Yet . . . he did feel and see the wind. At first it was light, only slightly ruffling the grass, and then it picked up in intensity. It came from the center of the village, yards away from the castle.
He turned to see if Scott had noticed anything amiss, but he was still leaning against the car, arms folded, the wind not affecting him at all. Scott gave him a puzzled smile. Niall gave him a brief nod before turning away, moving toward the vortex. Just follow the wind.
His heart picked up its pace as he approached. His father had told him traveling through time was like riding a high-speed rollercoaster, or falling from a great height.
Niall hesitated, but only for a moment. In his mind’s eye, he saw the woman’s wide-eyed panic, his name on her lips as she cried for help.
Determination erased his hesitance, and he stepped forward, allowing the wind to suck him forward—to an unknown past.
Chapter 4
1390
MacGreghor Castle
Niall didn’t know exactly where he’d land once he traveled through time. His father had told him he’d ended up in the middle of forests, in privy chambers—and once he’d ended up in the center of a shallow lake.
When the world righted itself around him again, Niall found himself hunched over and clutching his knees on the ground, gasping for breath.
High-speed rollercoaster? He felt like he’d just fallen out of a plane and plummeted to the earth in free fall. Nausea twisted his stomach, and he took several deep breaths before stumbling to his feet.
He stood on the edge of the grounds of a sprawling stone castle, its front gates lit by torches. Some event was taking place; carriages and horses streamed in through its open gates.
He froze. Horses and carriages. There’d been a part of him that feared he’d still find himself in present-day Scotland. But as he took in the horses, carriages, and medieval clothing of the people he could make out from this distance, he realized that he was indeed in the past.
But what year? He squinted at the riders and the carriages. By the style of clothing and the carriages, he estimated late fourteenth or early fifteenth century.
“My laird? What are ye doing out here?”
Niall whirled to find a man standing behind him, his eyebrows knitted together in a confused frown. He looked to be in his early twenties, with warm brown eyes and dark hair. He wore a dark tunic and belted plaid kilt—well, what was the precursor to the kilt, though it looked close enough. Niall instantly recognized the distinctive Scottish brogue. He’d recognize the Highland accent anywhere, even one that differed slightly from the modern one. A sense of relief filled him. By the man's clothing and accent, he knew he was in the Scottish Highlands. He’d just have to make his accent match the others around him as best he could.
“My laird?” the man repeated. “How did ye get out here? And why did ye change yer clothes? Ye’re the guest of honor.”
Niall stilled, his heart thundering in his chest. Of all the scenarios he’d envisioned, this hadn’t been one of them. His mind raced as he thought about what to do until he recalled something his father once told him about time travel.
“When all else fails, son,” Ian O'Kean had said, his eyes twinkling. “Improvise.”
“I lost my way,” Niall said, hoping that he pulled off the accent. "And—these clothes suited me better."
The man stiffened, his eyes raking over him from head to toe. Did I pull it off? Niall wondered with panic. Or can he tell I’m an intruder?
But the man gave him a brief nod.
“The guests are arriving . . . the feast will start soon,” the man said, turning to head toward the castle.
Niall assumed he was supposed to follow, and trailed after the man, taking deep breaths to quell his panic. The man led him past the gates, through a bustling courtyard and past the grand double doors of the castle.
The historian in Niall wanted to stop in his tracks and gawk. He'd been in many castles all over Scotland and England, but in his time, most were decrepit ruins of what they'd once been. This castle was vibrant and full of life. Candlelight and torches lit the interior, dominated by high-arched ceilings and stone floors; the pungent scent of roasting meats and vegetables wafted into the large corridor from the kitchens, which was abuzz with the conversations of the many guests who made their way toward the great hall.
He had to force himself to keep following the man, to school his expression to one of neutrality, as the man led him into the great hall.
“There she is,” the man said, with a smile that was almost teasing, gesturing at the head table. “Yer betrothed.”
