Dark Truth (The Time Bound Series Book 3)

by Lora Andrews

  “Who’s Laoghaire?” Caitlin asked.

  “Margaret’s daughter.” Deidre bit into an apple slice. “She abandoned her husband and child a little over five years ago.”

  “She just left?” Caitlin spooned another bite of porridge. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

  “Bah, the woman was prone to leaving,” Ian said. “She first disappeared after we’d established ourselves here, some fifteen years past. We searched high and low for nearly two years. Don’t ye remember, Mari? And when the devil finally roused the lass to return, she gave nary an excuse as to why she’d left in the first place. Or where she’d gone.” Ian tapped his temple. “That whole family is no’ right in the head.”

  Mari sipped her mead. “Well, this time she hasn’t returned, and regardless of her conduct, a mother still weeps for the loss of her child.”

  Ian shot his sister a look. His expression hardened. “Love does not make it just.”

  Something passed between them, then Mari reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You’re right, but life does not discriminate.”

  Ian pulled away.

  Sighing, Mari shoved her empty bowl to the center of the table. “Margaret is harmless provided you’ve a bit of patience to suffer her sermons. The attack two days past has struck fear into the hearts of many here. War is insidious. Now, I’ll no’ claim we aren’t a suspicious lot, but most will see the raid for what it is and keep an open mind about its cause, whereas others…” Mari looked to Ian. “Are we any closer to discovering who is behind the attack?”

  “No.” Ian reached for a pear slice from the platter and shoved it into his mouth. Chewing, he eyed the kitchen staff with a cool appraisal. “We’ll know more when your husband returns.”

  Shouts rang from the great hall—big, angry male shouts.

  Ian cursed and shoved away from the table. Pointing a meaty finger at his sister, he warned, “Do not move.” He glared at Deidre next. “Make sure she stays here.”

  Turning, he stomped out of the room. The kitchen door swung closed behind him.

  Caitlin set down her spoon. Some poor soul out in the great hall was about to experience the wrath of Ian Cameron.

  Mari let out a tired sigh. “Just another day in Buannachd Mhòr. I’m beginning to think we should have named the keep Gun Lagh instead.”

  Gun Lagh? Caitlin translated the words in her head. Lawlessness. Buannachd Mhór meant “great triumph.” She’d bet there was a story behind a name like that one.

  Deidre laughed. “Gun Lagh does not a ballad make, my lady.”

  “And there you have the truth of it. Instead of choosing a humble name, Caitlin, something simple like Ardgour House, my husband, the man of my dreams, the one who makes me clench my teeth and pray for patience daily, sought the glory of all the bards in Scotland with a name like Buannachd Mhòr.”

  “Ardgour House”—Deidre leaned over the table with a conspiratorial smile on her face—“doesna have the same ring in song as Buannachd Mhòr, now does it?”

  Mari stuck her tongue out at the woman Caitlin assumed was her best friend.

  She couldn’t help but giggle. How many times had Caitlin and Lila done the same thing over the years? Gossiping or drowning their sorrows together? It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  The din in the great hall rose to a frenzied pitch. A loud crash sounded, one resembling a heavy table hitting the floor, followed by the clatter of bowls and platters settling.

  Mari set her cup down. “Now that cannot be good.”

  The voices kicked up several more decibels.

  “You heard your brother,” Deidre admonished. “Don’t you dare move.” She quickly slid off the bench and stood at the edge of the table, running a hand across the front of her skirt. “I’ll go check the fracas. Ian will have my head if anything happens to you or that bairn. It’s bad enough you’re running around all day this close to your time. Honestly, I don’t know who is more bullheaded, you or that beast of a man you call husband.”

  Mari laughed. “He is a beast, isn’t he?” She wore the possessive look of a woman head over heels in love. Then, as if remembering herself, she quickly shook her head. “Gah, I’m with child, not ill or decrepit.” She scooted to the end of the table. “By the saints, if it were up to you and my husband, I’d be bedridden and locked in my room.”

  “Now, there’s an idea,” Deidre grumbled.

  “My dear friend”—a sweet smile followed the arch of Mari’s pretty brow—“ye forget who I am.”

