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Well, she couldn’t budge. She couldn’t speak, so she’d stare back. She’d show him she wasn’t some bag of vegetables to manhandle and tie up and kidnap.

The staring contest kept going until they arrived at a big piece of land. Once they were approaching, he turned away from her and resumed barking orders to navigate the ship. This must be Islay. The landscape was still rough and rocky, with green and yellow moss and occasional trees and underbrush. They sailed into a harbor where more ships like this one were anchored, their sails down. The harbor was surrounded on two sides by rocks. On the right side, the rocks rose into a giant cliff with a castle on top of it. The massive stone walls surrounded a large, tall tower.

All the people on the wooden jetties had swords, pikes, and axes. All wore chain mail coifs and some sort of armor—either leather or heavily quilted fabric. A chill ran through her. She had never been on Islay, as they had hired the boat in Glasgow, but she was pretty sure there were no villages like this in the modern world.

The village on the shore was medieval. Scattered around the place were small houses made of rough stone, wattle and daub and wood, with thatched roofs. A single church tower was the tallest building in the village. Woodsmoke rose from every roof. A dog barked from somewhere. A few Highland cows with their broad horns and red fur ate peacefully in the cattle pens next to several houses. Triangular tepee-like shelters stood between the houses, containing large clay jars, pots, and wooden boxes, along with drying racks with fish and animal hides. Woodpiles lay under lean-tos. Horses tugged wooden carts full of hay, firewood, and stones. The air stank of animal manure, woodsmoke, and fish.

Where were the asphalt roads? Where were the electrical poles? As the men docked the ship and descended onto the jetty, the laird of jackasses came to her and untied her from the mast and undid her gag.

“Welcome to Islay, lass,” he said.

His voice was soft, and soft currents of pleasure radiated through her skin where he’d touched her.

They were dark gray, his eyes. Like the sky before a storm.

“I have untied ye,” he said, his eyes on her face, her neck, the modest cut of her dress on her chest. Her skin melted where he looked and she felt heat burning her skin. Goddamn, she was flushing. “I will bring ye to my castle and ye will tell me everything about who ye are.”

“I’m not anyone…” she said. “Just—”

But before she could say anything, someone called after him and he took her by the elbow and led her out of the boat and onto the jetty. She tried to free her elbow, but it was like trying to pull herself from an iron vise. As she walked down the jetty, everyone stared at her. Men in long tunics—some to their ankles. Women in long tunics and dresses, wearing veils over their heads. Most of them wore cloaks. The clothes were simple, mostly in shades of dirty blue, red, and ochre. All their shoes had pointy toes.

Most of villagers stopped whatever they were doing—loading and unloading the ships, carrying sacks and heaps of wood, chopping and cleaning fish—to watch her pass. The sense that she was a zoo animal intensified, and she buttoned her cardigan over her chest with her free hand.

When she stepped onto the ground, her flip-flopped feet sank into the cold, wet mud mixed with stones, pebbles, and…she hoped not animal feces. She cried out, but the Viking king—well, this was Islay, so that made him a Highland laird—paid no attention to her, dragging her through the mud as if she were a wayward cow.

Something sharp pierced her toe, and she groaned and pulled the arm back that he had held.

With her effort, she managed to make him stop, and as he turned to her, cocking one eyebrow, she straightened her shoulders. “Am I allowed to talk now?” she demanded.

She was suddenly aware that more people had stopped what they were doing and gawked or gathered around them. She shivered, and not just from the chill that crept into her feet from the mud.

The giant Highlander crossed his muscular arms over his chest. Her heart skipped a beat despite her determination to ignore how handsome he was.

“Are ye allowed to talk?” he repeated. “Aye. If ye agree to speak calmly and nae to scream.”

She tapped her index finger against her lower lip. “Hmm…let me think about that for a moment. A bunch of medieval dudes with swords gag me and tie me up like I’m a piece of property and then bring me to some place where it seems people ride horses, have no electricity, and look at me like they’re ready to burn me at the stake… Oh…and…by the way, it seems I’m speaking a language I’ve never learned… Does it seem to you like I’m ready to talk? Do you know what I want to say?” She inhaled deeply and, pouring all her fear and her rage into it, screamed right into his face. “Let me go or I’ll fucking call the cops!”

His face straightened. His eyes darkened, like a real storm gathered behind them. And his jaw muscles worked under his beard.

Bad idea, Jenny. That was such a bad idea.

“Madwoman,” he mumbled as he leaned to her, picked her up, and flung her over his shoulder.

“Let me goooo!” she yelled as the mud and his feet flashed before her eyes. She hit his back and kicked her legs in the air, trying to free herself. “Let go, you barbarian!”

“Keep this up, lass, and ye might well find yerself burning at the stake.”

He carried her through the village and then up the rocky hill. Several minutes later, when she had pretty much wasted all her energy trying to fight him, he put her back on the ground. She realized they were standing in front of a gate. They must be at a wall of the castle she’d seen from the ship. The goddamn giant hadn’t even broken a sweat carrying her up the hill; he just glared at her with his dark, somber eyes.

“Ye can walk yerself here,” he said, showing her through the giant gate.

She looked through it and saw that there were more thatched buildings and that big tower she’d seen from the ship. The two guards standing at the gate watched her, frowning.

She considered running back down the hill and looked at her feet. They were covered in mud and slippery against the rubber soles of her flip-flops. She was completely unsuited for this. Inside the bailey, she could see men with swords and spears, stone and timber houses with thatched roofs, as well as horses and chickens and geese. Her dress was thin and cold.

Something tugged at her dress from behind, and she looked back to see a goat chewing the fabric.

“Goddamn it!” she cried as she snatched her skirt away. “Never again a leaf pattern.”