Eadan's Vow
Highlander Fate Book One
Stella Knight
Copyright © 2018 by Stella Knight
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
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Contents
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Pronunciation Guide
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Ronan’s Captive Preview
Ronan’s Captive
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A Message from the Author
About the Author
Also by Stella Knight
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Pronunciation Guide
Eadan - AE-dan
Ronan - ROE-nan
Magaidh - MAG-ee
Dughall - DOO-ghul
Bran - BRAN
Uisdean - OOSH-jun
Naoghas - NOO-us
Maon - MOON
Sorcha - SAWR-khə
Chapter 1
Present Day
Aberdeen, Scotland
Fiona couldn’t take her eyes off the painting. It depicted a stunning landscape from somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, rolling hills and mountains, a sprawling forest, and a pristine blue sky. Something about it drew her toward it, and she had an odd sense of déjà vu, as if she’d seen this painting before.
She blinked, pulling herself back to the present. She glanced around the tiny museum she’d found tucked away on a tiny side street in Aberdeen. Besides herself, there was a middle-aged English couple, a small group of bored-looking students with their enthusiastic teacher, and an elderly woman who kept casting surreptitious glances her way. They’d all passed this painting by; Fiona was the only one who seemed to notice it existence.
She turned her focus back to the painting, studying the label next to it: 1390, Scottish Highlands. Artist Unknown.
“An art dealer in Edinburgh discovered this at an estate sale.”
Fiona turned as the elderly museum owner, Callum, approached her with a smile.
“I knew there was something special about it,” he continued.
“It’s lovely,” Fiona said politely, though she didn’t want to get stuck talking to him. She’d already witnessed him trying to up sell kitschy souvenirs to the other tourists.
“Ah, an American,” Callum said, before she could walk away. “Where are you from?”
“Chicago.”
She decided not to mention that she was in Scotland for what was supposed to be her honeymoon. Only a few weeks ago, she’d called off her wedding after discovering her fiancé Derek cheating on her with his coworker. Fiona kept a polite smile pinned on her face, even as bitterness pierced her at the memory.
“Chicago. Lovely city I hear,” Callum said. “Never been out of Scotland myself. Always hoped to one day go to America.”
Fiona's phone chirped with a text—the perfect out. Relief flowed through her, and she gave Callum an apologetic look as she pointed to her phone, starting to step around him.
“Before you make your way out, perhaps you’d like to explore the gift shop?” Callum asked, a mercenary gleam in his eyes.
Fiona stifled a sigh. He'd gotten her; he probably didn’t care one bit about the painting. She cast one last look at it before trailing him to the adjoining gift shop, where she ended up buying several mugs and key chains she didn’t need.
As she headed out of the gift shop with her stash of souvenirs, her skin prickled at the sensation of eyes on the back of her neck. Fiona turned.
Shock roiled through her. The same elderly woman who’d kept looking at her in the museum stood in the back of the gift shop. Only now, it looked as if she’d aged down by about ten years; she had fewer wrinkles and much of the gray strands in her hair had vanished, replaced with strands of black. And Fiona was certain it was the same woman.
“Can I help you with anything else?” Callum asked eagerly, as Fiona stood frozen by the open doorway.
“No,” Fiona forced herself to say, before returning her focus to the woman. But the woman was no longer there. Fiona looked around, confused, but the woman was nowhere to be seen. “Have—have a good day.”
What the hell was that all about? Fiona wondered in a daze, as she stepped out onto the street, making her way to her rental car. First, the painting that had mesmerized her, striking her with that sense of déjà vu, and then the female Benjamin Button.
She’d only been in Scotland for a few days, and nothing out of the ordinary had happened until today. It surprised Fiona how much she enjoyed the country. She’d never been here before, but it felt like she was returning home after a long absence. After Derek’s betrayal, her best friend, Isabelle, had encouraged her to re-purpose this trip into a solo artist retreat of sorts. As an artist, she loved sketching and painting beautiful landscapes; Scotland had them in spades.
She’d started her trip here in Aberdeen, intending to make her way to the Highlands, where she’d stay in Inverness for a couple of days, before heading down to Glasgow and then Edinburgh, where she’d meet up with Isabelle. She planned to submit the landscapes she sketched here to an art show back in Chicago. Fiona taught art to high school students for a living, and unlike other art teachers she knew, she found her job fulfilling and enjoyed it—but sometimes she got the urge to put her works on display.
Fiona slid into her rental car, giving the museum one last glance before starting the car and driving away. She’d found it by accident after stopping for coffee at a nearby café. Despite the pushy owner, the strange woman, and the painting, she’d enjoyed visiting it and taking in the paintings and sculptures it had on display. It was the type of place Derek would have hated to visit; looking at art wasn’t one of his favorite pastimes. Now that she thought about it, that wasn’t a good sign.
