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Owen shrugged. “Picts were Celtic people who lived before us Scots. They’re ancient folk, and I ken only stories of them. Stories of druids, of Beira, the queen of winter, and the great hero Diarmid the Boar. ’Tis told that my clan originates from Diarmid. We Highlanders are a strange people, I suppose. We believe in our Lord Jesu Christ, and yet we dinna build a new house without planting a rowan tree somewhere by the entrance for protection against evil spirits. A groom wouldna get marrit without a blossom of white heather on his bride. A midwife opens all windows and doors in the house during childbirth and she dinna let people sit cross-legged.”
He rose to his feet, walked towards the bars, and leaned back against them. “So, aye, I believe ye met a faerie. And I believe ancient Pictish magic sent ye back through time. So ye can stop pretending ye’re from the caliphate.”
Accusation saturated his voice.
What was he accusing her of? He had no idea what it was like. She scoffed. “Do you suggest I announce to everyone I’m from the future?”
“Nae. But I dinna understand why didna ye go back through the stone while we were still in Inverlochy Castle? Isna it where ye belong?”
“Well, pal, that’s not an option.”
“Nae anymore.” He gestured around the cell. “But if ye had gone back right away, we wouldna be here.”
“Unbelievable. Are you still blaming everything on me?”
She’d been wrong about him. Him stitching her wounds, nursing her, the flirting and lingering gazes—none of that mattered. Underneath it all, he was just like every other man in her life. Looking for a scapegoat to blame for his faults.
And she’d always been the perfect victim.
That was the whole reason she was here in this mess. And she’d be a fool not to learn from her mistakes.
“I’m tired,” she said.
Guilt flashed through his face. “I dinna blame everything on ye, lass,” he said. “Ye’re just a shiny distraction I shouldna have been fooled by.”
He turned and paced to the other side of the cell.
Good, Amber thought, he’s finally stopped the interrogation.
But why did it feel like she wanted him to climb on the bench, lie down behind her, and take her in his arms? Why did it feel like his arms would be the safest place on earth?
Chapter 10
It must have been about five days after Amber’s flogging that Owen heard the pounding of many heavy feet on the dungeon’s steps. He hastily shoved the salve back into the pouch and then under the bench. He threw the cloak over Amber’s back and stood to face whoever was coming.
During the past few days, or at least what felt like days, he’d taken care of Amber’s wounds. Thankfully, they seemed much better. The swelling and the redness had subsided, and there was no pus. Muireach came every day with food and water and new salve, potion, and pieces of cloth.
Three guards stopped in front of the cell, and one of them opened the door.
“Come with us,” one of them said to Owen. “Now.”
Owen hesitated, not wanting to leave Amber alone.
She opened one eye, still drowsy from the potion. “Go, Owen,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s nae ye going anywhere that I’m worried about,” he said. But he knew Muireach would keep an eye on her. Throwing a last glance her way, he walked out. “All right, lads, take me to yer bastart commander.”
That earned him a hard smack on the back of his head, and he grinned. They walked down the hallway of the dungeon, and when they entered the landing area, Owen saw someone tall and dark descending the stairs.
“Owen Cambel?” a strangely familiar voice said.
He knew that voice… He glanced over his shoulder. “Hamish…”
Hamish stood before him, as tall and as menacing as ever. Thin battle scars decorated his face, and his black eyes were unreadable.
Great. Another traitor. The wasp nest was getting bigger.
“What’s going on, lads?” Hamish asked.
