Dark Truth (The Time Bound Series Book 3)

by Lora Andrews

  Ewen chose that moment to redirect his stormy stare from the fields to her. His biceps bulged against the thick material of his tunic as he assessed her with the same suspicious scowl he’d worn on the day he’d fallen out of the sky and into her life.

  The memory pulled a smile to her lips, but then her eyes stung with tears she hadn’t shed. She wrapped the cloak tighter around her body, gripping the front edges of the dark wool together. “What’s the date?”

  She knew the answer, but she still had to ask.

  “The date?” Ewen repeated.

  “Yeah. Is it the year of our lord fourteen fifty?”

  Squinting, Ewen glanced at the monk, his head cocked in the way that was so typical of the man she knew and…

  Nope. She couldn’t let her heart go there. “Is today the twenty-first of October?” Was today the same day the goddess Brigid had sent him forward to her time?

  “Aye. It is.”

  She knew it. Ten days until Samhain.

  Coincidence? Probably not, but holy moly…six hundred years in the past. One misstep, and she might find herself burning on a post or hung upside down in the loch. She was probably safe. The witch trials wouldn’t happen for another century, but a girl could never be too careful.

  Men on horses crested the hill behind Ewen, racing toward them. Caitlin stooped and grabbed the dagger off the ground, holding the cloak with her left hand. She had no clue if these men were allies or enemies, but if the past two weeks were any indication, things were about to go escalate, and she wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Her magic was gone, and all she had left to stop a Celtic god from opening a portal to Neridia and killing the people she loved, were her wits and her determination.

  God, the world was in serious trouble.

  Ewen grabbed her wrist and pulled the knife from her hand. Emotions—anger and suspicion—swept through their connection, swamping her already fragile system with adrenaline. Her magic might be gone but, boy-oh-boy, her psychic abilities were A-Okay.

  “Who are you?” He tightened his hold on her wrist.

  She craned her neck. He towered over her 5’8 frame. God, it was so surreal to be standing inches away from him when only moments ago he was dying in her arms.

  The monk placed a thick hand on Ewen’s shoulder. “You cannot blame the lass for protecting herself, now can you lad? Look at her closely. See her injuries? This woman has suffered at the hands of another. Will you subject her to more of the same?”

  Ewen’s eyes dropped to her neck. And when his gaze fell lower, her cheeks heated. He released her wrist.

  Caitlin ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “Look, I’m not your enemy. I know how crazy this must seem, but I can explain everything.” It would take a shitload of objectivity on his part. Was this Ewen capable of suspending his disbelief?

  The holy man looked over his shoulder. The riders were almost upon them. “I would advise ye to make no reference to the nature of her arrival to either Donald or Ian. Not until you’ve had a chance to speak with her in private.”

  “You would ask that of me knowing what you know? Knowing what I’ve been tasked to do?”

  She glanced between the men. What was she forgetting? Ewen had told her about his life, but all she could remember at the moment was the cave. The ritual. Bres crushing the bones of Ewen’s hand to steal the stone. She squeezed her eyes shut to repress the flooding memories.

  “Trust in God with all of thine heart,” the monk said. “Lean not unto thine own understanding.”

  “Brother Rupert,” Ewen growled, “this is no’ the time for scripture.”

  “Ah…” The monk grinned, the edges of his golden eyes settling into deep crinkles that flared out to his temples. “Perhaps now is just the time.”

  One of the riders leaped off his horse and jogged toward them.

  Ewen lowered his mouth to Caitlin’s ear, his breath hot against her skin. “Say naught if you value your life.”

  She barely heard the words. His familiar scent, fresh and male with a hint of something Ewen, teased her senses. She ground her fingers into the wool to keep from throwing her arms around his neck. To keep from touching him. To keep from feeling the beat of his heart against her palm.

  Ewen snapped his head back abruptly, then stepped away from Caitlin and handed Brother Rupert the knife. “I am entrusting her to your care until we are returned to the manor.” The furrowed vee reappeared between those familiar eyes, followed by a stiff do-as-I-say nod that severed any further exchange from either her or the monk.