My betrothed? Fear tore through him as he followed the man’s gaze, and his heart plummeted in his chest.
It was her. The woman he’d been dreaming of. And she was even more beautiful in person.
Long auburn waves framed her heart-shaped face. She had deep-set green eyes, delicate, feminine features, and she wore a gown of emerald green that enhanced the color of her eyes. He could detect the luscious swell of her breasts beneath the bodice of her gown, and he swallowed, his desire stirring like a sleeping dragon coming awake.
She was absently sipping a cup of ale, her gaze trained on the table before her, but she stiffened, as if sensing his eyes on her. Her eyes locked with his, and a faint, lovely flush spread across her cheeks. Arousal spread through Niall at the sight, and his mouth went dry. She was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.
“My laird? Artair?”
Niall tore his eyes away from the beauty, realizing that the man at his side was addressing him. Artair. That’s who this man thought he was. He’d just have to play along—for now.
“Are ye going tae stand there staring at the lass like ye’re about tae bed her, or are ye going tae take yer seat at her side?” the man asked, his eyes shining with amusement.
“Aye,” he forced himself to say, past dry lips.
He made his way past the milling guests and across the hall, his eyes still trained on hers, and for a precious few seconds it was like they were the only two people in the great hall.
“Artair!” a male voice boomed, and Niall halted as a tall, broad-shouldered man with kind, brown eyes and dark hair shot through liberally with gray intercepted him. “Tis good tae see ye! Ye spend much time holed up in yer manor in the north. I'm glad ye're tae spend some time here at the castle. We’ve got yer guest chamber all set up. I look forward tae spending time with my future son-in-law.”
Son-in-law. This must be the beauty’s father. Niall forced himself to nod. The man’s grin widened as he turned to slide a glance toward his daughter.
“If ye weren’t betrothed tae wed my Caitria, I’d have tae put my sword through ye for the way ye’re looking at her,” the man playfully threatened, with a good-natured chuckle. “But I’ll not keep ye. Go tae yer future wife. But see me later; we have matters tae discuss.”
To Niall’s relief, the man left him alone, though dread filled him at the thought of discussing "matters.”
He continued to make his way toward the beauty—Caitria. Caitria. The woman who had come to him in his dreams, time and time again.
He reached her table and took the empty seat next to her that he assumed was meant for him. Her scent instantly struck him—lavender and rosewater. Another wave of desire washed over him as he met her gaze. She was even lovelier up close: her mouth wide and generous, her green eyes reminding him of shining jade stones. He tried to not let his gaze drift down the long, delicate arch of her throat to the curve of her breasts. He was reminded of one of the more erotic dreams he’d had about her, and his cock swelled against the fabric of his breeches.
He swallowed as she gave him a polite smile. He hadn’t counted on her physical presence affecting him so much. And for all his planning, he hadn’t decided on what he’d say to her when he met her. He thought he’d have more time to prepare; he hadn’t counted on crossing her path so soon.
“Father tells me ye’re staying here at the castle til
l we’re wed,” she said. Her voice was soft, her brogue almost musical; it wrapped around him like a warm summer’s breeze.
“Aye,” he forced himself to say, and cursed himself. He’d need to say something other than "aye" or people would get suspicious. But he didn’t know much about this Artair person, other than her father seemed to like him, and they were to soon wed.
Caitria studied him, as if waiting for him to say more, so he continued, “I—I look forward tae the time I have here.”
Caitria’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and he wondered with nervousness if she was reacting to the sound of his voice; he guessed it differed fractionally from the actual Artair’s. But she gave him a polite smile and nod.
“It . . . it will be good for us tae spend some time together, my laird. I look forward tae furthering our acquaintance,” she said, lowering her eyes.
