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She gasped. “What did you call me?”

“Is ‘fisher’ another word for a whore?” he said slowly.

Blood scalded her cheeks. A whore? Her hand flew up before she could stop it.

Slap.

His cheek barely moved. It was like hitting a warm rock. Her hand stung, pain bursting through her muscles. At the same time, something small and metallic fell on a rock, and judging from the sounds, rolled somewhere.

His black eyes darkened even more, and if she believed in magic, she’d say there was fire blazing in them. His eyebrows snapped together, his mouth curved downward, and his neck corded. Suddenly she knew, whatever he had in mind would be very, very bad for her.

She fled.

Through the darkness. Through the open door. Through the long space with the curved rock ceiling, which now, surprisingly, had several torches in the sconces on the walls rather than an electric light. The torches illuminated sacks, barrels, crates, swords, shields, and even firewood. She didn’t have a second to think about how odd that was. If anything, it only spurred her fear and the urge to flee this space as quickly as possible. She heard his heavy steps pounding behind her and sped up.

Goddamn heels!

Up the curved stairs, and into a completely different space. There was no corridor that led into the Billeting Room. There was one large, square room with more torches on the walls and more casks, barrels, and the like.

She breathed heavily, not believing her eyes. Had she woken up into a nightmare? Had her single glass of champagne been spiked with LSD or something? That would have been a very, very mean joke on behalf of someone.

Behind her, the steps continued, and her adrenaline spiked to the next level.

“Karin! Anusua! Oh gosh, David!” she cried as she ran through the only door she’d seen and pushed it open.

She’d expected to see the small courtyard of Eilean Donan—rough, gray stone on all sides—the West Wing building, the tightly built small curtain wall where she’d stood and talked just a short time ago.

Instead, she ran out into a large bailey. The tall curtain wall was twenty or so feet away and ran in an uneven half circle from the left to the right. Built into the wall, two small towers—one to the left and one to the right. The courtyard was full of people walking, carrying things, rolling garden carts. The strangest thing was that they were all dressed in period clothes. Most of them were men, wearing similar tunics and breeches to the man downstairs, only in a worse condition. Must be thirteenth- or fourteenth-century clothes, the historian within her noted distantly. The men had shaggy hair and beards and linen coifs. The few women she’d seen wore caps on their heads and simple dresses with aprons. Several timber buildings with thatched roofs stood in the courtyard.

There were also warriors in heavily quilted coats called leine croich, the Scottish version of armor. They had mail coifs on their shoulders and sported swords on their belts.

Swords!

Heavy footsteps sounded somewhere behind her. Ground flashing by under her feet, she ran down the bailey, through the giant open gate, and onto a wooden jetty. Where the hell was the bridge? There was no bridge connecting the island to the mainland! She must be somewhere else, not in Eilean Donan. Had that Sìneag woman kidnapped her? Was the brute who called himself Angus Mackenzie in on it? What would he do if he caught her?

She saw an old man in a boat shoving off from the jetty. Without thinking, she sped up, giving it all she had in her legs, and jumped. She landed in the boat, her stomach connecting with something hard and sharp. The impact kicked all air out of her. The boat careened from her landing, and water splashed, soaking her already freezing skin.

“What, by God’s blood, are ye doing, lass?” croaked a voice roughened by age.

She sat back, gasping for breath, but realized the tall man might still be after her and sank to the bottom of the ancient boat, her beautiful dress soaking up a puddle of pungent greenish-brown water.

“A man is after me,” she said, looking at the old man. “Please, just get me as far away from here as possible.”

The old man moved his lower jaw from left to right as though he had no teeth.

“I can only get ye as far as Dornie.”

“Dornie is perfect,” she said.

He nodded and started rowing.

Then it hit her. Dornie?

“Is that Eilean Donan Castle?” she asked.

And as she spoke, something else occurred to her.

She wasn’t speaking English anymore—and neither had the old man…or the man down in the basement.