  Fifteenth-century Ewen pivoted on his fifteenth-century heel to join the others, moving across the field with the self-assured gait of a seasoned warrior in complete control of his environment and whatever the universe decided to throw at him.

  Caitlin looked away. She wasn’t sure what hurt more. Ewen’s total lack of empathy for her situation, or the fact he had just handed her over to a complete—albeit holy—stranger without a second thought.

  “Have faith, lass.” Brother Rupert shielded her from the men dismounting their horses. “Ewen is a good man. He will treat ye fairly.”

  “I know.” But it wasn’t Ewen she had to worry about. It was the insurmountable task of locating a weapon to weaken Bres without resources, her team, or a way to get herself back to the twenty-first century.

  Brother Rupert examined the jeweled dagger. “’Tis a fine weapon.”

  She clasped the golden hilt he offered. It pained her to touch anything belonging to Bres, but she had to be practical, and a weapon was a weapon. “Thank you for this”—she referenced the dagger—“and the cloak.”

  “A dead man has no use of his mantle.” Caitlin followed Brother Rupert’s line of sight to a man bereft of a cloak lying prone on the ground a few feet away to their right.

  Her stomach roiled. She was wearing a dead man’s cloak.

  Well, that explained the blood.

  And the odor.

  Brother Rupert shrugged. “It would have been a waste to abandon it upon the field when another had use of its warmth. Forgive me, but you did not strike me as the sort of woman to let a wee drop of blood turn her innards.”

  Wee? She could punch her fist through the sword hole in the blood-soaked fabric. “You know, appearances can be deceiving. For example, you don’t exactly fit my mental picture of a priest.”

  Maybe an aging warrior dressed in a monk’s habit, but a take-a-vow and live in a monastery kind of monk? Eh, she wasn’t buying it.

  Brother Rupert snorted, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement. “Perhaps the Lord has secret plans for us both, lass.”

  Let’s hope not. Caitlin wasn’t particularly impressed with the Lord’s plans for her thus far, and lucky for Brother Rupert, the arrival of the scary looking band of strangers prevented her from saying as much.

  A red-bearded giant, more Viking than Scottish, built like a WWE wrestler with arms the size of tree trunks, approached Ewen.

  “That would be the laird, Donald MacLean,” the monk said quietly, “and the three with him are his most trusted advisors.”

  Ah, so that was Ewen’s brother, the infamous Donald “The Hunter” MacLean. The man certainly lived up to the historical hype surrounding the ancient highland chieftains.

  Brother Rupert pivoted his body to give her a better view of the men. “The fair-haired lad next to Ewen…”

  Caitlin had to tilt her head up to hear the monk speak.

  “Is Ian Cameron, brother to Donald’s wife, Mari. The other two are the brothers Torin and Aengus.”

  Caitlin squinted. Ian was the guy who’d jumped from his horse. As if sensing her stare, the handsome warrior glanced over Ewen’s shoulder, prompting the other three—no make that four—heads to turn in her direction.

  So much for not drawing attention to herself.

  Although there were ten feet separating her from Ewen and his men, she could feel the disappointment radiating from him by the tight lines of his body. Then she caught
the deepening of his scowl right before he snapped his head back to address something the laird said.

  Meanwhile, Ian’s curiosity melted into a friendly smile he casually released before shifting his body to rejoin the conversation at hand.

  Sheesh, was every six-foot-three, blond commando a flirt?

  And why did Ian’s smile have to remind her of Luke, Rohan’s right-hand man? The night she’d first met him at Rohan’s compound, he’d worn that very grin. A rascal’s smile, her grandmother would say.

  A smile she’d never see again. He’d lost his life fighting a demented god atop a museum terrace.

  Caitlin shoved aside her grief. Now wasn’t the time to mourn Luke and Janet, or Rohan and Amalia. Nor Fionn and Valoria. Or her parents. She couldn’t gamble what precious time she had feeling sorry for herself. Grief wouldn’t console her when she cried, hand her a tissue, buy her a drink, or tell her it would all be okay.

  But vengeance might.

