by Lora Andrews
Impressive.
She hadn’t expected to find this level of civility in a medieval manor in freaking 1450.
1450!
Even after all the magic and supernatural happenings she’d experienced in the past two weeks, being here made her head spin. Or maybe it was the crazy herbs Deidre made her swallow.
It was yesterday, wasn’t it?
Sucking in a breath, Caitlin rolled into a sitting position and immediately regretted the move. A makeshift splint wrapped in bandages kept her wrist relatively stable, but the joint throbbed along with the rest of her. With her uninjured hand, she felt her neck. A wool wrapping of some sort covered the bite. She pressed two fingers over the area. Sore, but not oh-my-god-I’m-dying sore. That was a plus.
She cradled her bad arm in her lap. What was a Fomorian doing in the fifteenth century, anyway? God, the freaking thing bit her and…
Died.
But, how? Like the gods, the Fomorians were hard to kill. They could regenerate limbs and recover from almost any wound. She’d witnessed Janet fire bullets into the heart of an attacking Fomorian who treated the assault like an annoying blow to the chest. In his dragon form, Ewen had ripped the head of a Fomorian from his body. That did the trick. Magical fire worked, as demonstrated by Brigid’s fiery orb. And, according to Fionn, an immortal could be killed by a special sword forged by the blacksmith god, Goibhniu.
The odds Ewen had unknowingly stabbed the creature with such a sword were slim to none.
So were the chances her blood had killed the Fomorian, yet here she was debating the possibility. Was it a Guardian thing? Something she ate? Or had Bres done more than paint bloody symbols onto her body when she’d been passed out on the altar?
Caitlin folded back the blanket. A long white tunic adorned her body. The heavy folds of the linen-like fabric had bunched and caught around her hips. She wore no underwear and definitely no bra. Ewen’s blood had been washed off her skin, which made the myriad of cuts and bruises splayed across her flesh all the more visible. Injuries that Mari, Deidre, or whoever had washed her body, would immediately recognize as abuse.
With a grimace, Caitlin swung her long legs over the side of the bed, held her breath, and eased her bare feet onto the cold floor.
The room was clean. Furniture was neatly placed about the room, the dark wood contrasting against the gloomy stone walls. And despite the fire in the hearth, a cool, damp breeze touched her skin.
Sweating, she shuffled to the center of the room, then stopped and raised her inner arm to her forehead.
Crap, hot.
She lowered her arm, a smile sneaking across her face. How many times had she responded to a student’s, “Can I go to the nurse?” request with her grandmother’s foolproof wrist temperature-taking trick? Too many times to count.
Her smile fell. By now, her students would know she wasn’t coming back. Adjustment counselors were sure to be on hand to address her absence and assist her students and their families. Without closure, they would grieve, and they would wonder.
A ball of sadness welled in her throat.
Damn you, MacInnes. Damn you, Bres. Damn you both to hell.
They’d stolen her life.
Unclenching her fist, Caitlin scanned the room. Where was the stupid pot to pee in? The only thing capable of holding fluids was a pitcher sitting on the table across from the bed. The lack of a toilet and running water wasn’t a big deal. She’d roughed it with her family on a bazillion connect-with-nature camping trips over the course of her short life. This would be no different.
She could adjust.
Who was she kidding? A missing chamber pot was the least of her worries. With next to no knowledge of the fifteenth century, assimilating herself into the culture without raising every conceivable red flag possible would be a challenge. How submissive were women during this time, anyway? Did they have rights? Could she head off for MacEwen lands on her own, or would she have to seek out the chief’s permission? Because if she did, boy, that would go up her butt sideways. She’d been making her own decisions, independent of anyone’s approval, since before her divorce.
But the last two weeks had changed everything.
Ewen—
Caitlin clamped the thought before her mind got carried away with what ifs. Here Ewen was alive and well, and that was exactly how he’d stay. Brigid hadn’t opened the portal. She hadn’t sent him forward. He never made it to the twenty-first century; so theoretically, he didn’t die in a cavern in Arran.
Time had been altered.
Shit.
