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They passed through the storage room, outside into the courtyard, and Amy stopped talking. There were a lot of people there—men, warriors—walking around, carrying things. Many stood guarding about a hundred men who were sitting in the mud, their heads bowed.

And then, there were dead bodies—real dead bodies. Their clothes were bloody, and they had terrible bone-deep gashes and wounds in their abdomens, legs, arms. Some had crushed skulls. Others were pierced with arrows. The smell—smoke and blood and feces—assaulted her.

Nausea rose in Amy’s stomach. This was all way too real.

This was all too much. Her knees weakened, and wobbled, but the medieval giant continued dragging her through the courtyard towards the biggest tower.

“What’s going on?” she whispered. “Where am I?”

He glanced at her. A shadow of pity crossed his face, but it changed into a hard, cold resolve. “Dinna think I’ll fall for yer lies and traps. Never again. Never for a MacDougall.”

They entered the tower—the door was open.

Two men stood there, talking “…and then once we’ve recuperated, we shall go on to Urquhart on Loch Ness. That is the next castle we shall take. Then Inverness.”

Amy’s captor coughed, and both men turned to him. The one who spoke was tall, dark haired with strands of gray. The other was older, in his fifties, but still powerfully built. He had the same moss-green eyes as the man who held Amy.

“Craig.” The man nodded and frowned, studying Amy.

So his name was Craig…

“I brought ye a MacDougall, Yer Grace,” Craig said. “I’m afraid we both heard ye discussing yer plans.”

The man who Craig had addressed as “Your Grace” frowned, studying her. Your Grace—was it the king? “She canna leave the castle if she heard what I said.”

Oh, how crazy was all this? They played at kings, and knights, and wars…and…

But deep down, her instincts told Amy this wasn’t a game. Those people outside were really dead and wounded. She’d seen enough injuries to know how they looked. And the attacks on the castle had been real—the stones had crumbled and fallen, and now some men were prisoners while others were victors.

The most logical explanation was the most insane one.

Because, based on what Sìneag had told her, the castle was built on a rock that allowed people to travel in time. She had said something about the river of time…and crossing it—and the rock had had that carving of a river and a path through it.

And then Amy had fallen into the rock.

And when she’d woken up, the castle was whole, and there was Robert the Bruce and Craig Cambel and men with swords and a catapult…

So the insane explanation was that Amy had fallen through time into the Middle Ages.

She shuddered. The floor shifted under her feet. Sweat broke through her skin all over her body. No matter how crazy it sounded, she just couldn’t think of anything else that would explain all this.

And if she was in the Middle Ages, she needed to return to her time.

“Aye,” Craig said, and his eyes weighed heavily on her. “She must stay now.”

Amy sucked in air. If she’d traveled through time by means of that rock, that was what she needed to do again. Therefore, staying in the castle was actually to her advantage. She just needed to access that underground cave.

“What is her name?” the other man asked.

“Amy. Amy MacDougall.”

“I am Dougal Cambel,” the man said. “Surely ye ken the name, lass?”

Amy shook her head.

“No need to pretend, Amy…” He rubbed his chin under his short white beard. “Aren’t ye John’s daughter? The one who is supposed to marry the Earl of Ross next year come spring?”

The other man—King Robert the Bruce—nodded. “Aye, I heard that, too. A very unfortunate alliance for us. It will make both parties too strong. I was hoping to negotiate with the Earl of Ross while our powers are equal, but if he unites with the MacDougalls, it will make my position impossible to negotiate.”