“Ah, my Caitria,” Drostan said, once they were alone, reaching out to give her a warm embrace. “'Tis good tae see ye, my bairn. Yer betrothed has been occupying much of yer time.”
A heated flush spread across her cheeks at the memory of her body entwined with Niall’s the night before. She gave him a quick nod and straightened, focusing on what she'd come here to discuss.
“I . . . I was hoping I could ask ye something," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, though anxiety raced through her.
“Aye?” Drostan asked, leaning back against his desk with a concerned frown.
She studied him, and for a brief moment considered telling him about Ferghas, but held her tongue. Niall was right; she didn’t want to risk word getting back to Ferghas and her maids bearing the consequences of his anger.
“I—I was wondering if . . . if it would be possible tae postpone the wedding."
If she could get the wedding to “Artair” postponed . . . keeping a barrier between her and Niall would be easier.
At her words, the warmth in Drostan's face vanished and his eyes narrowed.
“Why? Is Artair not treating ye—”
“No,” she interrupted, “he’s been nothing but kind tae me. I just thought that—before the wedding . . . " She crawled through her mind, recalling a term that Niall had told her was common in the future. "I could go on holiday."
She knew this was unlikely, but what better way to gain more distance from Niall? And given that her father had allowed her to go to Inverness, perhaps he’d allow her to travel more.
"Holiday," Drostan echoed, his frown deepening. "What do ye mean?"
"I take a break for awhile. Go . . . exploring. Seeing Inverness made me want tae see more. Perhaps Edinburgh. Or London.”
Drostan's expression was now cold and dark. Unease coiled around her, and she continued in a rush, “I’d still get married tae Artair, of course, but first I’d—”
“I shouldnae have allowed ye tae go tae Inverness," Drostan interrupted, scowling. "It put dangerous notions in yer head about traveling. Ye ken ’tis dangerous. And going tae England? There’s not a single Sassenach I trust.”
“I just thought—"
“I’ve been lenient with ye as of late because I love ye so and ye’ve always been obedient. I trust Artair; he’ll keep ye safe. He kens not tae take ye out of Scotland again. Ye’ll stay close tae MacGreghor Castle where ye belong, where the clan and yer husband can keep ye safe.”
With each word, Drostan's voice had risen to an intimidating roar—a tone that had frightened her when she was a bairn. But now it wasn't fear that seized her—it was anger. She wanted to retort that perhaps she could take care of herself, that perhaps danger was everywhere, and keeping her close was no guarantee of her safety.
But before she could muster a reply, her father’s expression softened, and he expelled a breath. He reached for her hand, squeezing it.
“Caitria,” he whispered. “Ye and yer mother are like air tae me. I’ve lost one bairn—I cannae bear the thought of anything happening tae ye. Ye must stay close where I can keep ye safe.”
Caitria’s anger evaporated, though she considered telling him that there was already danger in their midst—Ferghas. But his expression was tired and weary, and he suddenly looked older than his years.
She stepped forward to embrace him before leaving his study with an obedient nod. But one day, she was going to tell her father that she was capable of taking care of herself.
She avoided Niall for the rest of the day by remaining in her chamber, and when it was time for supper, she feigned fatigue. Yet when Ailsa entered her chamber with her meal, a determined-looking Niall trailed her.
Caitria stumbled to her feet, startled.
“He cornered me by the kitchens and insisted on following me here,” Ailsa said with an apologetic smile as she set down her meal—a meal for two, Caitria noted with annoyance.
“Are you avoiding me?” Niall asked bluntly, after Ailsa left the chamber.
“No,” she lied, taking a seat at the table and focusing on her food. "I've just been tired."
“Caitria.” A gentle hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her up from her chair, and she was forced to look at him.
“You're embarrassed about last night."
Caitria flushed; it annoyed her that he knew her so well.
"You shouldn't be," he said gently. "I wanted to tell you—your offer was very tempting. But we have to be practical. The real Artair could show up at any moment. And—and you should be married to someone of your choosing. Someone from this time.”
