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But this was it. Either she would be taken now, or she could try this one last thing. It was completely loony, but what could it hurt? Maybe it would open a revolving door or something that led into a secret room.

She turned and placed her palm in the handprint.

Owen, she thought, feeling foolish. Owen.

A vibration went through her, similar to the buzz of a hair clipper. Her hand fell through the rock as though it were empty air. Her body followed. She tumbled, headfirst, her body spinning. Her stomach flipped, bile rising. She waved her arms, trying to grab at something.

She screamed as she fell into darkness.

And then it consumed her.

Chapter 2

Inverlochy Castle, August 1308

The crack of wood breaking blasted the air and halted Owen in his tracks. The courtyard stilled. Archers on the walls stopped shooting. Assuming defensive positions, the warriors at the gates tensed and bent their knees.

Through the massive gates, the iron head of a battering ram protruded like a curious monster. Splinters and shards of wood decorated the hole around it. There were cheers and cries of victory from outside the gates.

Owen exchanged a look with Kenneth Mackenzie, the current constable of the castle appointed by Robert the Bruce. Kenneth’s eyebrows were knit together, and his mouth formed one thin line in his beard.

“Hold the gates!” Kenneth called. “Swordsmen, draw yer claymores! Every man to the gates!”

Owen and Kenneth elbowed their way to the front row of the warriors and stared the ram in the face. It moved back from the hole. Men shouldered the gates. More warriors descended from the towers, filling the courtyard. There were at least seven hundred English outside the castle walls, and inside, barely a hundred Scots.

“For the king of Scotland!” Kenneth cried. “For freedom! For yer wives and children! Hold the line! Dinna let a single Sassenach pass by!”

The Highlanders cheered back in a single roar.

“Cruachan!” Owen cried, but he was alone in calling the battle cry of clan Cambel, though many echoed battle cries of their own clans.

If Owen had Craig, Ian, and Domhnall by his side, and his father and uncle, it would have been different. His heart didn’t beat with the anticipation of a victory, and it didn’t jump with the eagerness of a battle to come.

No. This time, he had a dark, sinking premonition in his gut. There were too many Sassenachs. They had a battering ram and had been so strategic about the siege. The man who led them knew what he was doing.

While the Bruce was in the east dealing with the Comyns and Earl of Badenoch, the English had decided to regain positions they’d lost. They were right about it being a good time to attack. With the Bruce and so many men away, the castle’s defense was weak.

The second hit of the ram shattered another piece of the gate. Highlanders stepped back instinctively.

“Prepare!” Kenneth cried. “Shields! Hold!”

Moments later, the ram hit again, and the gates burst open.

The swarm of the English poured in with a victorious roar. They hit the first line of Scots with a teeth-shattering impact. Swords poked from above and in between the shields. The English pressed, and the Highlander lines drew back.

The first victims among the Highlanders fell as sharp blades found their marks.

“Hold!” Kenneth yelled. “Tulach Ard!” he called his clan’s war cry.

“Tulach Ard!” echoed his warriors.

But they couldn’t hold. The pressure was too great. Within moments, the Highlanders lines were scattered, and a wave of well-armed English cut through them.

Amber came to awareness slowly. Her body felt floaty and ached all over like from the flu. She lay on a cold surface, and the air smelled like wood, iron, and wet stone. It was quiet, but not as quiet as it had been under the ruins. There was no sound of water dripping.

Were those the echoes of voices somewhere outside?

Amber opened her eyes. Light came from a single torch in a sconce on the far side of the space. Real fire, no electricity.