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“This canna be undone. And there’s more at stake than shame. The lives of so many people, the destiny of our country—”

Craig came over to them, obviously just as angry as their father. “’Tis too late to argue about this. We must decide together what to say to the king. Do we stick to Owen’s suggestion about attacking at the Pass of Brander? Or do we talk the Bruce out of this?”

Their father glared at Owen, then spat on the ground.

“I dinna want to stand ashamed of my son in front of a king again.”

The rumble of horses’ hooves thundered in the air and vibrated the ground. The king rode through the gates and into the courtyard surrounded by men. Uncle Neil was at his side, as well as Owen’s cousins, Goiridh and Colin. He recognized James “Black” Douglas, one of the Bruce’s favorite officers. Malcolm rode in as well and dismounted at the farther side of the procession.

The king dismounted, and so did Neil and the rest. Owen took a deep breath. He locked his eyes with Uncle Neil, but the older man’s expression was unreadable. What did he think of the whole matter?

“Welcome, Your Grace,” Dougal said. “Hope yer journey was good. We didna ken of yer arrival.”

“Aye,” the Bruce said. “But the message yer son sent was very important. We must act. Where’s Owen?”

Owen stepped forward. “Aye, Your Grace, I’m here.”

A tall, mighty man with the neck of a tempered warrior, huge shoulders and arms, the king wore a look of grave intensity. Owen had never spoken to the king directly, and being under his penetrating gaze made his skin itch. What if he was wrong? What if he was putting the destiny of his king and Scotland in jeopardy?

“Come,” the Bruce said. “We must talk somewhere quietly and decide what to do.”

“The great hall?” Neil asked Dougal.

“Aye, of course. Owen, make sure no one enters but those who’re supposed to be there. Craig, Domhnall, come with.”

Owen’s teeth clenched. He wasn’t even invited?

“Father,” Craig said quietly while Uncle Neil showed the king to the great hall. “Owen should be there. ’Tis he who heard the news.”

Dougal eyed Owen heavily and shook his head. “Aye. No way of turning this around, anyway.”

Owen was about to walk with them to the great hall when Amber caught his arm and stopped him. Her delicious scent reached his nostrils, her full lips close to him.

“Owen, don’t falter,” she said. “Don’t let them intimidate you. You got this.”

Even though he’d kept his distance from her all these days, she didn’t hold a grudge and still supported him. Gratitude spread through Owen’s limbs with tingling warmth. And then he had a thought. “Come with me. Ye’re from the future. Ye might have some good ideas.”

“Me?”

“Aye. Please. Amy’s helped Craig with her skills of finding people from the future. She boils milk and water and cloth, claiming it kills some invisible sickness. It sounds like witchcraft to me, but it works. Ye are a warrior from the future. Ye might ken something we dinna.”

Amber glared at him. “Didn’t you say I was distracting you?”

Guilt pinched him. “I will try to contain myself,” he said through his teeth. “If ye can help, ’tis more important.”

She tapped her feet nervously and held his gaze, thinking. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“Aye.”

They walked to the great hall. It was being emptied for the discussion. The Bruce appointed his own men to watch the entrance and they blocked when Owen and Amber approached.

“The king wants me there, lads,” Owen said.

“’Tis nae about ye,” one of them said. “She canna enter.”

Amber took a step back. “Seriously, Owen, I don’t think I should be in there.”

“Nae, ye should. She’s with me, lads. She’s a known military strategist from the caliphate.”