The grief that pierced her at the thought nearly sent her to her knees. She couldn’t allow that to happen.
She didn’t know how long she paced the length of her small room, mulling over what to do next and reeling over his words, but fatigue gradually claimed her, and she curled up on the bed, falling into a dreamless sleep.
When she awoke, she knew it was time to face him. She changed into a fresh gown before stepping out of her room.
She yelped when she almost stumbled over a large heap just outside her door. Niall had been curled up there, sleeping, but he stumbled to his feet at the sight of her.
Her heart clenched at the sight of him. Even through her anger, he still had an effect on her.
“Did—did ye sleep out here?” she asked in disbelief.
“Yes,” he said, and it was jarring to hear the change in his accent—his accent from this alleged future. The accent he put on tae fool ye, she thought with a surge of anger.
She took a breath to calm herself and stepped aside to let him in. He entered, keeping his distance from her as she closed the door behind her and leaned against it.
“I thought about turning ye in tae my father, and letting him handle ye,” she said, after a long pause. He blanched but remained still as she continued, “But as angry as I am, I doonae want tae see ye hang.”
Because I care for ye, and I desire ye still, she thought. Even though I ken it makes me a fool.
“I want ye tae prove tae me yer story is true,” she continued. “If you cannae, I want ye tae go on yer way. I’ll make some excuse for ye, and I willnae turn ye in.”
He studied her for a long moment; she could practically see him thinking. Or perhaps he was thinking of a clever lie?
Finally, he stepped forward. He took her hands in his, and she wanted to jerk away, but the imploring look in his eyes rendered her still.
“I could give you facts about the future, but even that may not convince you. All I’ll say is this—I care about you, Caitria. I think you’re a beautiful, passionate and intelligent woman who deserves more out of the life than the one you’ve been born into. I don’t regret traveling back in time to help you. So I’m going to ask you for one thing, even though I know I don’t deserve it. Give me time to prove that Ferghas is dangerous. You still have a few weeks left until you’re supposed to wed Artair. In the meantime, we can stay betrothed to keep Ferghas away from you. Once I get the proof I need, you can present it to your father—and then I disappear. Hopefully your father will then let you choose your own husband, your own path in life. And even if he doesn’t, you can choose your own path, Caitria. I want you to know that, no matter what.”
His blue eyes held hers, tense and imploring. Caitria considered his words, and a lightness filled her at the possibility he presented. Choosing her own husband. Traveling as much as she wished. Having the freedom she craved.
Without Niall. A sharp pang pierced her at the thought, and she lowered her gaze.
But what was the alternative? If she sent him away, her father would marry her off to Ferghas. She recalled that dark look of fury in his eyes, his bruising grip on her arm, and she shivered.
“No,” she said finally, and his face paled, but she continued, “ye willnae be the one tae prove that Ferghas is dangerous. We will.”
She held his gaze, firm, another spark of anger flaring inside of her at the possibility that Ferghas had committed such an act.
Niall's color returned, and she thought she saw a flicker of pride in the depths of his eyes.
“We’ll maintain the pretense of ye being Artair . . . of us being betrothed,” she forced herself to say. “But I will help ye expose Ferghas. And then—and then ye’ll go on yer way.”
He swallowed, and there was a brief flare of pain in his eyes, but he gave her a nod.
“We still have a little time before we need to return to the castle,” he said. “There’s—something else I’d like you to see.”
Caitria hesitated. She should tell him that they needed to return to the castle at once, that their betrothal was now for show only . . . but she was hungry to see more. And, Niall’s admission aside, yesterday had been the best day of her life. Who knew when she would next leave her father’s lands to explore?
She nodded her agreement.
They rode east from Inverness, their guards riding close behind them. They’d protested when Niall told them he wanted to take Caitria to see one last sight, but had finally agreed when he'd insisted.
She tried not to look at him as she rode, tried to ignore the emotions of betrayal and anger that swirled in her gut. She could feel Niall’s gaze on her as they rode, but kept her gaze firmly on the dusty road ahead.
They stopped when they reached a lone stretch of a sandy beach. He helped her down from her horse, handing the reigns off to a hovering guard. She moved away from his touch, moving toward the shore.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Moray Firth," he said. “A firth of the North Sea.”
For a moment, Caitria forgot all about her anger as she took in the glittering waters that heaved and churned onto the shore with awe. Hadn’t she longed to see the ocean, the sea? She imagined boarding a boat and sailing out of the firth and to the sea, then traveling south to the continent.
The heat of Niall’s gaze seared her skin. She turned, making certain the guards were some distance away before she spoke.
“What is it like?” she asked tentatively. “In . . . yer time? In the future?”
Hope shone in his eyes as he studied her, as if trying to read her thoughts. She looked away from his probing stare. She wasn’t sure what to make of his tale of being from the future, but she couldn’t fathom why he’d make up such a story.
“It’s hard to explain the modern era in a few words, but I’ll try. There are tall buildings, some as tall as small mountains. There are cars—carriages without horses—powered by something called engines.”
She listened intently as he described the breadth and size of cities in his time, the robust populations, the “technology” that dominated the future. But her interest piqued when he spoke of lands on the other side of the world.