  Deidre cocked her head in an oh-really slant. “Don’t think I’ll let our friendship impede me from carrying out my duty.”

  But the threat was empty. Mari shooed Deidre aside and stood.

  “I outrank my brother as lady of the manor. Besides, you know he’s more likely to draw blood then settle an angry temper.”

  “True, but—”

  “My lady!” A harried maid streamed into the room. “There be trouble in the hall.”

  “Don’t I know it, Alice.” Mari snuck around her friend with surprising agility given how very pregnant she was.

  “Get back here,” Deidre called after her. When Mari failed to respond, Deidre muttered “stubborn woman” under her breath and took off after her, disappearing into the hall.

  The kitchen went silent, and all eyes turned to Caitlin.

  She set her spoon down. The roar on the other side of the wall settled the debate in her head.

  “Thank you for breakfast.” Caitlin slid across the bench and escaped into the great hall.

  TEN

  SHE DIDN’T get far.

  Mari and Deidre stood two feet beyond the kitchen door watching six of Donald’s men, armed and pissed-off, circling the scariest looking man Caitlin had ever seen. And that was saying a lot given she’d seen shapeshifting Fomorians just the other day.

  “Come any closer, and I’ll kill every last one of you,” the man said.

  His gravelly voice sent goosebumps prickling up Caitlin’s arms. Clocking in at close to seven feet, the bald man held a massive sword in one hand while cradling a small sleeping child in his other. Scars ran the length of his face.

  Deidre pulled Mari into the shadows of the wall. “What is the blacksmith doing here?”

  “The child must be ill.” Mari’s mouth pinched. “The boy is the only thing that would draw him to us.”

  “Lower your weapon, Faolan.” Ian’s voice dripped with anger.

  “Where is she? Where’s your healer?” the man bellowed. He squeezed the limp child to his chest. The boy’s skin was a pale, almost gray color.

  Ian took a step closer to the blacksmith. “Put the sword down, man. You’ll get yourself killed. Would you wish that upon your son? Because that’s the fate you’ll force upon him should you refuse to lower your weapon.”

  Faolan’s body shook. When Ian dared to take yet another step closer, the blacksmith’s scarred skin turned a deep shade of crimson. “Stay where you are,” he roared. His angry eyes searched the gathering crowd.

  The boy moaned.

  Mari hurried into the room and wove through the crowd standing shoulder to shoulder behind the warriors encircling the bellowing blacksmith.

  Caitlin shook her head. The woman was crazy.

  And I’m crazier for following. But she couldn’t let an eight-months-pregnant woman face an angry barbarian in front of a rowdy mob clamoring for blood by herself.

  Deidre must have had the same thought because she ran beside Caitlin to assume a position at Mari’s right shoulder, effectively sandwiching her friend between herself and Caitlin.

  The motion caught the blacksmith’s attention. He peered at them through the wall of highland muscle that stood between him and Mari.

  “Please, Faolan. Put the weapon down. I know you don’t trust us, but as lady of the house, I open our doors to you freely and offer you whatever aid you require. You and your boy are safe here.” How she kept her voice calm beneath the man’s menacing glare was
a testament to Mari’s strength.

  “Give me the healer.” The man squinted into the crowd, the scars on his face taunt across his skin. Caitlin had seen damage like this before. Burn scars. The lesions covering most of his exposed body were as severe as those on her mother’s legs, if not worse.

  What the hell had happened to this guy? God, she hoped the MacLean’s weren’t responsible.

  Faolan’s black gaze slid from Mari, settled briefly on Caitlin and Deidre, before returning to the warriors blocking Mari’s approach.

  Caitlin didn’t dare glance at Deidre for fear of giving her away. She’d assumed everyone knew Deidre was the clan’s healer, but maybe that wasn’t the case. And by the reaction of the villagers, she’d say there was a ton of history between the blacksmith and the MacLeans.

  Bad history.

  Donald’s men inched closer.

  The blacksmith growled.

  Jesus. Was everyone in this time period crazy? Couldn’t they see the panic in the guy’s eyes? Crowding a seven-foot-tall he-man on the verge of a mental breakdown in a room filled with unarmed villagers was idiotic. Plain and simple.

