“No, I couldn’t even if I tried. I’m still nauseated.”
“Mayhap ye’re a cook?”
She shrugged, watching blankly as he continued devouring the sandwich.
“Aye, good. I will let ye rest. Ye need to recover. I will be back soon to check on ye. Aye?”
She nodded. “Thanks, Ian.”
Her head pounded, and she felt like all the energy and life were sucked out of her. She turned onto her side, huddled deeper into the blanket, and watched Ian leave. She began sinking into the deep, dark waters of sleep, but even still the fear lingered. Who was she? Why did the things in her purse seem strange to them?
And what if once she remembered all that, she wished she hadn’t?
Chapter 4
Ian’s head hung between his shoulders as he sat over the cup of uisge. He felt heavy, as though all his body parts were sacks filled with rocks. His mind was hazy from the alcohol. He felt numb in his chest and light in his head, and that was exactly what he needed.
Not to think about his dying father. Not to think about his terrible past. And not to think about what confusion his arrival must have caused in his family. And then that strange, bonnie lass who didn’t know who she was… He felt for her.
And he didn’t want to feel for anyone.
“I havna had a drop to drink since before that battle with the MacDougalls,” he told Owen who sat by his side in the great hall and must have been as drunk as Ian was.
“Oh, aye?” Owen said.
Ian looked up and chuckled. “Aye. What do ye suppose, they throw feasts for slaves in the caliphate? The masters barely drink themselves.”
Owen raised his cup. “To drinking! And to yer return.”
They smashed the cups together. Ian threw back his drink, the liquid burning his throat and leaving a trace of fire as it slid down into his stomach.
Owen gave Ian a careful, probing glance. “What did ye do there exactly?”
It was as though he’d thrown a bucket of snow over Ian. He tensed, all light-headedness gone. He rolled his shoulders, his foot bouncing under the table. He stopped it, but the need to release the unease itched in him. He rubbed the back of his neck.
The dusty, square courtyard he’d seen countless times was in essence a large coffin. Swords flashing before him, his victims' screams as they were dying—their eyes always held surprise, then anger, and then finally acceptance. The memories pressed in on him from all sides, threatening to crush him like an ant.
He sucked in the air, released it, then took another deep breath and another. The cup was empty, and he poured some more uisge and threw it down his throat.
Only when his stomach burned, his mind clouded, and he could breathe easier, did he say, “What did I do? What slaves do.”
Owen watched him with a concerned frown. Ian had to give it to Owen, he was smart enough not to press for more information. He simply nodded and poured himself another drink.
“I canna imagine how hard it was for ye.”
Ian nodded. “That’s one word for it.”
“How did ye escape?”
The memories of crushed bodies under the rocks, of arrows piercing flesh burned his psyche. Then Abaeze. The friend who had saved his life…and taken his death.
“Someone attacked the palace. Destroyed it. Killed everyone. I was verra, verra lucky.”
And he didn’t deserve that luck.
“It wasna yer fault, brother,” Owen said softly. “That ye were lucky. I can see ’tis torturing ye.”
Ian stared into his cup, his back as hard as a tree. “Ye dinna ken, brother.”
“I ken ye didna deserve to be sold to slavery. I ken ye were unlucky to be on that ship. I ken I’d have come for ye had I kent.”
Ian nodded. “Aye. I’d have come for ye, too. For every single one of ye. No one deserves that.”
They kept silent for a moment.
“How did ye come home? How did ye find the way?”
Ian chuckled. “’Twas easy to get out of the ruined palace with all the guards dead or on the run. Nae so easy to make it through the city in armor. I stole clothes, food, coins, horses. I fought my way through sometimes. Bought my fare on the ship from Constantinople. Then kept northwest. Stayed in Munich for a month or so, earning my wage by mending armor and weapons. Took care of horses in Cologne. Then took a final ship to Dover. Getting through England was more difficult than the whole rest of the journey. I kent they hated Scotsmen but this…”
“Aye. ’Tis war.”
“Hm. I kept away from big roads and from towns and villages. ’Twas only when I inhaled the fresh air of the Highlands, I realized I’d made it.”
“Ye mean, the freshness of sheep shite?”
They cackled. Owen hadn’t lost his lightness through the years. But then his face got serious.
“On the morrow, Craig goes to Falnaird, his estate, to be with Amy. I go with him for a while, until Bruce needs me. He took the Highlands last year, little by little. The English aren’t a threat nae more, it seems. The old King Edward died, and his son, Edward II isna as interested in Bruce as in the troubles in his own court.”
But that couldn’t be all. Ian was far too experienced of a warrior to think the war was over for Bruce. “What of the remaining enemies in Scotland?”
“We fought the rest of the Comyns in the west, so his major threat to the throne is gone. Now he chases after the last Comyns in the northeast to make sure no one opposes him again. The English may resume their attack at any time. The MacDougalls are still a threat, also.”
Ian clenched his fists at the mention of the name. “I hope he crushes them.”
“Aye.” Owen’s mouth curved in a grimace. “And I will be there when he does.”
They exchanged a look, bound by bitter experience. The MacDougalls had done enough to hurt the
