“For now, Bruce doesna need us as the battles are over for a moment,” Owen continued, “but Uncle Neil who’s with the king may send a message calling us to join the army. Will ye come with us if he does?”
Ian sighed. “Nae. I took enough lives. I canna take more. All I want is peace. And I pray that God forgives me for what I did. Although I dinna think he will.”
“And what if the war knocks at yer door?”
“I hope that it doesna.”
The evening ended quickly after, as Owen got distracted by a pretty servant girl, and Ian continued to drink until he forgot everything. He thought someone might have helped him off the bench and laid him in the corner, covering him in furs and blankets.
Then he passed out.
He sat by his father’s bed every day. Most of the time, Father slept. They talked a little, but it was clear Father was losing his mind. He kept asking Ian why he reminded him of his son, and Ian repeated the same story.
Three days later, Duncan was lucid enough to ask to be propped up in the pillows. His eyes were brighter than before, and he seemed to be able to focus.
“My boy,” Father said. “Give me my sword.”
Ian stood to get his father’s sword, which lay on the chest of clothes. He gave the claymore to his father, who held it with one hand. Father caught Ian’s hand and squeezed it, fixing his eye on Ian’s.
“I will die holding my sword and my son’s hand.”
Ian’s eyes burned, and a chill ran through his body.
“Father—” he began, but Duncan interrupted him.
“Listen. I will tell yer mother what a great son she gave me. Ye take this sword after I’m dead and give it to yer son when yer time comes. Go back to Dundail and make it great again. Be well, Ian.”
Father’s hand weakened in Ian’s grasp. His eyes lost focus, and he looked somewhere where Ian couldn’t see. His body went limp and still, his breast no longer rising and falling.
Ian sat for a while, barely breathing, watching for any twitch, any movement. Any sign.
Nothing.
“Goodbye, Father,” Ian whispered.
His head dizzy, his heart skipping beats, his stomach turning in pain, he rose, kissed his father’s still warm forehead, and closed his eyelids.
“I will take ye home and bury ye in Dundail, next to my mother. And then I will stay there and live in peace and wait until ’tis my turn.”
But deep inside, he knew there would never be peace for him—not while nightmares haunted him and guilt the size of a boulder hung around his neck.
Chapter 5
Kate needed to find Ian. He hadn’t visited her for the last three days, and something about that brought sadness. Sadness and fear. What if something had happened to him?
Her head still ached, as well as her arms, legs, and her left side. But after three days in bed, she couldn’t lie in one place anymore.
The questions about who she was and where she was from were torturing her. Something about the castle, about the clothing everyone wore, about everything around her didn’t ring true. She felt like she didn’t belong here.
She’d asked the maids—whose room she shared—what year it was, where she was, and what was going on, but they seemed to be frightened by her questions and avoided her, claiming they had work to do or were too tired.
When she’d first arrived, the healer, Ellair—a stout man in his fifties—had dressed her head wound, stitched it, and given her a bitter drink that numbed the pain for a short while. Since then, the maids had brought her food and water and taken out her chamber pot. She felt bad that complete strangers took care of her. Though they didn’t feel comfortable around her, one of them, Aisling, had been kind enough to give Kate one of her older dresses.
Kate had inspected her clothes and her purse for any clues. Inside her purse was a water bottle with a label—Highland Source. She also read that it was bottled in Inverness and was good till November 5, 2025. That didn’t make any sense to her. Although the bottle was the one thing that looked out of place in this setting, it was the only item that felt right and familiar to her.
There was also a pack of tissues. A set of keys. A wallet. Inside, she found some paper money and a credit card in the name of Katherine Anderson, valid till 2024. Was she Katherine Anderson? Probably. She knew it was called a credit card, but she had no idea what to do with it. The money was in American dollars and UK pounds. The years printed on the bills didn’t make any sense, either. No ID. No pictures of herself or her family.
Nothing.
All of this had been more confusing than clarifying, and her head pounded again. Someone had begun screaming in her mind. She’d put the purse aside and tried to take calming, cleansing breaths. Finally, the screaming had stopped, exhaustion had taken over, and she’d slept.
The next day, she’d attempted to look through her clothes. The blue top had a label on it—H&M. The jeans were H&M, too. Made in Thailand, they said.
Made in Thailand? Wasn’t she in Scotland?
Washing Instructions: Normal cycle. No bleaching.
Kate shook her head trying to recall anything, make sense of what any of that meant.
Nothing.
The pockets of the pants were empty. Her white shoes had even less information on them. While the clothes looked new, the sneakers looked well worn and had turned gray on the sides.
When all of the maids had been out, she’d inspected the final thing she could derive any clues from.
Her body.
She’d stripped naked and sat on the bed, looking at everything. She wasn’t a thin woman—there were rolls of fat on her