  Caitlin shivered against the wool cloak. The air was colder than she remembered. Or maybe it was shock. She steeled her gaze to the field where Ewen and his men made quick work of searching the eight bodies sprawled among the wild grass. There was an amiable comradery amongst the clansmen, evident by the manner in which they spoke to one another. Here was a troop of guys who’d worked together often, and she’d bet each man understood his place in the hierarchy. A well-oiled machine, and from the looks of it, Ewen ranked pretty high on the ladder. Even the laird looked to him for input as they attempted to piece together the motive behind the attack.

  Wait…

  In the twenty-first century, her Ewen had been ambushed by a band of ax-wielding bandits right before Brigid incapacitated the raiders and sent him forward in time. This was that attack. Two weeks from now, the MacLeans of Ardgour would be decimated by the Camerons. How on earth was she going to warn them about a future event without sounding like a heretic, or worse?

  One of the bodies near her moved. A man moaned. His limbs twitched against the damp earth before settling into stillness. From several feet away, Donald stopped and swung his head to where the noise originated. He pivoted, wove his way around the corpses sprawled on the ground in lifeless clumps, and headed directly to where she stood with the now quiet Brother Rupert by her side.

  “Another survivor?” the laird asked when he reached the unconscious man.

  God, even his voice, a low gravelly growl, inspired fear.

  “’Twould seem our dorcha dion is losing his touch.” Ian laughed and slapped Ewen’s back. “Tsk, tsk, old man. Doona lose hope, yet. Seek out one of Deidre’s potions now before you squander what little strength you have left in that infamous sword arm of yours.”

  The men snorted with laughter.

  Ewen clenched his jaw so hard the muscle popped in his cheek.

  Dorcha Dion?

  With his dark hair and intense blue eyes, Caitlin thought the nickname fitting. It had a sexy allure. Dark Protector. Yeah, it fit.

  She stilled.

  How the hell did she know that? She didn’t understand Gaelic, and except for the few phrases she’d learned from her Scottish grandmother, Caitlin didn’t speak Gaelic.

  Brother Rupert put his hand on her shoulders. “Sit. You’ve gone pale.”

  She angled her body toward the monk so the others wouldn’t see her panic. “You’re speaking Gaelic.”

  Brother Rupert frowned. “As are you.”

  Her knees wobbled, and for a second. the ground rose before her face.

  Brother Rupert steadied her. “Easy, lass.”

  Great. Now she had everyone’s attention centered on her and the monk.

  “Come.” Brother Rupert gently claimed her elbow. “The clan’s healer lives in the village, but the laird’s wife is quite skilled in healing. She’ll remedy what ails ye.”

  At that precise moment, the laird cocked his head, then folded his arms across his chest in an uncanny imitation of his younger brother, Ewen, who stood at Donald’s right shoulder in the exact position, breathing fire from the dark and stormy orbs she’d found alluring two seconds earlier.

  Oh, shit. If anyone asked her a question, she’d be toast. She couldn’t lie to save her life.

  “Take her to Mari,” Ewen ordered the monk.

  Donald frowned, a vee forming between his brows. The man’s eye color was identical to Ewen’s, and despite the stark differences in their coloring, Donald’s red hair and fair skin to Ewen’s jet-black hair and olive skin tone, there was no denying these two were related. Even the suspicious scowl deepening the creases of his forehead mirrored her favorite Highlander’s as they both continued to stare at her.

  No way could she lie to either of them. They’d see right through her.

  “Are you sure-footed?” Brother Rupert asked. “It is but a short walk to the manor.”

  Faking memory loss would take her so far. After convincing Ewen his clan was in danger, she’d have to escape Ardgour and find transport to her ancestors, the MacEwen’s of Otter, before anyone caught wind of her abilities.

  “Perhaps horseback would be best,” Brother Rupert added when she failed to respond.

  “No,” Caitlin shook her head. “I am well enough to walk.”

  Oh. My. God. I am speaking Gaelic.

  How was that even possible? It made no sense.

  The binding spell?

  It had to be. The ritual was the only explanation that held any merit. The blood spell had bound Caitlin to Fionn, Valoria, and Ewen, allowing her to draw on their magic during her fight with Bres. Not that it had made much of a difference in the long run. Bres had squashed her magic without breaking a sweat.

