by Mariah Stone
“Yes. Realized that Bruce is coming for the MacDougalls next. If they fall, there’s no one else who’d oppose him. The whole of Scotland will be his. Edward will have a much harder time getting him under control.”
“Right!” the first one said. “Hit him in the back while he thinks he’s safe in the east.”
“Exactly, lad,” the third one said. “Take back Inverlochy, then Urquhart. That’ll bring him back running. And with eight hundred MacDougalls, a hundred of us, and four hundred more coming soon from Carlisle, this time, we have a good chance.”
Kate’s thoughts raced. The MacDougalls had joined with the English. And now this hundred was marching through Ian’s lands up to Inverlochy. Dundail was on their way.
Horror dripped through her veins. There was no question about it. She needed to run back and tell Ian.
Easy does it. Slowly, before they noticed her.
She’d turned back and taken just one step when someone cried, “Hey!”
She turned her head, her feet glued to the ground.
One knight was looking right at her. The same one who had stopped Ian and her on their way to Dundail, she realized with a start.
She ran. Trees and bushes flashed, her heart drumming in her ears. Feet thumped behind her—several of them.
“Stop the Scotswoman!”
A strong arm grabbed her around her waist. She flailed with her arms and legs, but the man held her. She screamed. Then another one appeared before her. He held his sword to her throat.
“Shut up!” he commanded.
The sharp edge biting at her skin convinced her to do so.
“Let’s take her to Sir de Burgh,” the knight said. “He’ll be interested to know what Ian Cambel’s wife has to say about Dundail’s forces and the lord.”
No! Kate couldn’t possibly bring Ian even more trouble. She whimpered and wriggled, trying to free herself. Desperation dug its claws into her, but she firmly resolved to tell them nothing.
Chapter 15
A woman’s scream pierced the air.
Ian stiffened and looked around. The woods near the path that led south to Dundail were calm, trees swaying peacefully, bushes barely moving. His hand swiped against his waist, where he’d normally have a sword, only to find empty air.
He listened again. Was he even right? Had it been the rustle of the wind? Mayhap, tree branches screeching against each other?
The wind brought male laughter. And the woman cried out again. The sounds came from farther down the path. The familiar beast of battle fury raised its ugly head, carrying a roar of anger through his blood.
He walked towards the sound without hiding, his body tense.
After a dozen or so steps he noticed red and yellow flashing between the trees. English colors.
Damnation.
Ian stopped and hid behind a trunk. His chest tight, he breathed heavily. Staying low and walking as quietly as he could, he made his way closer—from tree to tree, from bush to bush.
He reached grazing horses.
He saw a familiar black horse among them. “Thor,” Ian whispered.
In some distance, he noticed men—way too many to fight. Mayhap, the woman was just a whore playing it a bit rough. As long as she was willing, that didn’t concern him. He just wanted to get Thor back and go home.
The thought of home—of seeing Katie, of smelling her delicious pies or something else she’d cook for him—calmed him and made him breathe easier. He’d spent yesterday making his way home. Good sense had finally taken hold after he’d run until his lungs felt as if they would explode, and he’d walked from then on. He could never cover the distance the horse had easily crossed in less than a day. He slept in the woods, freezing without a blanket or a cape. Having no snare or a weapon to hunt with, he’d found nuts and berries but was mostly hungry. He couldn’t get to Dundail fast enough.
The English were coming closer and closer. How could he avoid the fight and yet keep his people alive?
He still didn’t know.
But by the looks of it, he’d need to decide sooner rather than later. His throat tightened at the thought. Black desperation scratching at the pit of his stomach.
First, he needed to free Thor. He approached the horse and undid the tie around the tree bark. He was just about to pull the reins and slowly lead Thor after him when the woman’s voice stopped him.
“Let me go! I don’t know anything.”
Cold sweat trickled down his spine. He’d recognize that voice anywhere—the soft r, the way her vowels sang…
Kate.