“I ken. It was foolish tae suggest—”
“It wasn’t foolish. But if you’re worried about the possibility of marrying Ferghas—you won’t. I will do everything I can to prevent that. We will get him. I promise you that, Caitria.”
Though her heart ached at his words, a sense of relief also filled her—she knew he meant every word. They ate in relative silence, and at the end of the meal, Niall pulled her to her feet, and without preamble, he kissed her. She couldn’t fight the need that coursed through her as she returned his kiss, and when he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I’ve half a mind to take you right here,” he whispered. “But your chambermaids might walk in on us.”
Caitria couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her shocked chambermaids finding them in bed. He lowered his lips to her ear, his voice husky.
“Come to my chamber tonight, my Caitria. I want to taste you again. Every part of you.”
Caitria’s heart thundered as she met his eyes, her own desire for him scorching her insides. Ye have tae keep yer distance, she reminded herself. He doesnae belong in this time. Ye must protect yer heart.
But that night, her persistent need for him propelled her out of bed and to his chamber door, even as she scolded herself; even as she urged herself to turn around and return to her chamber.
When he swung open his door, all resistance melted away as he lifted her up into his arms, carrying her to his bed.
Their lovemaking was fierce and heated; he feasted upon her center until she came with a cry, and she straddled him as he thrust up into her, his hands cradling her buttocks, his mouth nestled into the side of her neck as he groaned her name. When she came for a second time, he found his release just after her, pulling her even closer as he gasped out her name.
“Caitria,” he whispered reverently, peppering kisses along her throat as he lowered her back to the bed. “I could make love to you for hours, for days . . .”
She smiled, reaching up to trace his handsome features.
“As could I,” she whispered. Because I love ye.
She didn’t know when she’d started to love Niall—perhaps her love for him had begun as soon as he entered the hall for the betrothal feast. Or perhaps when he’d asked her—and truly listened—to what her hopes and dreams were. All she knew now was that she loved him with every part of her being; it was why her futile attempts at staying away from him failed.
But they couldn’t be together. He was a man from a time far ahead of her own.
Her heart constricted, and she sat up to dress.
“Where are you going?” Niall asked, his voice a low, seductive rumble as he traced her skin with a fingertip. “We were just getting started . . .”
“I should get back,” Caitria whispered.
“Caitria—"
“Good night,” she said, looking down at him with a forced smile. “I'll see ye tomorrow. We can go riding.”
This seemed to placate him, his handsome features relaxing into a smile as he watched her go.
Her thoughts were a jumble of conflict as she made her way to her chamber, and at first she didn’t notice the figure standing in the center of the corridor.
“What has ye out of bed at this hour?”
Caitria halted. Ferghas approached her, his eyes predatory. She realized with dawning horror that he was drunk—his ey
es were bloodshot, and she could smell the ale on his breath from where she stood.
What was he doing here? His guest chamber was on the other side of the castle. Was he still harassing the maids? Or was he looking for her?
“Ye werenae returning from yer betrothed’s chamber, were ye?” he asked, his eyes flaring with jealousy as he raked in her scant underdress.
“’Tis none of yer concern,” she snapped, trying not to show her fear as she attempted to step past him.
Ferghas’s hand shot out to grab her arm, yanking her hard against his body. Caitria struggled, fear slicing through her, but she was useless against his strength.
“He’s had yer body,” Ferghas growled, looking down at her with disgust. “The body that should belong tae me alone.”
“Let me—"
“I ken yer Artair is hiding something—and I’ll soon find out what it is,” he snarled, leaning in close. “And when I find out, I’ll tell yer father and make certain he hangs for it. Then ye’ll be mine.”
His eyes were wild, feral, and panic replaced her fear as he gave her a sickening smile.