  She held her position although her feet begged to run.

  “I…” Mari held out her hand in a staying gesture. “I can help your boy. I am the healer. I’m the person you need.”

  “Mari.” A muscle popped against Ian’s jaw. He jabbed his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Go. Now.”

  Ignoring her brother, Mari wedged her slim arms between two heavily muscled guards and squeezed between their bodies. Deidre quickly slipped in behind her.

  For a second, Caitlin hesitated. She could back away into this crowd unnoticed. Now would be the perfect time to escape. Only leaving didn’t feel right.

  Not yet, anyway.

  She darted through the vacant space left between the guards and joined Mari and Deidre. Up close, the blacksmith was even scarier.

  “Tell your men to back away,” Faolan barked to Ian. “All of them.”

  Ian jerked his head, motioning to the rear of the great hall. The warriors responded by taking two measly steps backward.

  Really?

  “More,” Faolan growled. Sweat beaded across his forehead and ran down the sides of his face.

  No one moved. Not the guards. Not the men and women lining all the available space in the hall. People continued streaming in through the front door.

  The blacksmith’s nostrils flared.

  Mari whipped around to face the warriors, hands on her hip, her prominent belly on display. Fire gleamed in her eyes. “For the love of god, put down your weapons.”

  Not a single sword was sheathed.

  “You heard me,” she scolded, an octave higher. “We are no’ enemies here. Sheath your bluidy weapons.” When no one moved, she sucked in a breath and narrowed her eyes. “Would ye dare maim a father protecting his son? Which one of you would not stand here and do the same for your own child?” She stepped forward and pierced the guard to Caitlin’s left with a furious scowl. He’d been the guy standing outside her chamber door. “You, Gowan, would you no’ lay down your life for little Tomas? Would you no’ do the same if you believed your boy’s life to be in jeopardy?”

  Some of the heat left Gowan’s eyes. “Aye, but I would no’ enter my laird’s home swinging a bluidy sword.”

  “True, but we do not always think when our hearts are ruled by fear. Don’t you agree, Faolan?”

  The blacksmith’s expression flickered with an emotion Caitlin couldn’t name.

  But Mari didn’t turn around to notice. She eyeballed each guard, pinning them in place. “Now I know the attack in the glen has left us unsettled, but, we are wives, husbands, daughters and sons, are we not? We understand fear. We understand desperation. Give the man a chance to explain himself. He will not hurt me.”

  By the threat projected in every warrior’s gaze, Faolan would die if he tried.

  Ian nodded to his men. The warriors sheathed their weapons and retreated several feet, keeping their eyes trained on Faolan and the boy.

  Behind them, the crowd followed, receding backward like a colony of ants moving around an obstacle in their path.

  “Now, you”—Mari spun to face the blacksmith—“put that silly thing away. I’ll not have you frighten that poor boy should he open his eyes to find an angry crowd attempting to wrestle the sword from his da. I will aid your boy, but it will not be done under duress. Do I make myself clear, Faolan?”

  The blacksmith hesitated. He scanned the room with wild eyes.

  “I’m waiting,” she prompted. “We’ve no time for your foolishness. I’ve given you my word.”

  Go, Mari. She was a sight to see in all her I-am-woman-hear-me-roar glory.

  With a grunt, Faolan sheathed his sword into the holster at his back, but it was clear he didn’t buy a word Mari had spoken. Yet for his son, he’d cast aside his apprehension despite his clear mistrust of the MacLeans.

  “Follow me.” Mari turned and glowered at the guards who parted a path to allow her through. “Not a one of you move.”

  “Mari,” Ian warned.

  “I will not have this child’s death on my conscience. Will you?”

  Ian put away his sword but looked Faolan in the eye. “She is my kin. Where she goes, I go.” He directed a hand to the hallway Mari entered, followed by Deidre.

  Faolan set off down the hall.

  Ian ordered several warriors to man posts on either side of the entrance between the great hall and the corridor they entered.

  Six warriors, a couple of maids, and a roomful of villagers stood behind, watching the group disappear into the hallway, their expressions a mix of disbelief and skepticism.