Ian’s fists clenched, memories of murder pressed all around him. Instinctively assuming a defensive position, he moved closer. Hiding behind one of the horses, he studied the camp.
An English warrior led Kate somewhere. A wave of painful tingling went through Ian. Her arms were tied behind her back, her face flushed. One cheek was red, her neck scratched, her bonnie golden hair in disarray. Her dress was torn at her side and at the neck.
Kelpie eat him alive, she’d been beaten. She struggled, mayhap for her life. Ian’s breath rushed in and out, his throat going dry. Fire ran through his veins, just like so many times back in the caliphate, when he had been about to face a foe.
But unlike in the caliphate, he didn’t have a weapon. And he had dozens of foes to fight, not just one. The concentration of yellow-and-red flags indicated the main camp was still some distance away. The man who was leading Kate was alone with her.
Why was she here at all? They were hours away from Dundail on foot. Had she come here? Had they kidnapped her?
In either case, she wasn’t here of her own free will. That was verra much clear.
The Englishman with Kate started fiddling at his pants. “If you know something or not remains to be seen.”
Ian felt all the blood leave his face. Kate jerked at her hands.
“Just let me go! I can’t tell you anything.”
She stomped on his foot, whirled, and kicked him in the ankle. The man burst out in curses, turned, and hit her. Kate’s head shot to her left, the slap loud in the air. She gasped.
Ian straightened. Kate’s eyes were so wide she looked as though she’d seen a ghost, her face white, her mouth frozen in a large O. She shook her head slowly, staring at nothing.
Poor thing. She must be completely mad of pain.
Ian’s vision turned from multicolored to black and red. Everything moved slowly, as though time itself had been wounded and all it could do was crawl. The sounds around him rang painfully loud.
He didn’t have a chance to stop himself. All he could hear was the call of death. He wouldn’t let anyone touch a hair on Kate’s head.
He walked. Without a weapon. Without a shield. Without armor.
In a few broad steps, he reached the man. Ian’s hand went to the handle of the sword that was still in the man’s sheath and pulled it out. With a familiar effort, he made a broad swing, piercing the man’s back and pulling the sword free in one move. The English bastart screamed, but Ian put his hand to the man’s mouth and muffled the sound until he went limp and crashed on the ground.
Without the man between them, Kate came out of her strange state and stared at Ian.
But two more soldiers were coming at him.
“Turn,” he commanded.
She did so, and he cut the rope that tied her hands, leaving the man’s blood on her wrists.
“Step aside from the whore,” one of the men yelled.
“You bloody Scot,” the other said.
But Ian had no more capacity for words. He’d just killed a man after having sworn to never do so again. It was just like in the caliphate.
His ears filled with the bloodthirsty cheers of the crowd; his vision sharpened and intensified. He didn’t feel his body anymore. Pure fire seethed his veins.
“Aaarghh!” He launched himself at the first one.
The sword light in his arms, he met the man’s blade with a clang. Ian slashed again, and
again, and again, every time meeting the steel.
The second man came at him now, from the other side, sword raised. Taking stock of his surroundings, he noted another man behind him pressed against a tree. A fourth man with a shield and a sword advanced.
Just like numerous times in the caliphate. Two, even three opponents against the unbreakable Red Death.
He went into another space. A space where he didn’t exist, where he was the spirit of the sword. Where everything around him moved slowly, and he was a deadly lightning strike.
He whirled and kicked and ducked. He cut. He slashed.
He killed.
Two armed men lay dead on the ground. One man still leaned against the tree, but now his guts were spilling out, his eyes staring but not seeing. Ian’s sword pressed against the fourth man’s throat, about to pierce it.
“Stop!” Kate’s voice broke through the red fog of death.
Ian stopped. The point of his sword still at the man’s neck, one hand holding his collar.
His heart thumping in his ears, he panted. The man’s wide eyes pleaded for his life. Ian’s sword dripped with blood, sprays of red on his hands and his sleeves.
