She’d always wanted to break free and travel. It was one of the reasons she’d joined the army.
“How many brothers do you have?” she asked.
“Two. And two sisters. Well, to be precise, Craig and Marjorie are my half brother and half sister.”
“I have three brothers, all older.”
Owen rolled to his side and propped his head with one arm. The light of the torch was reflected in his golden bristles. “Are they warriors? Yer brothers?”
“One is. Well, he was. He retired.”
Jonathan, the oldest, had gone into the military. He’d served in Iraq until retiring because, as he explained officially, his wife had insisted. Her second brother, Kyle, was a lawyer. Daniel, the third brother, was a struggling artist going from job to job and quite a disappointment to their father.
“Oh, aye?”
“Well, my father expected his first son to follow in his footsteps. But honestly, I don’t think Jonathan ever saw himself being career military like our dad.”
“Yer da is a war chief?”
“Something like that. Was. He’s dead.”
Her father had died of a heart attack two years ago. He’d been a US Army major, a proud man who’d valued discipline and rules more than anything. He saw very definite futures for each of his children. For his sons: the military, the law, and medicine. His daughter could be a teacher or a stay-at-home mom.
If her father had known her mom had encouraged a spirit of independence and adventure in Amber, he’d have been more careful about allowing Amber to go camping with the Girl Scouts and to parties in high school.
When she joined the army, she’d thought she’d kill two birds with one stone. She’d travel and impress her father.
Neither was true. She’d ended up stuck in Afghanistan for the duration of her service. And her dad had still considered her weak.
“Sorry to hear that, lass,” Owen said.
“Thank you.”
“But ye ken battle, too, dinna ye? What I saw at Inverlochy… I havena seen anybody fight like that.”
Despite herself, Amber felt blood rushing to her cheeks. No freaking way! She was blushing. She hated that she reacted to Owen in all these emotional ways.
“Yes. I’ve seen my share of combat, but it’s very different from battles here.”
“I daresay. Where did ye learn to fight like that?”
The burning in her face intensified. Surely it wasn’t adoration that she heard in his voice? And surely it wasn’t that hint of adoration that made her blush like a virgin?
“Home,” she said. “It’s not a big deal, simple military training, that’s all.”
It wasn’t quite true. She enjoyed kung fu and had taken the classes on her own initiative. Standard military training didn’t include martial arts. It gave her more strength and power, and she loved how graceful it was. Every time she had to use a gun, she cringed internally. Martial arts was a dangerous way of fighting, but it was much more elegant.
“I’d be interested to learn a trick or two,” Owen said.
Amber had just opened her mouth to reply that they weren’t tricks, and learning would require a long time, when the door at the entrance to the dungeons gnashed, and the heavy steps of several men marched closer and closer.
Owen jumped to his feet, his eyes dark and sharp. With her stomach sinking, Amber rose to her feet as well.
Three guards with torches in their hands stopped before their cell. The light hurt Amber’s eyes. One of them reached out to unlock and open the cell door. Owen shifted towards Amber and stood between the guard and her.
“Move, Scot,” the guard said. “Sir de Bourgh is expecting yer wife.”
Chapter 7
The door closed behind Amber with a full thump, leaving the guards behind it.
She let out a shaky breath as she took in her surroundings. It was another dungeon, not unlike where she and Owen were being held, with thick walls of solid rock, and a dome-like ceiling.
In the middle stood a massive table with dark stains that made Amber think of blood. Sir de Bourgh sat at the table, a chicken drumstick in his hand. He chewed without taking his eyes off Amber, his smooth skin reflecting the fire in the giant fireplace.
A man stood by his side, tall and slender. An uncooked spaghetti noodle came to mind. Deep creases around his mouth and on his forehead gave his face a sad expression like he knew the day of her death and was unpleased by it.
A cold shiver ran through Amber, despite the fact the room was much warmer than the dungeon she and Owen were being kept. The shiver turned to an icy wave when she looked at the wall.
An array of instruments hung there—heavy iron handcuffs and cuffs for feet connected by an iron rod; sharp spikes; whips; giant knives and axes; something like a bear trap and other tools that made blood thicken in her veins.
High above the table hung a giant cylinder with pins and chains reaching to the floor. By the fireplace, there was a chair with the same dark stains as the table.
This was a torture room.
Amber’s throat went as dry as a desert. Horror snaked down her spine. Sweat would have broken through her skin if she’d been sufficiently hydrated. Instead, her head ached as though stricken by a huge hammer.
She once participated in the extraction of a journalist being held by terrorists in Afghanistan. The man’s face had been beaten to pulp, his ribs had been broken, and there’d been burns on his hands and feet. That was the closest she’d ever come to torture.
Would she experience that firsthand? And why the hell had Sìneag sent her here to end up with this psycho?
De Bourgh picked at the chicken bone and smacked his lips. Fat dropped down his palm. The scent of food in the room made sickness rise in Amber’s stomach even though she was ravenous.
“I’d invite you to dine with me”—de Bourgh gestured at a chair by his side and an empty plate and cup in front of it—“but it might be wise for you to stay away from food and drink. It all depends on what you decide.”
Amber swallowed a painful knot. Fear coiled in the pit of her stomach, but she raised her chin. “What I decide about what?”
“You can tell me everything I want to know about the Bruce and his army while enjoying a meal and an excellent wine. Or I can use some of these”—he motioned around the room—“to get the words out of you.”
Blood drained from Amber’s face. She needed to get out of here. “I don’t know anything.”
De Bourgh studied her with his sharp, penetrating eyes for a moment, then he gave a nod and picked up another chicken leg. “I suppose you’ve made your choice then.”
She could fight her way out. Owen was right, none of them knew kung fu or anything similar. If de Bourgh or the other guy approached her, her body would know what to do. There was no way she’d let them lay a finger on her.
De Bourgh waved with his hand, and the thin man’s face turned even more sad. The outside corners of his eyebrows sagged, and the ends above his nose met like the sides of a sharp roof.
He walked to Amber, and she bent her knees, assuming a fighting position. The executioner, which was the name she’d given him in her head, stretched his hand out to take her by the shoulder. She grabbed his wrist, moved behind him, and pulled his arm against her body while twisting it. The man grunted, and she dropped to her knees and used her entire body to push him down with her. He panted but remained silenced.