“There are other lands tae the west?” she breathed.
“Yes,” he replied. “Europeans en masse won’t discover these lands for another century, but they’re there.”
He turned and pointed west. Caitria followed his gaze, as if she could see these lands beyond the horizon. She tried to imagine what these lands looked like, and the people who inhabited them.
“People must travel a great deal in yer time,” she said, unable to keep the trace of longing out of her tone.
“Yes. For a lot of people it’s quite common. Caitria . . .”
She looked up. He gazed at her with urgency.
“Do you believe me?”
She averted her gaze, turning away.
“We should be heading back,” she said shortly. “Ye ken my parents will worry.”
“Caitria,” he repeated, and reached for her hand. Heat spiraled through her at his touch, and she wanted to jerk her hand away, but she was unable to, and made herself meet his impassioned eyes. “I had no intention of taking Artair’s place when I came to this time, I swear it. People just began to call me his name, and I knew that would make it easier to get to you—to warn you. Did you not suspect anything?”
“I did,” she grudgingly agreed. “Ye do bear his likeness. And . . .”
“And?” he pressed.
“Ye look at me . . . differently than he did.”
“And how is that?”
His voice had dropped; it was husky, tinged with desire.
The heat that spiraled through her flared into a burning fire as she gazed into the blue depths of his eyes.
“Like . . . ye want me,” she whispered.
“I do,” he said throatily, pulling her close, and she could feel his heartbeat hammering along with her own. “God, Caitria, never believe my desire for y
ou is a lie.”
His eyes fell to her lips, and she wanted nothing more than for him to kiss her, to forget that he wasn’t Artair, but an imposter.
But she couldn’t. She forced herself to step back and look away.
“That changes nothing,” she whispered. “Ye’re not Artair. Ye’re here tae protect me from danger and nothing more. We should return tae the castle.”
Chapter 13
Niall had become an expert on the subtleties of Caitria's expressions—her strained smiles when she was being polite, the glitter in her eyes when her joy or amusement was genuine.
In her more genuine moments, she was careless and free—laughing with her head thrown back and her mouth opened wide, or a light shining in her eyes when she saw something that fascinated her. She’d only expressed genuine joy during their day of exploration in Inverness.
But once he told her the truth about himself, all that open joy faded, collapsing in on itself like a great mountain crumbling to ashes. Her guard was up once more, yet it was a different sort of armor than the one she’d worn when he first met her. She now treated him as if he were a dangerous animal not to be trusted instead of a polite stranger. He’d prepared himself for her anger, for fury—but not for her coldness. He ached to see her smile, to see the light that shone in her eyes—it was like basking in the sun, and now that it was gone, he was hyperaware of its absence.
In spite of this, he knew she still desired him. He could tell by the way she looked at him when they stood on the firth, the hunger in her eyes plain. If her desire for him was still there, he could perhaps get her to open up to him again . . . to trust him.
During their journey back to the castle, she didn’t spare him a single glance, keeping her gaze trained fixedly ahead. He studied her as they rode; her shoulders stiff, her hands tightly gripping the reins.
As angry as she was with him, he was relieved that she hadn’t sent him away. It was within her rights to report him to her guards, and he'd had an escape plan tucked away in the back of his mind had that been the case. The fact that she hadn’t gave him even more hope—not only did she desire him; she must care about him as well.
She'd surprised him when she told him she’d work with him against Ferghas, and pride had swept over him. He doubted the tentative woman he’d first met would have made such a suggestion. But as proud as he was of her for her newfound agency, he’d have to make certain she kept her distance from Ferghas. A chill spread through him at the thought of the malice in the other man’s eyes. He’d risk his own life before he allowed her to come to harm at Ferghas’s hands.
When they arrived back at MacGreghor Castle, her parents and several servants immediately swarmed them. Caitria dismounted, still not looking at him, as Liusaidh and her maids ushered her inside.
"I take it ye had a fine journey?" Drostan asked, approaching Niall as he dismounted.
"Aye," Niall forced himself to say, giving him a light smile.
She’s furious with me. But I’m going to win her trust back.
"I'm glad tae hear it. I ken ye must be tired from yer journey, but there’s something I’d like tae discuss with ye,” Drostan said, gesturing for Niall to follow him.
For a moment, fear circled through his chest, but he reminded himself that Drostan didn’t know he was an imposter—yet. Caitria could still decide to out him to her father.
They reached Drostan’s study, and Niall stiffened when he saw Ferghas standing there. Ferghas’s mouth tightened with dislike at the sight of him, and Niall gritted his teeth, but gave him a curt nod.
“We’ve had sightings of an intruder on the grounds,” Drostan said grimly. “Two guards have seen him, but when they go after him, he vanishes. I want ye tae keep my daughter close under yer watch—I’m hoping that 'tis nothing, but I wanted ye tae be aware.”
The danger is right under your nose, Niall wanted to shout, meeting Ferghas’s gaze. His instincts told him that Ferghas was behind this as well, but again, he had no proof.
“Thank ye for telling me,” he said instead.
“Did my daughter enjoy Inverness?” Drostan asked.
