Doon (Doon Novel, A) (7 page)

For a brief second, the brothers seemed frozen, their swords locked together. Then Jamie lifted the hilt of his weapon perpendicular above his head. The motion elevated his brother’s sword, and the resulting momentum flung him past Jamie in an ungainly stumble.

Jamie spun, his blade slicing towards his brother’s ribcage in a powerful arch. I sucked in a sharp breath. He
would
kill him! At the last second, the brother dropped and avoided Jamie’s sword by what looked like centimeters.

At the end of his summersault, the boy Kenna kept referring to as the ogre sprang to his feet. With a smile, he winked at Jamie, and then bellowing “Ho!” shoved him halfway across
the ring. As Jamie stumbled backward, his brother paused to lift his arm above his head and incite the crowd to its feet. He even blew kisses to a group of fawning girls on the opposite side of the stands.

Kenna scoffed. “What a jerk. I changed my mind. I’m rooting for Surfer Dude.”

Reluctantly, I pointed to
Surfer Dude
. “The blond one with the long hair … uh … that’s Jamie. The guy who’s been appearing to me in the real world.”

“Kilt Boy?” For once in her life, Kenna was speechless. She stared at me, mouth open and twitching until it transformed into a smile. Then she laughed—not in hysterics, but with real honest-to-goodness joy. “So that’s what all this was about?”

From our cramped position, Kenna drew me into a bear hug. I pulled away and closed my mouth with an audible click, stunned that my confession hadn’t set off my best friend’s hypersensitive psycho meter. “What do you mean?”

She continued to grin as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. “After we ended up over the rainbow, or whatever, I worried … being Gracie’s niece … that I was here to do something. That I’d have to battle flying monkeys or drop a house on the white witch. But this is all about you, sweetie. I just need to figure out how to get us home.”

I didn’t know whether to hug her again or punch her. All I knew was the boy of my dreams was real, and as long as he didn’t get himself killed in the next few minutes, I—

A hand like iron clamped down on my arm, followed by something cold and wickedly sharp against the side of my throat. A breath, close and stale, assaulted my senses as its owner growled, “Don’t ye dare move, lassie, or I’ll run this knife through yer gullet.”

A
lthough unable to see the threat, I clearly felt it on my bicep and the tender skin of my neck. I froze. If I cried out, would Jamie hear?

A second masculine voice cautioned, “I wouldna try anything if I were ye.” Kenna’s soft yelp confirmed she was also at some thug’s mercy. My courage sank as I realized any resistance on my part would put her in danger.

Forced out from under the risers, I stumbled back through the stone wall and down the hill. Shuffling sounds behind me indicated that Kenna and her captor followed close behind.

As the boisterous cheers of the coliseum faded, so did my hopes Jamie would come galloping to the rescue on his big war-horse. Then again, we’d only been walking a few minutes. Maybe he would sense I was in danger and leave the tournament. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to project my thoughts into his head, like he’d done with me.
Jamie, it’s me, Veronica. I’m here in Doon. I need you!

I opened my eyes, and waited expectantly.

Nothing.

Perhaps he’d heard me and I couldn’t hear him.

Right. Or maybe I’d wake up back in Alloway, snug in my four-poster bed at Dunbrae Cottage, and realize this was all just a dream.

“That hurt, you big troll!”

I twisted around to see if Kenna was okay, but only succeeded in tripping on a bump in the path. My captor jerked me back onto my feet, practically yanking my arm out of the socket. I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.

“Keep goin’,” he demanded.

A sharp pinching sensation stung my throat, followed by warmth I knew was a thin line of blood trickling onto the collar of my hoodie. This was no dream. If my prince wasn’t going to save me, I’d have to save myself. Too bad I hadn’t paid more attention during those self-defense phys-ed classes. The only moves I remembered were the eye jab and the knee to the privates. Since the instructor had never mentioned how to accomplish this while being held at knifepoint, I decided to try reasoning with my captor. “Sir, I can explain—”

“Silence!” He tightened his grip on my already aching arm, and I decided to listen.