“I was going tae make our first time pleasurable for ye, but I’m going tae make sure ye bleed from every hole for giving yerself tae him,” he hissed. “And then I’ll mar that lovely body of yers with my blade and inscribe it with my name, over and over again, until ye beg for mercy. Ye’ll never forget who ye belong tae once I have ye in my bed. So enjoy yer brief time with him, whore. Ye’ll never ken pleasure—or happiness—again, once ye’re mine.”
He left Caitria in the center of the corridor, pale and trembling in his wake, horror coursing through her veins.
Chapter 18
Drostan summoned Niall to his study early the next morning. When Niall entered, he noticed with unease that Drostan didn’t wear his usual jovial expression—he was looking at him with suspicion.
Niall tensed, fear creeping down his spine. Had he finally gleaned that Niall was an imposter?
“My laird?” Niall asked, hoping that his tone sounded even. “Ye wanted tae see me?”
“Aye,” Drostan said, his eyes intent on Niall’s. “I’ve learned something about ye that concerns me greatly.”
Niall swallowed hard. He remained rigid, trying to keep his expression neutral.
“Yer wedding tae my daughter approaches; there needs tae be trust between us,” Drostan continued, his eyes never leaving Niall’s.
“Aye. Of course,” Niall said, his heart thundering.
“Remember the intruder I told ye about? The one we found wandering the grounds?”
“Aye.”
“Well, we caught him,” Drostan said, taking a step closer. “And he told us ye hired him.”
Niall was thrown so off-guard by this that he just stared at Drostan in disbelief. He’d been bracing himself for an accusation about his true identity—not for this.
“He didnae tell us why, but he did tell us ye were the one tae put him up tae it,” Drostan continued, taking another step toward Niall, “Is this true?”
Niall opened his mouth and closed it again, shaking his head in astonishment. Why would this man tell such a lie?
And then the realization struck him with the force of a thunderbolt. Ferghas.
“No,” Niall bit out. “’Tis not true. I’ve no reason tae hire someone tae intrude on yer property—it doesnae make any sense. I’m already on yer property, soon tae wed yer daughter.”
Drostan studied him for several long moments, as if trying to ascertain the truth of his words, before he visibly relaxed.
“That’s what I thought,” Drostan muttered, shaking his head. “I think ’tis a clan we once had a rivalry with—Clan Ruadh. I think their chieftain wants tae drive a wedge between me and my future son-in-law by casting ye in suspicion.”
Niall clenched his fists at his sides; it took great effort to hold his tongue. His gut instincts told him this was Ferghas’s doing—the other man must be desperate to get rid of him.
“Where is this man?” Niall asked tightly. “I’d like tae question him.”
“I sent him on his way. Didnae want tae start a clan war by having the man imprisoned here for long. But I warned him not tae trespass on these lands again—or I'll imprison him. I doonae take well tae imposters.”
Panic darted through him at Drostan’s words, and he struggled to keep his expression calm.
“What will ye do? About this other clan?” Niall asked, swallowing hard.
“Arrange a meeting with the chieftain of Clan Ruadh. See if I can get this sorted out,” Drostan said, his face tight with tension.
Another surge of anger flowed through Niall. He knew how turbulent clan relations were during this time. Was this what Ferghas wanted? To start a clan war just to get rid of him?
“I’m sorry tae have troubled ye—tae have even asked,” Drostan was saying, giving him an apologetic look. “When Ferghas told me what the man said, I didnae want tae believe him. But I trust ye—and Ferghas—with my life,” he continued, smiling before waving him away. “Go—enjoy the day. Take my daughter riding or go walking with her.”
Niall gritted his teeth, desperately wanting to share what he knew about Ferghas, but he still had no solid proof, and Drostan adored him.
He left the chamber, glad at the very least that Drostan no longer looked at him with suspicion. But he should, a dark voice whispered. You are an imposter.
Dread darted through him at the thought of Drostan finding this out. He’d hated the way Drostan had looked at him during those brief moments of suspicion.
Niall expelled a sigh, shaking his head. He'd done too good of a job filling in as Artair—he’d come to care about Artair’s future father-in-law, and he was falling for Artair’s betrothed.