She scowled as she recalled Derek’s dismissiveness of her art. He’d urged her to go into graphic design instead, insisting she’d make more money and wouldn’t have to teach. Her insistence that she liked the good old-fashioned raw materials of sketching and painting had fallen on deaf ears. But Derek hadn’t been the best listener. Or the best fiancé, she thought, with a wave of bitterness.
She’d discovered his cheating in the most cliché of ways. With the date of their wedding getting closer, things had become oddly tense between them. They’d gotten into a terrible fight over the guest list, and Fiona had gone to his apartment, prepared to offer him an olive branch. A
nd that’s when she’d found him in bed with Karen, his coworker whom Fiona had never liked.
Looking back, what surprised her the most was her utter lack of heartbreak. She’d been humiliated, she’d cried, and she’d yelled at him when he called with pathetic excuses, but she’d not felt the level of devastation one should feel after discovering such a betrayal.
Derek had often accused her of not fully opening herself up to him, and maybe there was some truth to that. Her parents had died in a car accident when she was five, and she'd been raised by her kind yet distant Aunt Carol. Carol had died when she was in college, and ever since she’d developed the bad habit of isolating herself; closing herself off to relationships. Her relationship with Derek was an attempt to change this. So when Derek proposed after two years of dating, she’d accepted. She was twenty-eight, Derek thirty, it just seemed like the logical next step for them.
But something had never felt quite . . . right between them. Their lovemaking was okay, their relationship . . . fine, but there hadn’t been the fire she always imagined she’d feel when she met The One. Hell, she’d felt more of a pull toward that landscape painting than to her ex-fiancé.
By the time she pulled into the parking garage of her hotel, she decided to put the strange encounter at the museum behind her, along with all thoughts of her ex. She entered the candlelit lobby, averting her eyes from at least two couples engaged in full-on PDA. Her hotel was a romantic destination for honeymooners and couples; she’d had to make a rather humiliating phone call asking them to downgrade her room to a standard one from the honeymoon suite, and they’d obliged her without too many questions.
She entered her hotel room, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her chestnut brown hair had escaped from its loose bun during her drive, returning to its naturally unruly state somewhere between wavy and curly. Her light brown eyes were shadowed, and she wearily rubbed at them. Encountering that painting—and the strange woman—at the museum had affected her more than she’d thought.
She sighed, tossing her bag of useless souvenirs onto the bed. She’d already bought too many souvenirs; at this point she’d have to buy another suitcase before she left. At the thought of leaving Scotland, a sudden sadness filled her. She dreaded leaving this beautiful country with its lush landscapes, kind people, and most importantly, its long distance from Chicago—Ground Zero of her broken engagement.
Her phone rang and she glanced down at it: Isabelle. The incident at the museum had distracted her so much, she’d forgotten Isabelle had texted.
“Do you love Scotland or do you love Scotland?” Isabelle asked, as soon as Fiona answered.
Fiona grinned at Isabelle's enthusiasm. Without Isabelle's influence, Fiona would have canceled the trip altogether.
“I have to say, you were right. I love it,” Fiona said. “I’m glad I came. When did you get in?”
“Late last night. I’m a little jet-lagged,” Isabelle said, stifling a yawn, “but I can’t wait to meet up with you after I do the obligatory family meet up.”
“Tell Scott I said hi,” Fiona said. Isabelle’s brother Scott and his wife lived in Edinburgh.
“I will. And, um, he may have a couple of friends he’d like to introduce you to,” Isabelle hedged.
“No way,” Fiona said. Isabelle had been on her case to get a rebound ever since she’d told her of Derek’s betrayal. But Fiona had no intention of doing so. After the Derek disaster, she was content to be on her own. Maybe she was better off alone.
“Well. If said friends happen to be at a bar we were to visit . . .” Isabelle continued, her tone mischievous.
“I’m not here to have a fling, Isabelle,” Fiona said, scowling. “Solo artist retreat, remember? Me time, remember?”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t have fun,” Isabelle said innocently.
“Isabelle—"
“OK, OK. I’ll tell my brother—and his wife—to lay off. Tell me what you’ve been up to so far,” Isabelle said with a sigh.
Fiona told her about the museums she’d visited and some cityscapes she’d already sketched. She left out today’s incident at the museum. She didn’t even know how she’d describe what happened. I saw a painting that hypnotized me and an old woman reverse aged in the span of minutes. I may or may not be losing my mind.
After Isabelle yawned the fifth time, Fiona urged her to get some rest and ended the call.
