The remnants of battle lingered—splintered wood, shattered stone, the acrid sting of burning debris. Above her, a gaping hole in the roof yawned open to the night sky, moonlight spilling through in eerie contrast to the destruction below. The cool night air fluttered through the hole, chilling her to her bones.
Seeing the destruction sent a pang of sorrow through her. Their once lovely castle was now in ruins.
The destruction that was wholly her fault.
She clenched her hands into fists. Sticky, damp blood was still in her cut palm. The keystone, of course, was gone. She realized with some horror she was stuck inside the great hall, tied to a chair, and surrounded by the enemy.
The man she assumed was Rory MacDonald moved to stand in front of her, his thick forearms crossed over his chest as he towered over her and peered down at her with sharp, assessing, terrifying eyes. He no longer wielded the glowing great axe. His face was a map of wrinkles that had seen hard days and harder living. He wore the tartan of his clan. His well-worn boots were covered in mud and blood. His claymore rested in the scabbard on his hip.
Next to him, Bruce, his wicked blue eyes staring at her with a look she didn’t like one bit. His hand was clenched into a fist at his side. They must still suspect she had the stone. Why else would they tie her to the chair?
“Well, lass, welcome back to the land of the living,” the older man said. He smirked, as though he were happy to see she still breathed.
Or maybe he was angry she still breathed. Either way, it wasn’t a good sign for her.
“Where is the stone?” Rory asked.
Now it was time to do her best actress routine. “Safe with me. Where else?” Her tone was haughty and full of annoyance.
“Tell us how to use the magic in the stone,” Bruce demanded, his tone sharp and cold.
Good. They bought her routine. Now, to keep them guessing.
“Och, Bruce, give the lass a bit to come to her senses before ye go demanding such a thing.”
Bruce MacDonald. Chloe’s one-time boyfriend. She understood why Chloe was attracted to him. He was handsome, for sure, but there was something terrible glittering in his eyes.
The older man continued to stare at her, so she stared right back. “Are you Rory MacDonald?”
“Aye.” A smarmy grin tugged up the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet ye.”
She ignored what sounded to her like a flirtation. “Whereare the others?”
She didn’t have to look around to know her sisters, Jamie, and his brothers were not with her in the great hall.
“Safe,” Rory said.
“Where?” she demanded. She punctuated the word with as much venom as possible.
He lifted a tawny brow as he continued to peer at her. “In the dungeons. I’m sure Callum MacLeod will no’ be fond of your handiwork here.” He motioned toward the ceiling, the splintered door, the scattered charred debris.
She tried not to glance upward, but it was hard to resist. She had done this? The keystone must be more powerful than she’d realized. If she had blown a hole in the roof, what would it do when she tried to shift the timeline?
Rory said, then, “If you cannae give me what I need, then I will choose one of yer sisters.”
And do away with her. That part was unspoken but understood. Like her death was nothing more than an eventuality. A fierce sense of protection pounded through her. That didn’t bother her as much as the thought of this vile creature putting his hands on Evie or Chloe. She would sooner die than see that happen.
Bruce moved a step closer to her, looking her over with a critical eye.
“I can see the family resemblance between ye and yer sisters.” He took her chin in his hand, turning her face one way, then another, as if examining her.
She jerked her chin out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me.”
Rory chuckled, a sound deep and rumbling in his chest. “She has a fire in her belly.”
“She needs to tell us how to use the magic,” Bruce said, his lethal gaze never leaving her face.
She wanted to punch him, if only to get him to stop staring at her. Behind her back, she twisted her hands in the ropes, trying to freeherself. She did nothing but shred the delicate skin around her wrists, dampening the ropes with her own sweat and blood.
