of the Highland clans to know that a laird was God and king, judge and jury, policeman and warlord. His word was law and it was final.
Her heart had picked up an alarmed beat. She didn’t have to be rational to recall striking him and cursing him. She no longer knew herself, but she did know this. He might have deserved it, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t know him, never mind that he wanted to protect her. He was lord here, absolutely, and she had better appease him if she could. Otherwise, and maybe anyway, she was in deep shit.
Suddenly, Malcolm appeared at her side. Claire was so immersed in her thoughts that his appearance was as startling as that of a ghost. She flinched, her horse prancing. But he smiled, reaching out for her reins, steadying the charger. “I didna mean t’ scare ye. Ye be all right, lass?”
Claire tried to ignore his powerful presence, his masculinity and what might happen later if she didn’t find a way to keep him at bay. “We need to talk.” That was the understatement of her life, she thought.
“Aye.” He gestured ahead. “Carrick.”
Claire followed his gaze and her eyes widened. The pale castle was perched high above them on equally pale cliffs. Her heart beat wildly, but not with fear.
The last time she had been in Scotland, she had almost taken the turn at the sign pointing to Carrick Castle. Her guidebook had said the scenery was breathtaking, and a tour of the grounds and castle was not to be missed. But in the end she had driven by, intent upon arriving at Iona by nightfall.
Maybe being thrust back in the past wasn’t all that bad, Claire thought, excitement sweeping over her as she stared up at the imposing pale stone walls, the towers and the keep. If Malcolm kept his distance and she avoided any more battles, if she kept her head on straight and her courage up, this might just be an incredible and amazing, once-in-alifetime educational experience. She could probably even write about it, not that anyone would believe her. She was about to enter a fifteenth-century stronghold. She was about to see things that no historian had ever reported. And while she remained afraid, she wanted to go inside that castle.
If she could get back home in one piece, sooner rather than later, she might be able to manage this amazing twist of fate. She turned to look at him. “How long will it take to get there?”
“Less than an hour,” he said. “And we’ll discuss yer matters when we arrive.”
THEY RODE UP the steep hill in double file, but had to go one at a time through the very narrow entrance of the walled barbican. Carrick was set on the top of a hill, overlooking steep cliffs on all sides, and the site had clearly been chosen because the hill was divided from the road by a steep, impassable ravine. Without the drawbridge, ladders or siege engines, no one was entering or leaving.
Claire shivered as she rode across the drawbridge, Malcolm still beside her. An outer bailey filled with huts and livestock was behind them, and she glanced down into the ravine. Hundreds of feet below, it was filled with sharp, jagged rocks. Attackers who were thwarted on the drawbridge or trying to scale the curtain walls would fall to their deaths on the ground below.
As if reading her mind, Malcolm said, “No one has besieged Carrick.”
Claire managed a sickly smile. A castle built solely to withstand assault and attack was, in a way, as unnerving as the battle they’d just survived. The sun was rising above the towers and the ramparts, and the sky was a pale gray, stained with fingers of crimson and pink. The sight would have been breathtaking, just as her brochure had promised, if she didn’t know that each and every jagged rock had been put in that ravine by human hands, meant to inflict pain and death.
They now rode single file through the narrow, dark passageway of the gatehouse and its four towers. Claire looked up. There were “murder holes” above her from which attackers would be doused with hot oil and arrows if they ever got this far. She looked down. Her horse was crossing a wooden plank set in the stone floor. She knew it was a trapdoor.
Claire looked grimly at Malcolm. “What’s beneath us?” Whatever was there, she knew that anyone unfortunate to be riding or walking over the trapdoor when it opened would not survive.
“I dinna ken,” he said. “Mayhap sharpened staves or beds of knives.” His gaze was interested. “Ye ken the way of our warfare.”
Claire was dry mouthed. “I’ve studied it a bit.”
They rode past a pair of thick, studded, open doors and into the inner bailey.
She breathed. Although it was early, men and women were hurrying about the bailey, clearly intent on their morning tasks. Smoke was rising from two buildings that were directly ahead, built against the northern walls. She smelled baking bread and saw so many serving women going to and fro that she was certain that the smaller building contained the kitchens.
Beside it was the imposing, four-storied great hall. Black Royce was dismounting there, a small boy having materialized to take his horse. He patted the boy’s head and headed up a wooden staircase, vanishing beyond a heavy wooden door.
She glanced around again, trying to absorb everything. A man in priestly robes stood in front of what had to be the chapel, a two-story stone hall built against the eastern walls. The rest of Black Royce’s men were dismounting by the building she assumed to be their hall, which was above the stables. Women and children had appeared to greet them, the women wearing long leines, the children short ones. Some of the soldier’s wives wore brats. Laughter and conversation ran rampant, as did hugs and kisses.
Claire breathed hard, overcome by the sights and sounds, the hustle and the bustle, and the emotion, of these fifteenth-century people. So far, all was as she had imagined, but she wasn’t imagining anything now. She was at Carrick Castle, and it was 1427. Chills swept her. This was truly an amazing opportunity. Then she realized Malcolm was staring.
Unthinkingly, she smiled at him.
He started, and slowly he smiled back. “Ye be pleased.”
She inhaled, because she was thrilled. “I am in a fifteenth-century fortress. I am very fond of history.” She wasn’t going to explain her degree to him. “I’ve read about what life is like in these times, but I am seeing it myself firsthand.”
He was wry. “’Tis nay special.” He slid from the horse, handed off his reins to a waiting boy and held up his hand for her.
Claire came to her senses. She was making the best of a bad situation, but taking his hand was not a good idea. She pretended not to notice and slid from the horse.
Malcolm thanked the boy, touched her back and indicated she would precede him up the stairs. Claire didn’t understand. She felt certain that men in his time did not allow women to go first, never mind that chivalry was a huge part of medieval culture.
He gestured impatiently. She gave him a grudging nod and then hurried up the stairs. She stepped through an oversize, paneled-wood door and into the great hall and blinked, surprised.
She had been expecting the very sparse furnishings of the period. She had been wrong. The walls and floors were stone, of course, and wood rafters supported the high ceiling. But there were several fine rugs on the floor, obviously from France, Italy or Belgium, instead of rushes. While there was a crude trestle table with two benches before a huge hearth in which a fire roared, there were also several arrangements of upholstered chairs, each finely and intricately carved by the best medieval craftsmen. A magnificent sword collection was displayed over the hearth. Several beautifully carved trunks served as tables. Oil paintings were on the walls, the portraits highly stylized as was standard for the period, and a stunning tapestry was on one wall. Claire had expected far more primitive conditions. She had expected dogs, mice, vermin and rushes on the floors. Black Royce’s home was very well furnished for the fifteenth-century Highlands and as livable as a modern manor home. Still, something was missing—a personal touch. Claire would bet he was not married.
Royce had been helped out of his armor and was sitting in the room’s largest chair, the upholstery burgundy velvet. A young woman handed him a mug of what Claire assumed to be