“Ian, you don’t have to kill him,” Kate said.
I dinna have to kill him. I dinna have to kill him. The words reverberated in his skull as he tried to make sense of them.
This wasn’t the caliphate. Ian wasn’t a slave anymore. He had a choice.
He glanced in the direction of the rest of the camp. The atmosphere there sounded cheerful. Men spoke in a hum of voices, occasionally bursting out in laughter. By some miracle, no one else had paid attention to them.
Ian looked again at the man. Now that he could think more clearly, he realized he knew the face.
It was the man who’d taken Thor.
“Ye whelp,” Ian spat. “Ye whoreson. I’d gladly kill ye.”
“Please…” the man whimpered. “I’ll do anything.”
“Aye. Ye will. Shut up.” Ian looked up. “Kate, tie his hands behind his back.”
She took the longer part of the rope she’d been tied with and did as he asked.
“Now tear some of yer dress and gag him,” Ian said.
“Ian—”
“Do it. Or he’ll alarm the whole camp the minute we’re on the horse.”
“But—”
“I’m nae killing him,” he snapped. "Be happy."
She nodded. She tore a piece of her skirt and put it into the man’s mouth.
Ian tied the man to a tree, then glanced around at what he’d done. The first man lay on his stomach, a dark flower of blood blooming on his white tunic. The second stared unseeingly into the sky, a long gash on his side, his insides peering out.
He waited for remorse to weigh heavily on his chest, but it didn’t come. What was wrong with him? He’d just killed men in cold blood. Then he looked at the man leaning against another tree a few paces off. Not truly a man, but still a lad, he now realized. A waterskin and a loaf of bread lay on the ground nearby, no weapons. He didn’t even remember killing the lad.
He truly was a monster, just as he’d suspected all this time. His throat tensed and stung. The skin of his palms itched, and his tunic scratched as though made of nettle.
He needed to move. He’d dwell on what he’d done later. Someone might come any moment.
Quietly, Ian undid the reins of other horses and gently slapped each on the hip to send them away. The English would be slowed down in their pursuit.
Mounting Thor, Ian helped Kate up. Then they went slowly through the trees towards the loch.
“Ian, what were you—”
“Shh,” he said. “We’re nae out of danger yet.”
He was glad for some time in silence. He wouldn’t have a lot of comforting things to say, anyway. The aftershocks of his rage rippled through his blood. Kate sitting in front of him, the scent of her, the feel of her soft, warm body against him, was a pleasant distraction from the memories tormenting his psyche.
They rode Thor slowly for a while in silence. Soon, the laughter, the music, and the voices from the camp vanished. Thor’s hooves thudded softly, leaves rustled above their heads, and birds chirped. They descended to the shore of Loch Awe, gravel rustling under Thor’s hooves. Ian looked carefully for shadows behind the trees or armor glistening, but everything remained calm. Once he knew they weren’t being followed, he spurred Thor into a trot.
Dry blood covered his hands. He had tucked his enemy’s sword into his belt.
Who was he now that he’d broken his own oath?
He was the beast he’d thought he was for eleven years. Just coming home wouldn’t rid him of the death he’d brought to people.
Kate had seen him kill an innocent man and two warriors. She’d seen him at his worst. She knew who he truly was.
A cold-blooded killer.
The thought maimed him, gnawed at his soul, and lacerated his heart.
Chapter 16
Kate held on to the horse’s mane, the trot sending shots of pain through her head. But for the first time since she’d arrived here, her mind was clear.
The slap had done something. Like with an old TV that didn’t work, a hard hit had connected the wires. When that man had hit her, the detonation of blinding pain had come with a memory of another hit—of her falling into a blinding darkness while trying to get away from Logan Robertson, the celebrity chef.
That memory had finally brought the last two pieces of the puzzle together. Specifically, why she’d been with Logan Robertson in the first place.