We walked a good distance and around a concealing bend before our abductors stopped. The knife still hovering near my throat, I moved with care as the creep holding me addressed his cohort. “Quit yer laggin’, Fergus.”

As I got my first good look at the guy restraining Kenna, I stifled a gasp of surprise. He was the size of an evergreen tree. At least a foot and a half taller than me, he had the sort of fair-yet-ruddy complexion that turned his skin every shade of mottled pink imaginable. His hair, a long shock of yellow, was baby-fine with two slender braids extending from his temples.
And his face—his face looked so young and innocent I had a hard time believing he would hurt anyone. Ever.

The man-boy, Fergus, regarded me for a moment with pale blue eyes and then frowned in a way that made me want to give him a cookie to make things better. “I was just thinkin’, Gideon. Shouldna we inform the MacCrae?”

My captor—presumably Gideon—relaxed his grip slightly, allowing me to twist away from his blade to look at him. He had a good thirty years on Fergus. A few inches taller than me, he was bald and slight, but comprised of sinewy muscle as if he’d spent every day of his life running a decathlon. Weathered by sun and age, his bearing said hunter and tracker. More importantly, it said, “Don’t mess with me.”

Gideon glanced back the way we came. “Later. Fer now, let’s get them to the castle. We’ll be takin’ the low gate.”

Whatever the “low gate” was, it caused Fergus a moment of concern that he did his best to hide. He acquiesced with a solemn nod.

Encouraged by his hesitation, I addressed him. “Excuse me, Fergus?”

“Silence, lassie! You wenches will remain quiet unless spoken to.”

Fergus grimaced. “Let the lass speak.”

“And let her beguile me? Notta chance!”

“Och, Gideon, we donna know they’re in league with the witch.”

Witch?
Cold slithered down my throat and dropped into my stomach, like I’d swallowed an ice cube. Maybe Kenna was right and the people of Doon were burn-witches-at-the-stake-Puritans after all.

Gideon tightened his iron grip on my arm. “There’s magic
afoot, I tell ye. How did they come to appear in our land? The Brig o’ Doon does no’ open fer another fortnight.”

Kenna took a step forward, but the giant didn’t let her move far. “We used my aunt and uncle’s rings.”

“Show me.”

When Kenna lifted her hand, Gideon yanked the ring off her finger so carelessly that she cradled her hand to her chest and bit her lip. He examined the ring with a catlike hiss, then looked at me with a manic gleam that gave his blue eyes a purplish glow. The tip of his knife bit in farther. “Yers too.”

I wriggled the ruby ring from my finger and held it up. Like a savage, Gideon snatched the band and waved it in the air. “Is this not all the proof ye need, Fergus Lockhart? I’ll no’ be bewitched!”

The giant continued his attempt to make his partner see reason. “The witch has never been able to breech the borders o’ Doon. Not on the Centennial, or in between.”

Gideon’s eyes bulged from their sockets. His red face revealed the fervor of his argument. “But her minions kin. These’re clearly the witch’s minions! Need I remind ye of the last time we underestimated that devil woman? Now move. Tha’s an order!”

“Yes, Captain.” The giant saluted, yet his eyes remained troubled as he watched his superior pocket the rings.

Gideon half-pushed, half-dragged me down a narrow trail. The path looked neglected—surely not the correct way to our destination, the castle. But as we curved back toward the lake, I saw a wall of stone rising from the rocky hillside. Between the imposing stone columns was a small door of heavy wood and black iron. The door looked like it hadn’t been used in ages.

From around his neck, Gideon produced a large key on a rope and proceeded to wrestle the lock open. The prehistoric
door gave with a whoosh, swinging inward to reveal a dark, dank corridor. With the help of a shove, Kenna and I entered the “castle”—but it wasn’t a part of the castle I’d ever wanted to see, not in a million years.

As Gideon locked the door from the inside and the darkness swallowed us, he chuckled. “Welcome to the dungeons o’ Doon, witches.”

A
dank, smelly dungeon wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind for my storybook castle. As Gideon forced me down a dim corridor lined with rusty iron cells, I wondered if I would meet Jamie for the first time from behind bars. Or if maybe Gideon would hold a private trial, convict us of witchcraft, and drown us in the moat before Jamie even had a chance to know I’d come.

