Castle MacCrae.
Kenna cupped her hand over her eyes and squinted up at me. “Where are you going?”
I extended my hand and helped her to her feet. “I say we head for the castle.”
We stumbled through the never-ending forest for what felt like half a day. I completely lost my way—a few times. Apparently expert navigation wasn’t my strongest suit. All I knew for sure was that we were in a valley, the castle no longer visible over the trees. Thankfully, we could still use the escalating roar of voices as our gauge.
“Any brilliant theories about what’s going on?” Kenna asked as she held a branch up for me to pass under.
I’d cheered at enough football games to recognize the almost manic fandemonium of a full-scale sporting event. “I’m assuming it’s some kind of tournament.”
Kenna froze in mid-step. “The kind where the losers get fed to the lions?”
“That would be the Romans. Not to mention the fact we probably would have heard roaring by now if that was the case.”
“Oh, okay.” Her head bobbed like a dashboard dog, and if I knew Kenna her mind was most likely racing through her tenuous grasp of ancient civilizations. “These people would most likely be from the middle ages, right? They’re not going to burn us at the stake, are they?”
“They’re Scots, Ken, not Puritans.”
“Still.” She clasped her hands and dropped her head to mumble a few hasty words. When she finished, she regarded me with a shrug. “It can’t hurt to pray Doon’s the singing, dancing, MGM-type civilization, can it?”
I wanted to laugh, but a riotous cheer from the unseen crowd made it sound as if they were right on top of us. I pointed straight ahead. “It’s coming from the other side of those trees.”
Kenna’s cheeks drained of color as her mouth pressed into a determined line. “The sooner we find out what’s going on, the sooner we can figure out how to get home. Let’s do this.” She took off at a jog and I followed on her heels.
We made our way through the tree line and stopped, tilting our heads back in wonder. On top of an enormous hill sat a massive stadium-like structure. From our limited vantage point, the stone walls and multicolored flags stretched to the sky like some medieval Superdome—so much for my friend’s happy little musical theory.
An impossibly loud cheer exploded from inside the arena and rolled over us like the aftershocks from a bomb, raising the hair on my arms. My heart threatened to pound out of my chest, the instinct for self-preservation warring with my excitement—and the need to keep going.
I felt a tremor run through Kenna’s frame as we huddled together. She took a shallow breath and wheezed, “Well, I’ve seen enough.”
She turned to go back the way we’d come, but I grabbed her arm. Where had all her bravado gone? Usually she was the one dragging me kicking and screaming as she led the charge.
“Not so fast, scaredy-cat. Let’s get a little closer and check it out.” I clasped her hand in mine and pulled. She pulled back. The reversal of our normal roles would be amusing if I wasn’t so focused. Nothing would stop me from searching every inch of this storybook kingdom for my kilt-wearing hero.
After a brief tug of war, she gave up with a huff and blew a crimson lock of hair off her forehead. “Fine. Where was all this tenacity when I wanted you to audition for
We scrabbled up the hill and threw ourselves down behind the stone wall of the stadium, struggling to catch our breath. Not sure where to go from here, I indicated to Kenna with my own crude version of sign language that I wanted to get on her shoulders and look over the wall. Her brow lifted incredulously but then she nodded in agreement.
Grateful for Kenna’s additional height, I arranged her long limbs in the proper squat pose, placed my foot on her thigh, and hoisted myself into a precarious position on her shoulders. Carefully, she rose to a standing position, both of us reaching out to the wall to steady ourselves. Without warning, visions of cheerleading formations flashed in my mind. Steph’s cruel voice screamed at me to stop slouching like a toad. I stiffened my spine and reminded myself that, thankfully, that chapter of my life was over.
“For the love of Lerner and Loewe! What is taking so long up there?” Kenna demanded in a strangled whisper. “I’m not a human totem pole, you know.”
Despite my inability to think of a snappy comeback, I was relieved Kenna had recovered her usual sarcasm. Swallowing my laughter, I peeked over the top of the wall. The arena was an oval about the size of a football field, with a dirt floor. Steep wooden bleachers filled with colorfully dressed spectators lined two sides of the playing field. To my left, I spotted a hidden opening leading under the bleachers.
I tapped Kenna’s shoulder, and she lowered me unsteadily to the ground. Pointing in the direction we needed to go, I followed as she crept along the wall to the gap and quietly slipped through. Moving between strips of light and shadow, we found space among sets of feet and settled with a decent vantage point. Through the slats, we could see most of the arena.
Directly in front of us, a square area marked off with ropes like a large boxing ring drew the focus of the crowd seated on the other set of bleachers. The audience became strangely quiet, their anticipation palpable as a whisper rushed through the stands like a wave.
“Good ladies and gentlemen, lads and lassies, this be the contest ye’ve been awaiting!” A cheer rang out. The disembodied voice continued. “Knight against knight! Champion versus champion! Brother against brother!” A roar went out, and the bleachers shook over our heads as people stamped their feet in approval. Sawdust coated our hair and lashes, causing me to doubt the wisdom of our hiding place.
“Never in the esteemed history o’ Doon has there been a more anticipated event!” At the mention of Doon, I elbowed my best friend.
Kenna swatted my arm away and hissed, “Save your I-told-you-so dance until we’re sure they don’t have lions.”
“Without further ado, may I present the brothers MacCrae!”
At the name “MacCrae,” my focus zeroed in on two men, riding the biggest horses I’d ever seen toward the center ring. They were dressed identically, from their kilts and knee-high boots to the blue and green strip of plaid fabric draped diagonally across their bare chests.
As they dismounted, I focused on the closest guy, surprised how young he appeared despite his mammoth size. He was tall and broad with short-cropped dark hair and a boyish excitement that was obvious in his animated movements. His opponent, who faced away from us, was the complete opposite. I watched as he lifted his plaid sash over his blond head, his muscles shifting fluidly beneath sun-darkened skin. Donning what looked like a heavy armored vest, he turned to reveal an all-too-familiar profile.
My spirit leapt, straining toward him even as my knees buckled beneath me. Grabbing the bleachers, I pressed my face into the gap between two sets of dusty boots. My gaze fused to his awe-inspiring form as he pulled an enormous broadsword from the scabbard at his waist as easily as if it were a toy. He was even more beautiful in person than he’d been in my visions. His honey-colored hair, longer than I’d realized, curled slightly against his broad neck.
As he inspected his weapon, a fierce concentration marked his brow, contrasting with his brother, who grinned and posed for the crowd. Side by side, the dark-haired brother looked like a linebacker, and Jamie—a couple of inches shorter, but with perfect muscle definition—more like a quarterback.
As they entered the ring, the officiator’s voice rang strong and clear. “I’ll be havin’ a clean fight. Ye both know the rules.”
The man, now visible, paused and bowed to each warrior in turn. “Prince Jamie, Prince Duncan.”
Breathlessly, I watched a slow, confident grin spread across Jamie’s face as he bowed to his brother. The familiarity of that smile sent my pulse into overdrive, even as tingles of fear ran over my skin. He was about to fight his massive brother … with seriously sharp swords!
Then the smile gave way to intense focus and he attacked, pushing his burly opponent across the ring with powerful sweeps of his blade. Each strike was deliberate and lightning fast—like an avenging demigod straight out