By the way she spoke to him, as if he were a polite stranger, he guessed that their—her and this Artair’s—pending marriage—was one of convenience. She also looked perfectly miserable, he noticed now, though she tried to hide it behind her polite smile, and he felt an ache of sympathy for her. Niall had the sudden urge to do what he could to lift her veil of sadness. Women of this time had no choice in their lives—and often about whom they wed, if they were highborn—something else he hated about the past.
He was relieved that he didn’t have to respond, as servants began to mill around the great hall, serving meals to the guests: roasted geese, bread, ale, and wine.
“Guests,” Caitria’s father bellowed from the opposite end of their long table, getting to his feet. “We’ve all gathered here tae celebrate the joining of my daughter’s hand in marriage to Laird Artair Dalaigh.”
Laird Artair Dalaigh. He scanned his memory for the name. Given that people were mistaking him for Artair, he had to be a distant relative—but the name was not at all familiar.
The guests cheered as all eyes fell on him and Caitria. Caitria gave him a smile that looked a little pained, and Niall forced himself to smile as well. He had to stop focusing so much on her, and focus on what was being said. If everyone thought he was Laird Artair Dalaigh, he needed to know as much about him as possible.
“My bonnie daughter had many suitors, but I chose Laird Dalaigh as he’s from a good family with lands of his own. I also ken him tae be a good man who will treat my Caitria the way she deserves,” the man continued, looking at him with such genuine affection that a stab of guilt pierced Niall for his inadvertent deception. “I hope that ye will have many sons and continue the MacGreghor name.”
The guests cheered, and dread scorched Niall’s veins as Caitria’s father gestured for him to stand. He wanted him to make a speech.
Improvise, he told himself sharply. Just improvise. And keep it brief.
Niall got to his feet, raising his cup of ale.
“I look forward tae my union with yer daughter," Niall said. He wondered just how closely his voice matched the actual Artair's. It must have been close enough, because most of the guests didn't look suspicious, merely waiting for him to finish his speech. He raised his cup and bellowed, “To the MacGreghor clan!”
That must have been the right thing to say, as the guests cheered and shouted their congratulations.
He sat back down as the feast began in earnest, turning his attention back to Caitria. He noticed that even the way she ate seemed practiced and rehearsed—she ate with delicate bites, placing down her spoon after each one, her eyes demurely downcast.
“How—how are ye this fine evening, lass?” he asked.
Her eyes flew to his, and he realized with dismay it surprised her that he was even addressing her. This Artair is an arsehole, he decided. He must barely give this lovely woman the time of day.
“Very well, my laird,” she said, her tone stiff and formal. “I’m honored that my father chose tae honor our betrothal with this feast.”
Was she always so rehearsed? He studied her for a moment, before he said, “Please, call me Ni—Artair,” he amended quickly.
“Aye,” she murmured, lowering her gaze. “Artair.”
He wanted to converse with her more—at least to bring her out of her rehearsed shell—but Caitria’s father got to his feet, his eyes straying to him and Caitria.
“Will Laird Dalaigh and my Caitria honor the guests with a dance?”
Niall froze, but Caitria dutifully got to her feet, and Niall had no choice but to follow. All eyes were on them as they moved to the center of the hall.
Niall mentally ran through the dances of this time period, panicked, and finally settled on the quadrille, a dance performed all throughout Europe during medieval times. He’d only performed the quadrille once, during a medieval festival he’d attended several years before, and he prayed that the real Artair wasn’t an excellent dancer.
To his relief, Caitria followed right along with the dance as he took her hand. He drew her body briefly against his before she drifted away, and electricity sparked through him at the feel of her lush body.
As they danced, both his anxiety and the other guests faded away. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, relishing in the brief touches of her skin against his, the pretty flush that stained her cheeks whenever her eyes met his. When he pulled her close, he could feel her heart beat in tandem with his own, and as the chords of the music faded, they ended their dance enfolded in each other’s arms.