Gideon shoved me through an open cell door and I stumbled forward, grabbing a table to right myself. Kenna rushed in after and the door clanked shut behind us.

“You okay?” Kenna leaned in and examined the cut on my neck.

“I guess.” As good as expected considering we’d traveled through a magic portal, found an enchanted kingdom, and been immediately convicted as trespassers. “You?”

She pulled back and fastened her turbulent stare to mine. “They took the rings.
And
they think we’re witches! What’re we going to do?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

Her eyes swept our surroundings, and hope filled her voice as she asked, “I don’t suppose you have any mad cheerleader skills that could get us out of here?”

I snorted. “Like what?”

“Like the ability to backflip up to that open grate above the door.”

“I’m a cheerleader, Kenna, not a ninja.”

“Right.” Mumbling something about
Sweeny Todd
under her breath, Kenna paced away and began peering into shadows and pressing random stones protruding from the walls. But there was no secret escape passage. Wishful thinker, that one.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know the dungeon was inescapable—and disgusting. The only furniture in the room was crude: a rough wooden table with two mismatched stools; a lumpy potato-sack mattress with straw sticking out at odd angles; and in the farthest, darkest corner sat a rusty metal bucket whose purpose I refused to contemplate. As far as dungeons went, this place warranted a one-star review.

I pulled Gracie’s journal from my hoodie and place it on the rickety table. As I did, Kenna circled and gestured toward my pocket. “Would you happen to have anything useful in there? A screwdriver or stun gun, maybe?”

I pressed my lips together for a second before answering. “You do realize who you’re talking to?”

“What about a knife or mace?”

With a much-deserved eye roll, I listed the meager contents of my pockets. “I’ve got tinted lip gloss and an empty baggie. Oh, and this.” I pulled out my cell and examined the screen.

“No bars—but look.” A pale square of light illuminated the open journal as I turned my phone into a flashlight.

Clearly impressed, she whistled. “I never would’ve thought of that. That’s why you’re the brains and I’m the talent.”

I ignored her as I turned my attention to the one thing that might help us out of this situation. The journal. “There’s got to be answers in here somewhere.”

Kenna resumed pacing the perimeter of our cell. “We can figure a way out of this. We’re modern women with history and technology on our side. So let’s think creatively … Do you think they know what political asylum is?” I kept searching, unwilling to encourage her by answering.

Undeterred by my silence, her stream of consciousness continued unabated. “We’ll think of something. We certainly can’t stay here. That bed looks like you could catch scurvy from it.”

I didn’t look up from the journal as I admonished, “You can’t catch scurvy from a mattress. You contract it because of a Vitamin C deficiency, and it mostly afflicts sailors.”

“How do you know that stuff? And why? Anyway, you get the point. It’s
icky
here.”

Now I looked up. “It’s a dungeon, Kenna. By definition, dungeons are
icky
.”

She ignored my patronizing look and grumbled, “I’ll bet if Fergus had his way, we wouldn’t be in here.”

Now
that
was a good idea.

I moved to the iron door and craned my head to see out of the tiny, barred window. As I’d hoped, a man-shaped shadow lurked just outside. In a tone similar to the one I used with my dance students, I called into the darkness, “Hello there? Can you hear me?”

Several seconds passed before an unfamiliar voice stiffly answered, “Aye.”

“Do you know Fergus?”

“Aye.”

“Can you please get him for us?”

Coming to my aid, Kenna pressed her face next to mine. “This is probably totally beyond you, but we’re Americans and are, therefore, entitled to a phone call. But since you people don’t have phones, we’ll settle for speaking to Fergus.”

“Nay.”

I nodded and took a step back, giving her permission to let him have it with both barrels.

“Pleeeeeease?” That particular whine had gotten us more than our fair share of candy before dinner back in the day. It chaffed like sandpaper on a sunburn. “I reeeeeally need to speak to Fergus. It’s a matter of life or death. Pleeeeaseeeee?”

From farther down the corridor I heard heavy, measured footsteps moving in our direction and then stop. “I’m here, lasses.”

