be sick, but thankfully it passed.

Did she remember anything at all?

Her head was empty. A gauzy curtain seemed to hang around her mind. She knew something was behind that curtain, but she couldn’t seem to reach out and pull it away.

Someone entered—a man. A tall, gorgeous red-haired man in a knee-length tunic belted over narrow, woolen pants, a sword on his back. His hair was cropped short, and he had intense but kind brown eyes. His skin was tanned, as though he spent hours outdoors.