Their eyes met, and he thought he saw her veil of politeness fade, and a flicker—just a flicker—of desire shining in her eyes. His eyes dropped to her lips, and he wanted nothing more than to seize them with his own, to press her lovely body close to his, to—
“Leave some of it to the marital bed!” a jovial voice boomed, and Niall stepped back abruptly, as if remembering where he was, while the guests all laughed and shouted their approval.
Caitria stumbled back from him, her face flushed, and Niall looked up to see her father get to his feet. He looked pleased at their closeness, giving Niall a nod, and gestured for the other guests to dance as well.
Heart hammering, Niall started to reach for Caitria’s hand to escort her back to their table, but she stepped back out of his grasp.
“I’m—I’m sorry, my laird—Artair,” she corrected herself hastily. “I—I’m not feeling well. I need tae take my leave.”
He watched as she left the great hall, his heart thundering in his chest. Of everything he'd planned for when he came to the past, he hadn't counted on his instant and overwhelming attraction to the woman who’d drawn him here.
Chapter 5
Caitria darted out of the great hall, her heart racing. She’d never had such a visceral reaction to any man before—including Artair.
From the moment he’d entered the great hall, his eyes intently trained on hers, Caitria had been unable to breathe. She’d had to force herself to pretend not to notice his eyes on her, though his gaze left a blazing trail of heat on every inch of her skin. When he’d held her in his arms as they danced, arousal had careened throughout her body, and she had to concentrate on each step. At the end of their dance, time had seemed suspended, and she’d hoped—wished, ached—for him to kiss her. She had to flee from the great hall, even though she knew it displeased her parents, because she didn’t think she could continue to act nonchalant around him.
When Caitria entered her chamber, she dismissed the gossiping maids, sinking down onto the edge of her bed.
There was something . . . different about Artair tonight. Something she couldn’t quite place. She’d always noticed that Artair was a handsome man, with chestnut-colored hair, sky-blue eyes, and strong, angular features—but he’d never caused such desire to spiral in her belly. She’d sensed the difference in just the way he looked at her. He’d never looked at her with such raw desire, just with a polite friendliness. He’d certainly never seemed interested in how she was doing, nor studied her as if trying to discern what has happening in her very soul.
But it was Artair. So what had c
hanged? His voice was slightly different—deeper, the lilt of his words slightly off kilter. Other than the way he looked at her, noticed her, she couldn’t pinpoint what else had changed.
None of this matters, she told herself, as she disrobed and crawled into bed. Ye’re marrying him either way. Perhaps this sudden desire will make everything easier . . . or it will simply fade.
Her mother sent a maid to fetch her for midmorning supper, and dread coiled in her gut at the summons. She was in for a scolding for fleeing the betrothal feast the night before.
Yet when she entered her mother’s private chamber, it surprised her to find Liusaidh . . . smiling.
Liusaidh beamed, getting to her feet and crossing the chamber to take Caitria’s hands.
“Ye and Artair were perfect together last night. Everyone could see how much desire there was between ye. I thought he’d take ye right there in the hall.”
“Mother!” Caitria hissed, her face flaming, but her mother was already continuing.
“I admit . . . I felt some guilt over arranging for ye tae marry Artair. He’s a perfectly kind man, but . . . distant. Ye always acted like strangers around each other. But last night, I was counting the bairns ye're going tae have.”
“Mother,” Caitria repeated, “I’d rather not discuss—”
“Ye’ll be a married woman soon; we should discuss such matters,” Liusaidh interrupted. “And given the way yer betrothed was looking at ye last night, ye’ll soon be with child.”
She waved for her to sit, and Caitria obliged, her face still warm, as her mother continued, “That’s why I wanted tae share a meal with ye, in private. I ken I should have discussed such matters with ye the day ye became betrothed tae Artair, so 'tis far past time. For yer wedding night—”
“’Tis not necessary,” Caitria interrupted, but Liusaidh continued, detailing exactly what she could expect during her wedding night.
Niall's Bride: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 4) Page 3