That couldn’t be good. She didn’t want to think about the consequences one small but pivotal change could mean. Instead, she focused on her mission. On finding a solution, like getting her hands on the MacEwen journal buried beneath the castle. The magical book had outlined her clan’s part in guarding the Tempus Stone, and she was sure the means to Bres’s downfall was embedded somewhere in those pages.
But without the pendant to open the sealed chamber, retrieving the journal would be…problematic. And that was putting it mildly. She needed to figure out a plan. And quick..
Crap, how much time had elapsed since the attack?
Grabbing the strange, embroidered robe thrown over the top of the chair by the bed, Caitlin rushed to the window. On her tiptoes, she peered over the sill and carefully slid her bandaged arm into one of the garment’s heavy sleeves. Men armed with swords and bows circled the keep. Beyond them, Caitlin saw nothing but grass and trees. Brigid had to be long gone. There was no way the goddess would allow herself to be captured.
If she couldn’t locate Brigid, then she had no choice but to enlist the help of the MacEwens. Only she’d have to bypass her great uncle, Swene, the same jerk who had physically assaulted Ewen and stole his mother’s sgain dubh. Who did that to an eight-year-old boy? Later, MacInnes had the gall to use the same dagger to prove his identity as Swene’s son, once again demonstrating the apple didn’t roll too far from the tree.
Caitlin made her way to the table across from the bed and poured water from the pitcher into a small bowl, her mind running through possible scenarios. Her grandmother had a younger sister who’d married into the MacLachlan Clan. This woman might know about the Tempus Stone and her grandmother’s role as its guardian. But Caitlin would have to be careful. According to MacInnes, her grandmother and Duncan Lamont had stunned the clan when they up and vanished into thin air, never to be found. Getting into the castle without revealing her identity would be challenging.
No one said saving the world would be easy. Now, all she had to do was dampen her rising anxiety, ignore the one hundred or so obstacles staring her in the face, and put her best medieval foot forward to escape Buannachd Mhòr.
How hard could it be?
Imagining all kinds of scary bacteria floating in the bowl, Caitlin bent over and examined the water. Except for a weird mineral scent, it looked normal and was probably safe enough to wash her face.
Probably.
Watch, she’d wake up tomorrow with half her face missing thanks to a flesh-eating strain of bacteria. Chuckling, she dipped the cloth into the bowl then raised it to her cheek.
“You’re up.”
Caitlin jumped and jarred the table, sending the bowl of water tumbling to the floor with a loud clack.
“Crap.” Water spread against the gray stone.
“Do not.” Mari rushed to the table to stop Caitlin before she could stoop to pick up the broken pieces of pottery off the floor.
Pre-fall, the white bowl, painted in blue and black with a pheasant across the center, had matched the pitcher. This set couldn’t have come cheap. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect anyone to come up behind me.” She’d been too lost in her thoughts to hear the door open.
Mari swatted her hand through the air. “I never did like that set to be honest. Quite garish, don’t you think?”
Before Caitlin could answer, Mari took a step back. Her gaze quickly settled on the robe th
en rose to Caitlin’s face. “Were you meaning to go out dressed like that?”
Caitlin noted Mari’s clothes. Her purple gown was layered over the white tunic thing with laced ties at the front, which made Caitlin think the blue robe wasn’t a robe in the traditional twenty-first century way. Maybe a cloak of some sort. Or another gown she’d put on backwards? How the heck did anyone get anything done dressed in layer after layer of uncomfortably looking fabric, anyway?
Mari frowned and raised her hand toward Caitlin’s face. “May I?”
“Um, sure?” Caitlin stooped, the height difference between them unmistakable.
The tips of Mari’s cool fingers touched Caitlin’s cheeks. “As I suspected.” She rested her hand on her hip. “You’ll be going nowhere. To bed. Had I known you’d be up and about, I would have been here sooner.”
Mari’s very pregnant belly herded Caitlin backward.
Caitlin resisted. “I really need to—”
One slim auburn eyebrow shot up to Mari’s hairline. The woman’s eyes warned bloody murder. “Sit.”
