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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.”