“It was done long ago and cannot be undone. Do not think to constrain me. I will only find a way around it.”

Aoibheal arched a gilded brow. “I think not, Amadan, for you are at my side until I release you. My command was clear. Ponder it. There is no weak spot for you to exploit.”

In his mind, Adam sorted through her words. Her command had been simple, direct, and flawless. His eyes widened as he comprehended how completely she had snared him with so few words. Most who tried to command him composed lengthy written canons, like that boorish Sidheach Douglas at Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea, who’d written a veritable book. But sometimes, less was truly more, and she had chosen her words well. He could leave neither her nor the island unless and until she said so. “But they will sully my creation.”

“I care not. From this moment on, you are powerless in their lives. Amadan Dubh: I take from you the gift of sifting time.”

“Stop!”

“Obey me and cease your tiresome protests.”

“You bitch.”

“For that I take from you your ability to weave worlds.”

Adam fell silent, his face ashen. The Queen could strip everything from him, if she so desired.

“Are you quite finished?” she asked silkily.

Adam nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Good. When it is done, I will release you. When they have played out their choices. Now come, lovely fool: Show me you still know how to please a Queen, and make it your finest effort, for you have offended me most egregiously and I shall require much in the way of … mmm.”

* * *

Robert the Bruce was fuming. The travel-stained, weary messenger who stood before him shuffled miserably, awaiting the fatal blow. He eyed the Bruce’s sword, knowing that the moment his king pulled it from its scabbard, he would likely lose his courage and dignity and beg or, worse, run.

“What was my brother thinking?”

“I doona know that he was,” the messenger replied dejectedly. “They were well besotted with whisky.”

“Had he been drinking with the English again?” Robert’s lips curled in a sneer.

The messenger nodded, afraid to speak.

“How dare he be the one to determine the time and place for my battles?” Robert thundered. He couldn’t believe what the messenger had imparted: His brother Edward, who was in charge of the siege against Stirling Castle, which was being held by the English, had made a “wager” with the Englishman holding it. A wager! A drink-induced challenge, and booty far more valuable than Stirling itself was the prize.

An admission of defeat was the prize, a full retreat from the battle for the crown. Robert could nearly feel his kingdom slipping from his tenuous grasp. His men weren’t yet ready for this battle. He needed more time.

“You may be underestimating your men,” Niall McIllioch said. “I know it often seems the present is not the right time, but perhaps it is.”

Robert shot him a furious glance. “Exactly what were the words exchanged?” he demanded of the ashen messenger.

The messenger winced and glanced around the dim interior of the Bruce’s tent, seeking help. No one came to his aid. Two blue-eyed Berserkers watched his every move from the shadows—as if that wasn’t enough to make a man collapse in a puddle of fear! He sighed, resigned to further infuriating his king.

“Sir Philip de Mowbray, the current commander of the English forces at Stirling, wagered with your brother thusly: If a relieving English army does not approach to within three miles of Stirling Castle by Midsummer’s Day, he will surrender the castle to you and your brother and leave Scotland, never to return. If the relieving army successfully attains Stirling, you will give up your fight for Scotland’s independence.”

“And my dim-witted brother Edward accepted this?” Robert roared.

“Aye.”

Robert shook his head. “Does he not realize what this means? Does he not realize that King Edward will gather every troop he has—English, Welsh, Irish, French, supported by every mercenary he can hire—and drive them into my land in less than two weeks’ time?”

No one breathed in the tent.

“Does my idiot brother not realize that England has triple our mounted men, quadruple our spearmen and archers?”

“But they’re our hills and valleys,” Niall reminded softly. “We know this land. We know what advantages to exploit, and doona forget, we have Brodie and his Templars. We have the gentle mists and bogs. We can do this, Robert. We’ve been fighting for years for our freedom and we have yet attained no decisive victory. It is time now. Doona underestimate the men who follow you. We have two weeks to rally the forces. Believe in us as we have believed in you.”