Kenna tipped me a satisfied nod and stepped back mouthing, “The talent.”

Pressing my face against the bars, I asked, “Is that you, Fergus?”

“Who else would I be?” For a second I thought I’d offended him. Then his quiet laugh eased my concern. “What kin I do for ye?”

“We didn’t just appear out of nowhere—we were led here by Kenna’s aunt, Grace Lockhart.”

“The red-haired lass is Grace Lockhart’s niece?”

“Yes.” From some distance away, I heard commotion followed by the unmistakable voice of Gideon.

Fergus whispered urgently, “Have faith, lass. A higher purpose is at work here, and ye are not without allies.” Then our only hope moved out of sight.

I locked eyes with Kenna, and she gestured to the journal.
“Put that back in your pocket.” She was right. We’d already lost the rings; if they confiscated the journal, we’d be screwed.

The gate at the end of the cellblock creaked as multiple sets of footsteps drew closer. Our door swung open and Gideon barged in flanked by several stone-faced guards. Each man had a weapon belted above his kilt. “The MacCrae wishes ta see ye. Come wi’ me, witches. And take care ta hold yer tongues.”

I could only hope the MacCrae would listen to reason, or at least allow me to speak to Jamie.

We wound our way up narrow, torch-lit stairs that seemed to go on for a mile. I swallowed compulsively, trying to force moisture into my parched throat, but only succeeded in upsetting my already-churning stomach.

At the top of the stairs, Kenna and I followed Fergus’s hulk-like form down a dim corridor, Gideon’s overbearing presence our ever-present shadow. We entered a circular room smelling of stale wood-smoke and dust. Sun streamed through a bank of diamond-paned windows, causing me to blink like a rat coming up from the sewer and almost slam into Fergus as he stopped.

After returning Kenna’s wobbly smile, I let my gaze wander. Two guards stood on either side of the circular space, hands locked behind their backs, the dark brown of their leather vests blending with the rectangles of wood paneling that covered the walls. An unlit candelabra hung on a long chain, almost brushing Fergus’s pale hair. I tilted my head back, following the gilded chain of the chandelier to an oak-paneled ceiling carved into geometric sections that when viewed as a whole resembled a blooming flower. If I hadn’t been shaking in my Nikes, I would’ve been impressed.

An unnatural hush fell over the room, and all the guards pivoted to face forward. Since I couldn’t see around the giant wall of Fergus, I assumed the MacCrae had arrived.

“Where are the lasses?” asked a deep, melodic voice.

I knew that voice.

Fergus stepped aside to reveal the boy of my dreams sitting on a throne-like chair. A jewel-encrusted circlet rested atop his blond head, but something more than the crown held the room in thrall. Despite his casual posture, he radiated a natural authority, as if he’d been born to command men. His somber regard moved from Fergus, down to me, and stopped.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. All the sounds in the room faded away as our gazes caught and held. Something like hunger filled his dark eyes as they roamed over my face to my lips and back up again.

My heart beat so hard, I feared everyone in the room would hear it. Longing exploded across my body and I stepped toward him, lifting my hand. I’d been waiting for this moment—

His whole body stiffened and he scowled at my outstretched hand. I could almost feel the cold radiating from him as, without a word, he turned his back, the fur-trimmed hem of his cape fluttering against my outstretched fingers.

The blood drained from my head and pooled somewhere near my feet as sounds rushed through my ears like a roaring tide. I stumbled back several steps. Didn’t he recognize me? He’d been the one stalking
me
, for heaven’s sake!

“Gideon,” Jamie barked as he sat back on his throne. “Approach.”

“My laird.” Gideon moved from behind me and bent in a stiff bow. “These
girls
utilized the witch’s magic to infiltrate our borders. For the safety o’ the kingdom, they must be imprisoned.”

Kenna stepped forward, palms held in front of her. “Whoa,
there. I’m not going back to that hellhole. You can’t hold us without evidence. We have rights!”

Gideon spun to face us, grasping the hilt of his sword. “Not in Doon ye don’t, witch. Now hold yer tongue.”

Kenna put her hands on her hips and stepped toward him, raising herself up to her full height. “Make me, you bald rent-a-cop!”

