He released her, took out his claymore from the sheath on his back and opened the door slightly, peering into the hallway.
Could he trust the woman’s words? What if she sent him up so that he would meet the most resistance?
Well, Craig was going to find out.
He heard heavy footsteps down the hall. The ram battered the wooden gate.
He quickly climbed the narrow stairs and peered from behind the corner of the stairwell.
Two guards ran towards him. Sword meeting sword and shield, he began the dance he had been trained for since he could hold a weapon. Clank. Swoosh. Bang. One was down, holding a gash in his side, the other knocked unconscious.
Craig ran up the next flight of stairs.
The cries from the roof were louder on the third story. The scent of smoke filled his nostrils. The wooden roof must be on fire—he needed to hurry to get Marjorie out before flames engulfed the top floor.
He stepped into the hallway, quietly. One guard stood before the door to the bedroom. He turned to Craig. Their eyes locked. The man had just raised his sword when Craig attacked, hitting him with his shield. A second guard came from the stairs, and Craig met him with the claymore, slashing the man’s thigh.
More came at him, but downstairs a loud bash pierced the air, and the walls reverberated. Had his people made it through the gate? He ducked from the guard’s sword and stabbed him in the gut.
As the man fell, Craig hurried to the door that led to the west. He opened it—and was met with a sword slashing his side.
Pain blinded him, his own scream ran through his body. The floor shifted, dizziness filling his head.
He slashed back and missed the attacker. He fell on one knee and lifted his claymore to meet the sword. Pushing back, he stood up.
Alasdair.
“Ye pig,” Craig spat.
On the bed, a pale figure lay, dark hair spilled on the pillows, her face in the shadows. But he’d recognize his sister anywhere. Her bare leg, covered with bruises and scratches, caked blood on her inner thigh, was shamelessly visible.
Was she dead?
“What did ye do to her?” Craig cried.
“Only what she deserved with a willful character like that!” Alasdair snarled.
Roaring, Craig attacked again. But Alasdair was a much better warrior than any of his guards—he deflected, then went at Craig again, hammering at his sword. Craig’s claymore met Alasdair’s, but Craig was weaker, the pain in his side sucking away his strength.
“Ye will die, ye maggot!” Craig spat through his clenched teeth into the MacDougall’s face.
Alasdair’s claymore pressed against Craig’s, and finding strength deep in his soul, he pushed back. Alasdair swayed and stepped back, and that was enough. With one swift movement, aiming for the heart, Craig thrust his weapon. Alasdair screamed and stood, surprise mixed with pain on his face. Craig removed his sword, and the man collapsed to the floor.
Beyond the door, the sound of a skirmish grew louder.
Good. They were inside the tower.
Craig fell on his knees by Marjorie’s side, and the blood stood still in his veins. Her chest was rising and falling, although weakly. Her face was distorted—cut and bruised. One eye was swollen completely shut, the skin red and purple. Her lip was cut, and her nose looked broken. Her dress was torn and dirty. She was asleep. Or maybe unconscious.
“Marjorie,” Craig whispered and brushed his hand against her hair.
She opened her eyes, just a little, and looked at him. Tears welled in her eyes, and a barely visible smile touched her lips.
“Brother,” she croaked.
The door flew open, and his cousin Ian stepped in, his face bruised and sprayed with blood, his leine croich—a long, heavily quilted coat—cut and torn and soaked in blood.
“I found her,” Craig said.
“Good,” Ian said. “Let us go. The way is clear.”
Craig wrapped his sister in the blanket and picked her up. She seemed so tiny and it felt like she weighed nothing. As he stepped into the hallway with her in his arms, men stopped fighting and looked at him. There was his father, whose face wrinkled in pain as he saw his daughter. His uncle Neil and his sons. Sorrow and fury shone in their eyes.
Ian went before him down the stairs, looking around the corners for danger, his sword atilt. But as Craig walked down, the fighting stopped on the lower floor as well.
When he finally walked out into the clear daylight, blood covered the grass, making it look purple.
Then he saw a painfully familiar face among the slain warriors on the ground.
Sir Colin Cambel.
The chief.
His grandfather.
Craig came to him and fell to his knees, Marjorie still in his arms. He took his grandfather’s hand in his and squeezed it. A tear fell down his cheek.
Ian’s hand lay on his shoulder.
“I have her, Sir Colin,” Craig said. “Yer death didna come in vain. And I swear on yer dead body, and on yer heart, that I will never again trust a MacDougall. And never again will I let a Cambel fall prey to their betrayal.”
Chapter 1
Inverlochy Castle, Scotland, November 2020
Amy MacDougall leaned back against the castle wall and let her eyelids slide down. The November sun warmed her, a relief after three days of freezing rain.
Amy’s sister Jenny came and sat on the boulder by her side.
“Everything okay with the rebels?” Amy asked.
“We’ll see.” Jenny threw a dubious glance around the grass-covered courtyard where a dozen teenagers walked, laughed, ran around, and took selfies. “Zach threatened to climb that tower and sing ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’” She nodded at the crumbled stump of a tower across the courtyard. “Of course, he’s showing off for Deanna. Here, you’re in a strategic position to catch Gigi if she does decide to go and see if there are any skeletons in the dungeons in the eastern tower.”
She nodded to their left and Amy frowned at the black, gaping entrance into the tower. A tiny chill ran down her spine as she imagined the confinement of the seven-foot-thick walls and the ancient ceiling that might collapse at any moment.
Jenny’s smile fell.
“I was just kidding, hon,” Jenny said, “no dungeons for you.”
Amy shook her head and forced a smile. “It’s fine, come on. I’m fine. I can go in a dungeon. It’s my job to go to dangerous places. Isn’t that why you asked me to come?”
“Well, hopefully, nothing will happen. It’s good to have a search and rescue officer as a backup on a school trip, but that’s not why I invited you to replace Brenda. I want to spend time with my sister, of course.”
Amy leaned her head against the wall. “Yeah, when does that part of the program begin? I thought there would be more whiskey, more hot Highlanders, and less teenage drama.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I thought so, too. Brenda has much more authority over them—she’d rule them with an iron fist. They think I’m a softy. Oh God, do you think they smell my fear like dogs?”
Amy chuckled. “Yeah, even I can smell your fear.”
They both giggled, and Amy rested her head against her sister’s shoulder. When was the last time they had laughed so wholeheartedly together? Both North Carolina and Vermont were full of memories, saturated with the sickening aftertaste of fear and rejection.