He halted midstride as soon as the thought struck him. Falling for Caitria? He couldn’t be. He cared about her—and he desired her to the point of distraction—but he couldn’t allow his feelings to go deeper than that. He would soon return to the time where he belonged and leave her to live her life in peace—and safety. He’d never heard of any time traveler in his family who chose to stay in the past. Scott’s sister Isabelle was the first traveler he’d heard of who’d done such a thing.
But . . . for all his aversion to the past, it wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined. In fact, he had to grudgingly admit, because he was living as a laird—his life here was probably better than it was in the future. He imagined that Artair had a fine manor in the north, and the guest chamber he stayed in was nearly the size of his penthouse, with a massive bed, a window that provided a stunning view of the surrounding moors, and chambermaids who kept it clean and tended to his every need, even though he constantly assured them he didn’t need so much attention. The suppers he ate in the great hall and in the mornings were delicious and varied, from succulent roasted meats to deliciously prepared vegetables and sweet wines and ale, which he’d first found bitter but had now grown accustomed to. And it was truly amazing to live and breathe every day life in the fourteenth century.
He'd also come to have an affinity for Clan MacGreghor. With Ferghas being the glaring exception, he liked all the nobles he’d met, and Drostan seemed to be a fair and kind chieftain.
Even their journey to Inverness had fared better than he’d thought—he’d always thought medieval travel was rife with danger. And while bandits did prowl the roads, it was manageable if traveling by day, or with guards. He imagined venturing to the other great medieval cities of this time with Caitria—London, Prague, Paris, and Siena.
He forced the thoughts aside. What the bloody hell was he thinking? Everyone thought he was Artair; of course he couldn’t stay. And if they ever discovered he was an imposter . . . he shuddered at the thought, icy fear traveling through him.
He continued making his way to his chamber, trying not to think of the day when he’d have to leave Caitria behind.
He stilled when he found Caitria waiting for him in his chamber. There were tears in her eye
s.
“Caitria?” he asked, panic swirling through him as he moved to her. “What’s wrong?”
“Ferghas,” she said shakily. “He saw me last night—coming from yer chamber. He threatened me—and ye.”
The anger Niall had felt earlier in Drostan’s study now flared into full-fledged fury. He let out a low growl of rage, all rational thought vanishing. He’d warned him to stay away from her. He was going to find the bastard and hurt him for threatening her.
“Did he touch you?” he demanded.
“He—he grabbed my arm, and—”
“Stay here,” Niall hissed, turning to head out of his chamber, eager to find Ferghas and pummel his face in. But Caitria was instantly at his side, placing a restraining hand on his arm.
“Niall—no—" she gasped. “This is exactly what he wants.”
“He threatened you. He put his hands on you,” Niall snarled.
“Doonae ye see, this is what he wants!” Caitria cried. “If ye attack him, ’tis all he needs tae tell Father that ye’re dangerous—tae send ye away.”
Niall hesitated, though his blood still pulsed with fury. Bloody hell, she’s right. Attacking Ferghas would give the bastard the ammunition he needed to show that he was dangerous and couldn’t be trusted to wed Drostan’s daughter.
He stepped back from the door, taking several breaths to calm himself.
“The wedding’s only a fortnight away,” Caitria said, looking at him with a worried frown.
“I know,” Niall muttered. “I’ll see if I can get your father to postpone it."
“I already tried that—and failed,” Caitria said. “I told him I wanted tae travel first. He grew angry with me for the mere suggestion.”
“There’s a potential clan conflict your father’s preoccupied with—one that Ferghas may have inadvertently started,” he said, thinking aloud. “If I tell him I want to postpone the wedding until its resolved—on account of your safety—I think he’ll agree. It’ll give us much-needed time,” he continued, and forced himself to say words that twisted his heart. “And you won’t have to wed an imposter.”
Niall's Bride: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 4) Page 11