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“Ye canna just blame her for what she hasna done,” Ian said. “Look at her. She canna even walk. Let her be, let her heal, and mayhap she’ll remember something. Or mayhap, someone will recognize her.”

The steward crossed his arms over his chest and gave a nod, although unwillingly. He turned and walked out of the room.

“Dinna fash yerself, lass,” Ian said. “Ye will remember something. And in the meanwhile, I will try this. It smells too good.”

He bit into the sandwich, chewed, and his expression changed to one of pure bliss.

“Heaven and hell, lass. Did ye make this?”

“I don’t know!”

“This is delicious. Mmm. Do ye want some?”

“No, I couldn’t even if I tried. I’m still nauseated.”

“Mayhap ye’re a cook?”

She shrugged, watching blankly as he continued devouring the sandwich.

“Aye, good. I will let ye rest. Ye need to recover. I will be back soon to check on ye. Aye?”

She nodded. “Thanks, Ian.”

Her head pounded, and she felt like all the energy and life were sucked out of her. She turned onto her side, huddled deeper into the blanket, and watched Ian leave. She began sinking into the deep, dark waters of sleep, but even still the fear lingered. Who was she? Why did the things in her purse seem strange to them?

And what if once she remembered all that, she wished she hadn’t?

Chapter 4

Ian’s head hung between his shoulders as he sat over the cup of uisge. He felt heavy, as though all his body parts were sacks filled with rocks. His mind was hazy from the alcohol. He felt numb in his chest and light in his head, and that was exactly what he needed.

Not to think about his dying father. Not to think about his terrible past. And not to think about what confusion his arrival must have caused in his family. And then that strange, bonnie lass who didn’t know who she was… He felt for her.

And he didn’t want to feel for anyone.

“I havna had a drop to drink since before that battle with the MacDougalls,” he told Owen who sat by his side in the great hall and must have been as drunk as Ian was.

“Oh, aye?” Owen said.

Ian looked up and chuckled. “Aye. What do ye suppose, they throw feasts for slaves in the caliphate? The masters barely drink themselves.”

Owen raised his cup. “To drinking! And to yer return.”

They smashed the cups together. Ian threw back his drink, the liquid burning his throat and leaving a trace of fire as it slid down into his stomach.

Owen gave Ian a careful, probing glance. “What did ye do there exactly?”

It was as though he’d thrown a bucket of snow over Ian. He tensed, all light-headedness gone. He rolled his shoulders, his foot bouncing under the table. He stopped it, but the need to release the unease itched in him. He rubbed the back of his neck.

The dusty, square courtyard he’d seen countless times was in essence a large coffin. Swords flashing before him, his victims' screams as they were dying—their eyes always held surprise, then anger, and then finally acceptance. The memories pressed in on him from all sides, threatening to crush him like an ant.

He sucked in the air, released it, then took another deep breath and another. The cup was empty, and he poured some more uisge and threw it down his throat.

Only when his stomach burned, his mind clouded, and he could breathe easier, did he say, “What did I do? What slaves do.”

Owen watched him with a concerned frown. Ian had to give it to Owen, he was smart enough not to press for more information. He simply nodded and poured himself another drink.

“I canna imagine how hard it was for ye.”