  Caitlin grabbed her skirts and booked it down the hall before the guards could stop her. Better the devil you knew than the devil you didn’t.

  After she slipped into the small room, Ian closed the door behind her. Deidre rushed to a long narrow table set on the opposite wall. Herbs and various other plants hung over her head.

  “Lay the boy here.” Mari pointed to the pallet on the floor to the left of the door and across from the hearth. She whirled to join Deidre at the table.

  Faolan crouched and laid his son upon the makeshift bed.

  The women worked, quickly mixing herbs and water into a wooden bowl. Behind Caitlin, Ian guarded the door. Feeling like an intruder, Caitlin gripped her other hand and scratched her thumbnail against her palm. Maybe she should have stayed in the hall. There was nothing she could do but get in the way. Yet some strange instinct kept her feet planted to the floor.

  A soft whimper rose from the cot.

  Faolan stroked his son’s head and then lowered his mouth to the boy’s ear. In a soothing tone, his voice rumbled with foreign words Caitlin couldn’t understand, even when she drew upon Valoria’s knowledge.

  “Tell us what happened,” Mari asked. With the wooden bowl in her hands, she looked tiny standing next to the kneeling giant.

  “I sought water for the trough. When I returned, I found him outside the smithy.” With his gaze locked on his son, Faolan leaned back onto his haunches and dug the heel of his palm into his sternum in an up and down sweep. Muscles rippled beneath the scarred skin of his arm. The move seemed wholly uncharacteristic for such a brutish man that Caitlin doubted Faolan was even aware of doing it.

  The boy’s shallow breaths filled the room.

  Mari set the wooden bowl on the floor gently beside him. “May we examine your son?”

  Faolan nodded stiffly. The large man uncoiled his body and sprung to his feet, relocating near the hearth. He’d given the women plenty of space to tend to his son.

  Deidre kneeled beside Mari. She lifted one of the boy’s eyelids. “Did he retch?”

  “No,” Faolan responded.

  “Hmm.” She moved her hand from the boy’s face and pressed two fingers against his neck and frowned. “His pupils are dilated and his heart races.”

  Mari cut the boy�
�s tunic down the middle using a small knife. “Should we attempt a tincture of Herbs of Grace?”

  Twisting her mouth to the side of her face, Deidre shook her head. “I would advise against the rue until we know more.” She examined the boy’s mouth then sniffed his breath. “Do ye see any bites on his limbs?”

  “Naught but a scratch across his palm. See here.” Mari turned the boy’s small hand over in hers. A red blotch was visible on the heel of his left palm.

  Deidre looked over her shoulder to a restless Faolan. “What is your son’s name?”

  The large man curled his fingers. For a second, Caitlin thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he ground out the word, “Callum.”

  “Callum,” Mari repeated with a smile. She reached for the linens beside the bowl. “A strong name for a strong boy.”

  Faolan grunted and went back to clenching his jaw.

  Dumping the cloths into the wooden bowl filled with floating herbs and small white stones, Mari wrung the excess water from the fabric and handed one of the rags to Deidre. The women began washing the boy’s body, carefully examining his skin and limbs as she went along.

  Callum gasped and then a high-pitched wheeze emitted when he inhaled. His chest sank, disappearing beneath his breastbone with each breath, and from where Caitlin stood, she could count every rib.

  Oh god. He’s in respiratory distress.

  Someone needed to do something and quick. From her CPR training, she knew if they didn’t stabilize his breathing soon, cardiac arrest could follow. Instinctively, she reached for her back pocket to pull her phone and call an ambulance. Her fingers snagged on the fabric of her skirt instead.

  Faolan stepped closer. His lips pulled back in a sneer, and whether he knew it or not, he’d shifted into an attack position, legs spread and his knees slightly bent. He was two seconds away from snatching the boy off the cot and running out of the room.

  Ian moved in front of the door, barring any escape attempts while eyeing the blacksmith like he was about to sprout fangs and claws.

  And with only rudimentary tools and a bunch of herbs at their disposal, Mari and Deidre sat helpless and ill prepared to save the child.