“If nothing changes in the next two months,” Mandy had said, pointing at the computer screen with many red numbers. “We’re bankrupt, Kate. We’re on the streets.”
She’d said it in that lifeless voice she always got during her depression episodes.
“This Logan Robertson TV thing is our last chance. Please, don’t screw it up.”
Kate had taken her sister’s hands in hers and squeezed them.
“I won’t, Mandy, I promise. You know I won’t let anything happen to you and Jax.”
And then, in a flash, came Inverlochy Castle—or rather, its ruins. Logan talking on the phone by the gates. A red-haired woman in a green cloak enjoying Kate’s sandwich.
Sìneag.
…the rock this castle has been built upon, that is saturated with the powerful magic of time travel.
Time travel… The ground had shifted under Kate’s feet as she’d remembered tumbling into disorienting darkness, striking her head on the stairs, the shining symbols on a rock, and her placing her hand into the handprint.
And the feeling of falling through the stone. Another skull-splitting hit.
And then Ian.
After that memory came to her, the rest had followed.
She now knew who she was—Kate Anderson, a thirty-one-year-old woman from Cape Haute, New Jersey. The owner of Deli Luck, living with her sister, Mandy, and her nephew, Jax.
In 2020.
No matter how crazy it sounded, Kate knew she’d fallen through time. Just like Sìneag had said.
So Kate wasn’t crazy. But she was living through a crazy thing. And she wasn’t sure which one was worse.
She breathed easier now that the reality of who she was had become clear. Knowing that she wasn’t crazy after all was soothing and released the tension in the pit of her stomach.
What she knew for sure was that no one in her life had ever taken care of her as Ian had. He’d freed her, for God’s sake. He cared enough to kill for her.
No one in her life in the future would sacrifice so much for her. She didn’t think anyone would ever care about her like that.
Oh yes, she’d seen Ian’s livid face when he’d confronted those men. He’d become someone else. He’d been a death machine. Every movement fast and calculated, efficient. Every hit meeting the aim.
He was terrifying. To others.
Not to her.
But was she safe with him? Should she be
afraid of him? He’d killed an unarmed man in his battle rage. Could he have as easily killed her without even realizing it?
No. She didn’t believe that. He would have stopped. Somehow he would have known.
She was safe with him. She knew it in her heart.
She’d never felt safer than she did with her back pressed against his torso, his arms around her as he held Thor’s reins, his warm breath in her ear. A man like that wouldn’t leave her in trouble.
Unlike Logan Robertson.
Or her previous boyfriends, who had sooner or later bailed on her. Who would want to go out with a woman who worked twelve hours a day?
She had so many questions for Ian. How had he found her in the woods? Where had he been last night? Had he seen her message? Where had he learned to fight like that?
But she had an even bigger question for herself: What now?
Now that she knew everything about herself.
Every day spent here brought bankruptcy closer to her family. Mandy and Jax might already be on the streets. What if Mandy got one of her episodes in the middle of it? How would Jax cope? Would social services take him?
The time traveling rock in Inverlochy was real. Knowing that, and how much Mandy and Jax were relying on her, there was only one thing to do.
She had to go back. Right now.
Even though Ian’s arms felt so good, even though he made her melt like butter in a hot pan, even though he’d just been a hero—for her…
She needed to go back.
And she would, as soon as they were far enough away from the English.
It felt like a few hours had passed when Ian slowed Thor down.
“’Tisna verra long till Dundail,” Ian said, “but he needs a wee bit of a rest.”
He jumped off the horse and helped Kate down, filling her nostrils with his masculine scent. His hands on her waist, she lost the ability to breathe.
When she stood on the ground, he took Thor to the loch and the animal drank thirstily.
Ian sank into a crouch and washed his hands, rubbing them against each other and leaving the water dark from dry blood. Then he stood next to Thor, his shoulders tense, the large muscles of his back stiff and bulging. Something was bothering him. Kate came to stand by his side.