Really? Caitlin didn’t have time for convalescence. She had to find a way out of Ardgour.
“Stubborn,” Mari said with admiration. “A woman after my own heart”—she pointed to the bed—“but I willna ask you again.”
Caitlin’s butt hit the bed. She knew when to pick her battles. Getting on her host’s last nerve wasn’t smart, nor was raising suspicion.
“We’ve yet to properly tend to your wrist.” Keeping Caitlin in her sight, Mari backed away from the bed and called out to someone in the hallway. “When Deidre returns from the village, she’ll set the linens proper.”
Okay. “Was it broken?”
Ugh. Stupid question. It wasn’t as if these people had access to an x-ray machine. Comments like this were perfect examples of what not to say in the fifteenth century.
A young woman rushed into the room. Mari pointed to the dish and politely ordered the woman to set the room “aright.” The housemaid gathered the broken pieces of pottery, cleaned the floor, and quietly exited into the hallway.
“Now”—Mari’s shrewd brown eyes swung from the empty doorway to Caitlin—“how are you feeling, and do not lie to me. I’ll know.”
No kidding. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn Mari MacLean had truth-inducing super powers. So instead of brushing off the pain the way she would have to her friends back home, Caitlin told the truth. “I feel like shi—someone dropped a castle on my head.” There. That sounded like the medieval equivalent of feeling like an eighteen-wheeler ran over her body then backed up and took a rest stop.
Mari laughed. “I would expect no less given your injuries. Trina will bring you a meal. You will eat. You will rest. And when Deidre arrives, you will drink her tonic. She will tend to your injury, and you will brook no argument.”
Yes ma’am.
“Good.” Mari’s demeanor changed from confident to sheepish. “Caitlin,” she began then stopped herself.
Uh-oh. This couldn’t be good.
Mari padded over to the bed until they stood face to face. “You’ve a safe haven here. I do not know who abused you—” She held out a hand when Caitlin started to speak. “I’ll no’ force you to tell. Your secrets are your own, and whatever they may be, you need not run from them here. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
A haven? If only such a place existed.
Caitlin’s throat clenched. “Thank you.”
“My husband will question ye. There is naught I can do to stop such talk, you understand, but you will no’ be forced to answer. And should that beast of a man attempt to intimidate you with his scowl, you be telling him what I’ve told you. Your story is yours to tell. The only thing I ask...”
Mari folded her arms on her pregnant belly sheathed in layers of poufy, purple fabric. She looked about the room as if gathering her thoughts. “Sometimes our freedoms are taken from us, and although we attempt to run, our past follows.” She made eye contact, her dark eyes warm and firm all at once. “If my people are at risk, I want to know. Not the whys of your situation, but how serious a threat we need to prepare for. The answer will not change my invitation. You are welcome to stay at Buannachd Mhòr for as long as you need, but I’ve a right to protect my kin.”
Caitlin sighed. “I wouldn’t ask that of you.”
Besides, how much could she safely tell these people without affecting their lives? Or the timeline? Or the futures of millions of people? Her head hurt. Had the Fomorian been in the adjacent woods because of Brigid? Her? Ewen?
Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t in good conscience keep her mouth shut knowing these people were at risk. “Your clan is in danger from another attack.”
“Are you referring to the raid yestreen?”
“Yestreen?” Caitlin repeated.
“Aye,” Mari nodded.
Yesterday. She’d only missed one day. Oh good…there was time.
“I don’t know. I think the raid is connected to a future attack. Tell your husband the Camerons will return. Someone else is financing the assault, but I don’t know who. Only that they’re powerful.” What else had Ewen told her? “The strike comes in two weeks’ time.”
“I thank you for the warning.” Mari raised a finger to her mouth and turned an ear to the door. A minute later, the housemaid entered the room carrying a tray of steaming slop.
The Lady of Buannachd Mhòr took the tray and dismissed the woman. “Now, Caitlin from parts unknown, you will eat.”
And with those eight words and a smile, Mari MacLean squashed Caitlin’s first escape attempt.
EIGHT
DONALD KICKED an errant stone and watched the rock’s tumultuous descent into the river. “Settle down, lad. You’ll wear a hole in the ground.”
