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Setting: Historical Scotland "Here now, lass. Ye can't be lying in the alley. Off with yerself." Sarah's eyes fluttered open. She glanced up into the face of an elderly man with the biggest red nose she'd ever seen. Not D.K., definitely. She sat up, glancing around. Where was she? She rubbed her sore head. She'd been in a car accident; she remembered that much. Then some cowboys had assaulted her. Now she was in an alley--somewhere. What was going on? Had D.K. left her here? "Where am I?" "Behind the Crow's Nest Tavern. Ye best be off 'fore the owner shows up. He'd like nothin' better'an to get his hands on another wench for his establishment." Sarah pushed herself to her feet. Dang, it was cold! She looked down at her attire. What in the world was she wearing? The skirt covered enough skin, she supposed. But the top! It hung off her shoulders, barely covering her breasts. She tried to tug it up, but it wouldn't budge. "This is the back of a tavern?" she asked the man standing beside her. Amnesia. Maybe that's what she had. But if she had amnesia, she wouldn't know who she was. Selective amnesia, that was it! Well, she'd find a phone, and call her father. He'd come get her. "Aye, lass." "Thank you." She started around the building with a purposeful stride. Where the heck was she? Everything looked so old. Raucous laughter caught her attention as she neared the front of the tavern. The door was open, so she stepped inside. Goodness! The place looked right out of history. The women serving drinks were dressed similar to herself. Several men grabbed for her as she headed toward the bar, but she side-stepped their outreached arms. "Excuse me?" she called to the bartender. "Where's your phone?" The tall, muscular man turned at the sound of her voice. "Phone?" Sarah gulped. The snake on the back of his hand drew her attention. Her gaze snapped up. The man's green eyes bored into her. "D.K.," she whispered. "Aye." He cocked his head. "Do I know ye, lass?" "I was the one in the woods ... from the car accident. You brought me here, didn't you?" She glanced around, her nerves stretched tight. Had this man abducted her? Her hands trembled as she pushed a stray lock of hair from her face. D.K. walked around the bar. He grabbed her arm and led her over to a table. "Better sit down before ye fall. Feelin' ill?" He snapped his fingers and a woman rushed over with two tankards of ale. "Here, drink this. Are ye in trouble, lass?" Sarah took a large swig of the dark ale. She coughed and spurted as the liquid burned her throat. Tears filled her eyes. "I want to go home. Please." Her bottom lip trembled. How had this happened to her? "I'll help ye, lass?" He patted her hand. "Where do ye live? I'll get ye a carriage." A carriage? The concern in his eyes touched her. But why was he speaking so strangely, and with an accent? She took another drink. He lightly touched her cheek. "I can't help ye, if ye don't tell me how." His touch felt so good against her skin, and she almost believed his words. He'd spoken in such a soft and understanding tone. What should she do? Should she trust D.K., or was he the source of her problems? Her gaze fell upon a piece of paper on the table. It looked like an announcement printed on some sort of parchment. She took another drink and pulled the paper over to her, feigning interest, while she gathered her thoughts. Her eyes widened at the words she read--Mary, Queen of Scots Beheaded. She glanced around the room again. "What ... what year is this?" she asked hesitantly, a slight quiver in her voice. Her hand tightened around the tankard. Laughter greeted her in response. "If ye need to know what year it is, ye've had enough to drink." "Please, D.K.--tell me." "1587. What year was ye thinkin' it was?" Sarah jumped to her feet. Dizziness hit her full and hard. From what he'd told her? From the ale? She didn't know. Strong arms enveloped her as she fell. Then everything went dark and silent. |