“Aye,” he said, making sure to hold Ferghas's fierce gaze. “Quite.”
He left the study with fury racing through his veins. How was he going to get the proof he needed that Ferghas was a murderous snake?
He halted in his tracks as an idea struck him.
He found Latharn by the kitchens, flirting with a pretty kitchen maid who bowed and hurried inside the kitchens at the sight of him. Though he was getting used to people seeing him as Artair, he wasn’t used to the reverence reserved for a medieval laird.
Latharn straightened at the sight of him, studying his taut face with concern.
“We need tae speak privately,” Niall told him.
Latharn trailed him to his chamber. Niall faced him, deciding to speak without preamble.
“What do ye think of Ferghas?”
Latharn stiffened, and Niall could see his guard instantly go up.
“He’s a fine man, beloved by many of the—"
“Latharn,” Niall interrupted. “I asked what ye thought of him.”
Latharn hesitated. “My laird, I doonae ken why—”
“Ye can speak plainly with me. I doonae like him, and I think he’s dangerous. I want tae keep him away from Caitria. And I think—" He expelled a breath. “I doonae think Tadhg MacGreghor’s death was an accident. I ken he was thrown from his horse, but I doonae think that’s what killed him. I think it may have been Ferghas.”
Latharn paled, and he swallowed hard, his body going tense.
“I doonae like the man either,” Latharn confessed. “I never have. He’s always seemed—dark—despite the smile he wears for the nobles. But murder? I doonae ken if—"
“Ye were there in the clearing when he aimed for me—ye took the arrow that was meant for me. I doonae think that was an accident.”
All traces of remaining color drained from Latharn’s face.
“I—I thought ’twas odd that he missed the boar by such a distance, but I didnae want tae believe that he was aiming for ye.”
“He was,” Niall said, without hesitation. “I think he wants Caitria for himself and me out of the way. I think he killed Tadhg, the laird’s heir, so that he would be the one tae inherit once he wed Caitria.”
“What proof do ye have of this, my laird?”
“None yet,” Niall said, holding his gaze. “And that’s why I need yer help.”
Niall didn't see Caitria until supper the next night; he suspected she was avoiding him. Though she gave him a polite nod when he sat down at her side, it was jerky and forced, and she barely looked at him throughout the meal, responding to any question he asked with a one-word reply.
At the end of the meal, when she tried to excuse herself, he got to his feet and gently took her arm.
"I'll escort ye back tae yer chamber, my lady," he said, holding her gaze, knowing that the socially well-trained Caitria wouldn't make a scene in the great hall. Her eyes flared, but she gave him a curt nod, allowing him to escort her from the hall.
But instead of escorting her to her chamber, he led her down the corridor toward the courtyard.
“Where are ye—” she began.
“I thought some air might be good for you,” he said, keeping his voice low, something he now did when he switched to his natural, modern accent around her. She flinched, and he didn’t know if it was at the prospect of spending time alone with him, or the sound of his modern accent—the reminder that he wasn’t Artair.
Yet she didn’t protest, allowing him to keep his hand on her arm as they made their way out to the courtyard, then to the grounds beyond.
“I’m having Latharn follow Ferghas,” he said, once they were alone. “He told me Ferghas hardly spends time at his own manor—most of the time he’s here at the castle. Latharn is friendly with some of the stable boys as well; they’ll help. Hopefully we’ll discover something by following him
.”
A look of surprise and then relief flickered across her face, her guardedness seeming to melt away.
“Good. I’m going tae ask my maids if they’ve noticed anything as well.”
“That could be helpful,” he said.
She turned to head back inside, but he stopped her, gripping her arm.
“It’s a lovely night,” he said. “We should enjoy it.”
He waited, tense, fully expecting her to protest. Relief coursed through him when she gave him a hesitant nod, and they continued to walk.
“It’s something I appreciate about this time,” he continued, studying her to gauge her reaction to his words. It was important to him that she believe he was from the future. “How clear the air is. For all the benefits of the future, there are drawbacks as well. Pollution being one thing.”
She met his eyes, and there was no anger or disbelief there. Only curiosity.
“Pollution?”
“The technology I told you about—some of it has produced contaminants. In the larger cities, one has to drive deep into the countryside for fresh air. My father . . . he would sometimes take me to the countryside, away from Edinburgh, in between his conferences or speaking engagements.”
“Yer father . . . and the rest of yer family,” she said, after a long pause. “Back in Inverness, ye told me they’re all time travelers?”
Hope darted through him at her words. She didn't ask her question with skepticism, there was only genuine curiosity in her tone.
He let it all spill out: the tales of his relatives who could travel through time, his father’s various travels, the portal village of Tairseach, and even the stiuireadh, who aided travelers through time.
She listened as he spoke, her expression intense and focused. He stopped walking, turning to face her.
“Do ye believe me, Caitria?”
“I’m still angry at ye,” she said in response, with a scowl.
“I know,” he said. “And I understand why. But—"
“Aye, Niall,” she said, and his true name on her lips filled him with joy. “I do. I just—I doonae ken how ’tis possible.”
Niall's Bride: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 4) Page 8