Lad?
Ewen bristled. He’d settle down when they shoved the bluidy birlinn back into the loch and began the journey home with the three of them aboard—hale and whole. Fingering the sheath strapped to his outer leg, he scanned the path leading to the Cameron keep. Alan should have been here by now.
Where is he?
“It takes more than a few well-placed words to ease a man’s heart, Donald.” The monk wiped rain from his face then shoved his hands into his thick robes.
Just when Ewen had resigned himself to believing the monk had returned to the abbey without word, Rupert appeared out of nowhere, panicked and insistent, demanding to board the birlinn as they departed for Lochaber. No amount of persuasion, or threat, diminished the monk’s resolve. The stubborn man ran along the shoreline when they’d sailed away from Ardgour.
Fearing the wrath of god should Rupert drown trying to cross the loch, Donald grudgingly ordered Ewen to row back to shore. And now here they stood at the mouth of the River Lochy awaiting Alan Cameron. The whole world had gone mad.
“Peace is difficult to abide in the face of war and the long memories of men,” Rupert chided. “The hostilities between the Camerons and MacLeans have yet to be forgotten,”
“Ah ha.” Donald stabbed a finger in the air. “That’s why we need fear. Peace cannot exist without it. Man may have a memory longer than my arm, but the threat of war keeps us in line. However, the frown you see on my dear brother’s face is no’ caused by the weight of words or my clan’s past history with the Camerons. Nay, my friend. This formidable man right here”—Donald clapped Ewen’s back—“is an over-thinker, more concerned with the things we canna control than the words we spew.” He squeezed Ewen’s shoulders and released him with a hearty jerk. “I’d wager there are ten scenarios running through his mind right now.”
Ewen snorted. Try twenty. “Aye, go on and jest, but it’s me that’s kept that ugly hide of yours in one bluidy piece all these years. Don’t you be forgetting.”
Donald laughed. The deep, throaty roar echoed into the space surrounding the riverbank and beyond. “Right you are, brother. Right you are. Where would I be without you? See,” he said to the monk, “there
is naught to worry. Besides, Alan is on the verge of another clash with the Macintoshes. The last thing he wants is me nipping at his arse.”
Donald’s good humor did not erase the lines of tension across his broad shoulders. He was worried. They all were. As long as men were willing to kill for greed, power, or sport, Ewen would never be out of a job. He glanced back in the direction of the castle and tensed.
The Cameron chief sauntered up the rocky path to the edge of the river where they’d beached the birlinn. Thick auburn curls framed a broad face, brown eyes, and a bearded chin. Flanking him were Balfour and Cruim, his captains, two of the most fearsome warriors Ewen had fought to date.
“I can hear that raucous laugh clear to the village,” Alan said to Donald. The men exchanged quick pleasantries beneath the drizzling rain. “When I was told ye had arrived alone without your guard”—his gaze landed briefly on Rupert—“I’ll admit, my curiosity was…piqued. My cousin is well, I take it?”
“Aye.” Donald’s expression remained neutral. “Mari grows lovelier with each passing day.”
Alan smiled. “There is nothing more beautiful than the sight of your woman carrying your firstborn. So, what brings you to Lochaber without notice? If not to raid my coiffeurs, I cannot imagine you’d make the trek up stream to simply bask in my presence or discuss the weather?”
If Alan had noticed the shrouded corpse in the birlinn, he gave no indication.
Curious to see how his brother would broach the subject, Ewen folded his arms across his chest. The easygoing banter between the men was all pretense. It might dupe the monk who seemed to breathe easier now that Alan had arrived without an army, but beneath the words and carefully set expressions was a mistrust that ran deep between Donald and Alan. One stemming back to their fathers and the Cameron’s broken allegiances to the Lord of the Isles. Choices that turned friends into enemies and forced families to choose sides. This fragile alliance between their clans was woven by the strands of Donald’s marriage to Mari and would be further strengthened by Ewen’s betrothal to Alisa, but one wrong word from either man would tear the fabric of those accords apart.