Isabelle was a fellow teacher from her school and they’d become fast friends, even though they were total opposites. Isabelle was loud, feisty, and opinionated, Fiona more reserved. As she looked down at her phone, she wondered if she should have told Isabelle about the painting, and the de-aging woman at the museum. Isabelle was logical to a fault; she’d have a reasonable explanation.
Fiona shook her head, telling herself that they were both mere coincidences; odd blips on an otherwise ordinary trip to Scotland. But a nagging part of her couldn’t help but suspect they were linked.
Chapter 2
1390
Macleay Castle
The cheers and laughter that surrounded Eadan grated at his ears. He forced a smile and raised his cup of ale as a distant cousin shouted words of congratulations from across the hall. At his side, Magaidh, his bride-to-be, wore a strained smile that must have matched his own. Eadan met her eyes, stiffening at the hatred he saw lurking in their green depths, before she quickly lowered them. His bride-to-be seemed to hate this arrangement as much as he did.
The grand hall of Macleay Castle was more crowded than usual, filled with various members of two formerly feuding clans, Clan Acheson and Clan Macleay. They were all gathered to celebrate his betrothal to Magaidh, the daughter of the Acheson chief. Eadan sat at the head table with Magaidh and other leading nobles of the two clans.
He looked out at the great hall. Light from the various candles and two large fireplaces that were on opposite ends of the hall illuminated the cheerful faces of the guests. Several servants moved to and fro, carrying trays of wine and ale to refill their cups. The boisterous conversation of the guests filled every corner of the vaulted great hall. Eadan studied their jovial faces, wishing he could share the same cheer.
“Christ, Eadan.” Eadan stiffened as Ronan, seated on his opposite site, hissed the oath in his ears. “At least try tae seem like ye’re happy about this. That smile looks painful."
Eadan turned to scowl at Ronan. Ronan was his cousin; Eadan’s father Bran had raised him as his own after the death of Ronan's father. There weren’t many members of their clan who could get away with talking to Eadan, the tainistear—the chief’s heir—the way Ronan did.
Eadan decided not to reply, worried that Magaidh's keen ears would pick up on whatever he said. His gaze slid back to her as she sipped her wine. She was a lovely woman, with long auburn hair and vibrant green eyes, but Eadan wasn't one to be taken by mere beauty—she was as cruel as a viper. He'd witnessed how she treated the castle servants, as if they were no better than rodents scampering at her feet. If Eadan hadn’t intervened, she would have gotten an elderly cook who'd worked at the castle since he was a bairn dismissed for not cooking her supper the exact way she liked. He knew Magaidh hated him, though she tried to hide her dislike behind coquettish smiles. A part of him felt sorry for her; daughters of high-ranking clan members rarely had a choice when it came to their husbands, but he suspected Magaidh wasn't so innocent.
“Tae Eadan and my beloved daughter,” a voice boomed.
Eadan turned to face the man who spoke at the opposite end of their table—Dughall, Magaidh’s father. He had the auburn hair, now shot through with gray, and green eyes that his daughter shared. For a man in his late fifties, he was still sturdy and strong. He’d been a strong fighter in his youth, and he remained an expert swordsman to this day.
Dughall lumbered to his feet, his smile forced as he raised his cup of ale.
“May yer lives be fruitful after ye wed.”
“Aye!” the guests cried, as Dughall took his seat
again, his eyes never leaving Eadan’s, and he could have sworn he saw a dark look in the older man’s eyes.
Their two clans had been feuding for years over a disputed patch of land in the northern Highlands. Dughall was the one who’d approached his father with a peace offering. He wanted to join their clans in marriage; his daughter and only heir Magaidh, to Eadan, heir to Clan Macleay.
But the offer had struck Eadan as odd. Until recently, Dughall had been a vocal proponent of going to outright war over the disputed land. It was only the calm diplomacy of his father that prevented Dughall from rousing the nobles to battle. Dughall had gone quiet over talks of war and suggested the betrothal only weeks later. It was an abrupt change of position, one that Eadan didn’t trust.
Eadan's father Bran was a shrewd man, but he’d fallen ill in the past year, and was now a shadow of the strong man he’d once been. The castle healer had told Eadan he didn’t believe his father had much time left; Eadan suspected Bran had taken Dughall’s offer because of this—he wanted to leave this life knowing his clan could have peace.
When Eadan tried to argue with his father, telling him he found Dughall's peace offering suspicious, Bran had curtly told him that as chieftain of the clan, it was his right to accept such an offer, and had refused to listen to anything further Eadan had to say about the matter. Knowing how important ending the feud was to his father, and to the clan, Eadan had agreed to the betrothal, though his instincts that something was amiss remained.
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