The impact of hitting something hard again slammed through her, and everything went black.
Chapter 2
Inverlochy Castle, July 1308
“Who goes there?” cried the guard from the wall.
Ian patted the neck of his horse. A bridge across the moat separated him from his clan. They were all there, behind those walls, or at least, that’s what his cousin Marjorie had told him when he’d gone to Glenkeld, their current clan seat.
Even his father was supposed to be in Inverlochy.
And no one knew that Ian was still alive.
“Ian Cambel,” he cried.
He hadn’t called himself that in years. The words sounded strange. They sent a tremor through his core, but his voice didn’t give it out. It was as though he were an imposter about to take the place of a dead man.
Where was the feeling of coming home to freedom and peace? Where was the man he’d thought he would become once he returned to the Highlands?
Instead, he was ashamed of who he was. And dreaded his family’s reaction to seeing what had become of him.
He was a monster who’d killed people for the pleasure of his masters. What would his father say if he learned that?
The guard turned to another man on the wall, and they talked briefly.
“Prove ye’re a Cambel,” one of them said.
Ian closed his eyes briefly and lowered his head. “I havna anything with me that can prove that. I’ve been on the road for months. If ye call my father or my uncles Dougal or Neil… Or any of my cousins—Craig, Owen, or Domhnall—they’ll recognize me.”
“Aye,” the guard said and left the wall.
Ian patted his black horse, Thor, again—more to calm himself than the horse. Ian had named him after a warrior in Baghdad. The man had been from Norway, a giant with shoulders as broad as a ship. When the slave masters had tried to force Thor to kill a wounded Ian, the man had refused and was put to death for it. That was a lesson Ian had never forgotten.
So much had changed in the clan, he’d learned in Glenkeld. Craig had marrit. Lena, Craig’s sister and Ian’s cousin, was marrit, as well, and Domhnall. Owen had grown up a strong warrior. Ian’s father was weak and stayed in bed in Inverlochy, which was the reason Ian had come here rather than returning to his family home. Life had gone on without him. Everyone had evolved and grown.
He was the only one who’d taken a step back in development, lowered himself to a primitive state of survival. Life against death.
“Who calls himself Ian?” someone cried.
Ian looked up at the wall, but there was just that guard.
“Come closer!” the voice said.
Someone stood at the gates which were open just enough to let a man through.
Ian’s heart thumped in his ears. Was it Craig? He jumped down from the horse and walked towards the gate, the ground shifting under his feet. Yes—dark hair, tall, broad frame…
He crossed the bridge without looking away from the man.
“Craig,” Ian mumbled.
His cousin’s eyes widened, his face blank. “’Tis truly ye?” Craig said.
Ian stood before him now, studying the face he’d known since he was born—older now, not a young lad anymore but a man, a proud warrior. A commander and a leader.
Would Craig understand?
Craig gathered Ian in a bone-crushing hug. Ian’s eyes burned from tears. Craig slapped him on the back.
“Come in, come in.” Craig ushered him through the gate. “How are ye alive? God, I canna believe my eyes. I ken ye’re standing before me and ’tis ye, but I canna… All these years we believed ye were dead. We had a funeral. There wasna a day I didna think of ye, wishing ye were with us.”
They went through the gates into the courtyard, where life was in full swing. Servants carried buckets with water from the well, baskets with food, hay, and wood. Chickens squawked and pecked at the grass. Warriors walked somewhere, played cards in the corner, talked. It smelled like stew, and oatcakes, and woodsmoke. Ian let a servant take the horse to the stables.
“What happened to ye?” Craig said while they walked through the yard towards what was probably the great hall.
“The MacDougalls sold me to a slave ship bound to the caliphate,” Ian said. “I was a slave there.”
Craig’s features grew livid. “They what?” He stopped, his fists clenched till his knuckles whitened. “They told us ye were dead… Had I have kent, I’d have come for ye.”
“I ken, Craig.”
They entered the great hall, which was full of people eating the midday meal. Craig led Ian to the table in the corner by the fireplace.
Ian’s gut squeezed as he saw his uncle, his cousins Owen and Domhnall, and other warriors of the clan he’d recognized.
Craig called for the clan’s attention, and everyone turned their heads.
“Look who came back,” Craig said. “Look who we thought was dead thanks to the damned MacDougalls. I swear, they’ll pay for this, too.”
Uncle Dougal was the first ones to recognize him.
“Ian?” Dougal said.
Ian nodded, his chest tearing from a mixture of emotions he’d never thought he’d feel again—elation, relief, and even a hint of peace.
Dougal stood up from the bench, then the rest of them. Ian was hugged, hands clapped him on the shoulders, on the back. Noise rose around the table—questions. What happened? Where had he been? Was he healthy?
With his stomach clenching, he answered the same thing he had told Craig. Slavery ship. Baghdad. Slave.
How had he come back?
There was a battle and he managed to escape.
That it hadn’t been a battle but a massacre, and that he hadn’t seen any other survivors from the palace, he couldn’t bring himself to tell them.
Because he didn’t deserve to be alive, he thought, a cold emptiness spreading in him. He was a monster. A killer.
And that, he couldn’t tell them, either.
“Where’s Father?” he said finally, silencing everyone.
Their faces turned somber, and a bad feeling coiled in the pit of his stomach.
“Uncle Duncan is unwell,” Craig said. “He’s resting
