Muireach faltered. “We both ken who the true king is. ’Tisna the old Edward, and ’tisna his son. I canna do much from Stirling, but I can help a fellow countryman. ’Tis long overdue that the English leave our lands. And God be my witness, I will help ye both escape or die trying.”
Owen looked back at Amber. She was smiling.
“I told ye we will get out of here,” he said to her.
“But first,” Muireach said, “ye must make sure she doesna die.”
Chapter 9
Amber blinked against the fog. Something bothered her, a sensation at her back. Not quite pain, or maybe a distant pain. She was cold. Her head weighed a hundred pounds, and she couldn’t feel her body. Through her blurred vision and the darkness, she noticed someone on their knees by her side.
She shifted her head to look at them better, and the movement sent a sharp agony ripping through her back.
Owen. With the name, her memories came back. The time travel. Being captured by the English.
The lashing.
She groaned as she remembered the sensation of torn flesh, of fire consuming her skin.
“Lass?” Owen said. “Are ye in pain?”
“A bit.”
“Can ye hold on for a wee bit longer? I’m almost finished.”
“What are you doing?”
“Stitching ye.”
“Oh.” The word stitching caused an immediate rush of adrenaline, which sharpened all sensations. It felt like red-hot needles pierced her all over. “Is there any more of Muireach’s magical potion? It knocked me out good.”
“Nae, I’m afraid there isna.”
Amber took a deep breath in. “Fine. I’ll be fine. Just do it quickly.”
“Aye. Dinna move.”
She felt a sharp pull at the small of her back and sucked in more air.
“Just a couple more.”
Another sting, stronger than the one before. “Ahhh, mother of—” She bit her finger.
“Tell me something about yerself,” Owen said. “To distract ye. Something good.”
Something good? What was there to tell that was positive and good? One positive thing was her mother. She’d been the strongest and the kindest woman Amber had ever known. She died several years ago of cancer, and after her death, Amber’s stubborn dad had given up on life.
“Mom’s fried chicken,” Amber said. “That was so good.”
Owen chuckled. “Fried chicken does sound verra good. Yer ma did it herself? Ye didna have a cook?”
Oh crap. Yeah, she still needed to pretend she was from this time. Another pinching stitch caught her breath.
“Breathe, Amber,” Owen reminded her. “Send yer breath through that pain.”
She exhaled through the place in her lower back where it hurt. Surprisingly, that dissolved the pain and relaxed her. She kept inhaling and exhaling.
“No. We didn’t have a cook,” she said, already regretting telling him the truth, but it was as though her tongue couldn’t stop moving. “Did you?”
“Aye, we did. Nae a verra good one. But, aye.” He chuckled. “He hated me.”
There was another pinch and a pull.
“Ufffff,” Amber breathed out. “What? How can anyone hate such an angel like you?”
Owen chuckled. “The story involves his daughter, the midsummer night bonfire, and a big raspberry bush.”
She shook her head. “You’re a manwhore, aren’t you? I knew it.”
She shouldn’t call him names like that. But it was as though her filter had taken a vacation. Maybe Muireach’s potion was something like a truth serum.
“Dinna fash, lass. ’Twas nae but a kiss. I was fourteen, and she was a year younger.”
Thankfully, he wasn’t offended. And she was relieved it wasn’t a story of seduction. Something dark twisted in her when she thought about Owen and other women.
He chose that moment to put the needle through her again, but the pain was weaker this time.
“That gives me an idea,” Amber said. “Let’s play a game. Two truths and a lie. Do you know it?”
“Nae. Are ye sure ye can play games, lass?”
“I think I absolutely need to.”
“Aye. All right. How does the game go?”
“I tell you two truths about me and one lie, and you need to guess which is the lie.”
He cleared his throat. “Do ye play games like that wherever ye come from?”
Amber’s head began clearing, and with that, pain grasped her back harder. She also suddenly realized she was completely naked from the waist up. How much of her boobs had he seen? Heat rushed to her cheeks.
“Yeah,” she said. “We do.”
Had the potion worn off? Would she even be able to come up with a lie?
“Aye, let’s play this game of truths and lies.”
“Okay. I’ll go first.”
She was already regretting her choice of game. She’d told him as little as possible about herself, hiding the biggest truth of all—that she was from the future. She needed to be as general as possible.
“I like apples,” she said. “Hate romantic comedy. Want to get married.”
Ah! So she could lie to him. Good. She hadn’t been sure. Owen didn’t move for a moment, and she could feel his gaze on the back of her head like red-hot coals.
“What’s a romantic comedy?” he said.
Oh shoot. “It’s like theater. A story about love, and it’s funny,” she said, then muttered to herself, “and full of clichés.”
“What did ye say?”
“Nothing. Which one’s a lie?”
“Why do ye nae want to get marrit?” She could feel him pinch the sides of her skin and pierce her flesh. She sucked in a sharp breath and exhaled slowly through that pain.
“How did you guess?”
“I dinna see ye enjoying a funny show about love, and who doesna like apples?”
She shifted her head and looked back at him. His profile was pure concentration. His lips were tightly pressed in the midst of his scruff, his nostrils were flared, and his brows were drawn together. Despite the pain and fear she’d get an infection, the fact that this gorgeous, hunky man was closely working on her body suddenly made blood rush to her face.
“I said dinna move, lass.” There was a hint of frustration in his voice.
“Bossy much?” She turned her head back and laid it on her hand.
“So why dinna ye want to get marrit?” he said and pierced her again.
She wasn’t ready for this pain. “Ahhh!” she screamed.
The other prisoner at the end of the dungeon screamed, too.
Owen took her free hand and lowered his face to her. “Breathe, lass,” he said gently but firmly. His handsome, green eyes were right in front of her face, full of concern, and a lock of his blond hair fell on his forehead.
She inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Please tell me you’re nearly done.”
“One more stitch. Then I’m done. Tell me why ye dinna want to get marrit. My sister Marjorie didna, either. Did someone abuse ye?” His voice jumped with the last two words.
Bryan had been angry and irritable after he’d started working closely with Major Jackson and had becoming increasingly controlling in bed. The final straw was when he’d duct-taped her to the bed and spanked her. He’d hit her so hard she couldn’t breathe, and tears had run down her cheeks. He’d stopped when she’d asked, and she had agreed to it in the first place. So was it abuse?