  However, along with the bond came access to their minds, and it was through Valoria’s knowledge as Guardian of the Book of Creation that Caitlin had acquired the time spell. And it was Valoria’s psychic abilities that had enabled Caitlin to communicate with the statuesque warrior woman telepathically.

  Were Fionn and his wife living in this time?

  It was possible. Stripped of his powers, Fionn was the god cursed to hunt Bres for his part in Bres’s escape from Neridia. And Valoria…

  Well, Caitlin didn’t know whether Valoria was a goddess or a human with a really long life span, but Valoria’s mother was the original Guardian entrusted by the gods over a millennia or more to protect the Book of Creation.

  Caitlin glanced over her shoulder to the forest surrounding the field, to the mountain range rising beyond. “Valoria?”

  The bond pulsed deep in her gut. Yes. Still there. So not all her magic had disappeared when she’d fallen through the portal.

  But how long would it last? The bond was meant to be a temporary measure. She shoved the worry aside and focused on the positive. If she could feel the bond, then that meant Fionn and Valoria were alive.

  And Ewen was here.

  Expanding her senses, Caitlin searched the link for a sign of her friend’s presence. “Valoria. Can you hear me?”

  No answer.

  She bit her lip.

  “It matters not at the moment where or whence she came.”

  She?

  Ewen’s voice snapped her back to the present. “The lass did not aid these men in the ambush as Rupert can attest.”

  “Is that so?” Donald asked.

  Ewen shot her a warning glare to keep her mouth shut.

  Caitlin suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, nodding her head obediently. She had no problem playing the helpless victim if it meant getting off this field alive.

  “Aye,” Brother Rupert chimed in. “Ewen speaks true. I crested over the hill and witnessed the attack myself. With your permission”—he bowed his head—“I will accompany her to the keep to attend her injuries.”

  “Very well.” Donald turned to the two dark-haired men standing on either side of Ian, the brothers Torin and Aengus. “Escort the Brother and our guest to the manor, but keep her under lock and key until I’ve questioned the woman. “This one”—he kicked
the unconscious man’s boot—“will spend a few glorious days in our best cell until we’ve determined who masterminded this wee gathering.”

  “It would appear our facilitator left behind a clue.” Ewen handed Ian a piece of shrubbery. “’Tis crowberry. I found it attached to the man’s léine.”

  “Wait.” Brother Rupert signaled a halt to the movement of the two burly clansmen about to claim each of Caitlin’s elbows. “Just a moment, lads.” The grizzly monk took two agile steps to join the three men standing in a half circle around the unconscious survivor. “The practice of adhering plant badges to a warrior’s léine ceased decades ago, mayhap centuries.”

  “Aye,” the laird said. “I know of no clan who maintains the old custom.”

  “That’s not exactly true.” Ian lifted the thin blade to his nose. “Some of the septs affiliated with Lochaber preserve the old custom.” He looked to Ewen. “It was pinned on, you say?”

  “Above the left breast,” Ewen answered.

  Ian’s expression grew serious. He flicked the shrub to the ground and scanned several bodies sprawled on the field. He strolled to the body of a man lying face down in the dirt, a leather-like jacket covering his massive torso. Ian rolled the corpse over with his boot and crouched, opening the sleeveless coat to examine the lining.

  Ewen squatted beside him.

  The red-haired Donald and Brother Rupert loomed at their backs.

  Caitlin craned her neck for a better look. What did the inside of a vest have to do with the crowberry or the attack?

  “Well,” Donald barked. “Are we dealing with the Camerons?”

  Ian’s expression darkened further. “Aye.”

  Caitlin sighed. The men had figured out the Camerons’ involvement without her meddling. Ewen didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure?”

  “I am. This is my cousin’s work.” He pointed to an embellishment at the bottom of the lapel near the waist. “And ye know the crowberry is native to this region. Together, the two point north to Ben Nevis.”

  “Miscreants!” Donald spun, his face red, eyes promising bloody murder.

  “Hold on, brother.” Ewen grabbed Donald’s arm and pulled the hulking giant back. “Think for a moment. What motive would the Camerons have to attack us now when they’ve moved to establish peace between our clans?”