Her bravado was admirable, but in this case I was pretty sure it was going to get us skewered. “Kenna, seriously! Now is not the time—” I pushed my impulsive friend behind me, wedging myself between her and our jailer.

“Enough!” Jamie rumbled from his throne, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Gideon, stand down.” The MacCrae had spoken. Immediately, Gideon took several steps back, but the feverish light didn’t fade from his eyes.

I threw Kenna a death stare and then turned toward the throne. “Ja—ah … Laird, please excuse my friend’s behavior. She’s tired and hungry and greatly distressed from being taken at knifepoint to a dungeon and—”

“Be silent.” Jamie’s disdain blazed at me across the room, causing heat to rush up my neck and into my cheeks. If I needed further confirmation that he didn’t know me, this was it.

“What say you to the charge of conspiring with the witch to breech the boundaries of Doon?” he asked evenly, his words hacking into my heart.

Too humiliated to speak, I stood trembling before him. Was this how I wanted to go down? Accused and convicted without a word in my own defense? The answer was a resounding
NO
.

Clenching my hands into fists, I took a step forward. But an iron grip on my arm halted my progress. I stopped, never taking my eyes off Jamie’s face. “Since you’re obviously the only
one whose opinion matters”—I made a sweeping gesture with my free hand—“why do you believe we’re here,
Your Highness
?”

His ebony gaze narrowed and his hands gripped the armrests of his throne as if he struggled to hold himself in his seat. “Are you challenging my authority?”

“I wouldn’t
dream
of it.” The barb flew out of my mouth before I could think better of it.

Jamie blinked, and for a moment the mask of authority fell from his face. His white-knuckled grip loosened, his eyes softened, and his jaw unclenched. My heart stuttered as
my
Jamie appeared before me. Did he remember after all? Or was it on the edge of his consciousness like a dream—the harder you tried to recall the details the faster they slipped away?

With a deep, shuddering breath, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, he focused on some point behind my head. The monarch was back, his perfect face void of expression. Straightening his spine, he addressed Gideon decisively. “Take ’em back to the dungeon.”

“What?” Kenna exclaimed from behind me. “That’s the extent of our hearing?”

“Please …” I almost added “Jamie,” but stopped myself just in time. “Kenna’s aunt—”

“Silence, witch!” Gideon hissed, grabbing my other arm with a painful twist.

“Let go! You’re hurting me.” Trying to pull out of Gideon’s rough grasp, I looked to Jamie for help, but he showed all the emotion of a statue.

“Take them now, Gideon,” the boy on the throne ordered impassively.

“A word, brother.” A voice called from the back of the room. I turned to see Jamie’s tall, dark-haired brother, moving toward us.

“Not now, Duncan.” Jamie’s regard shifted to his brother, but his expression didn’t change.

Undeterred, Duncan barreled forward, “These wee lasses are—”

The crown prince’s face turned as dark as a thundercloud. He shot to his feet, grabbed Duncan by the arm, and led him out the side door.

From my limited vantage point, I watched the princes whispering in heated conversation. After a moment, Jamie returned and stood before the throne, his arms crossed over his chest, his face a granite mask. Duncan stood beside him, a triumphant grin lifting one side of his mouth.

When Jamie spoke, there was no inflection in his voice. “I’m releasing you both into the custody of Fergus and my brother, Prince Duncan, until such time that yer trial can be conducted.”

Gideon’s hold tightened painfully on my arms and he sputtered, “But laird!”

Jamie’s cutting gaze shifted to my jailor. “Gideon, I require your assistance with the king.”

“Yes, sire.”

Gideon released me, and as I rubbed the feeling back into my aching arms Jamie stalked from the room without so much as a glance in my direction. Gideon followed close on his heels. Great. Just what we didn’t need—our fanatical accuser having the opportunity to fill Jamie’s head with more lies.

Duncan approached with a smug twinkle in his eye. He extended one arm to me and then turned to Kenna. “Fear not, m’ ladies. You are under the protection of Duncan Rhys Finnean MacCrae, Prince o’ Doon, and no harm will come to you. I swear it on m’ life.”