Ronan spent the rest of the day reviewing the stacks of parchments on Eadan’s table in his study; he didn’t even have time to break for a midday meal. He didn’t know how his cousin handled such a tedious task day in and day out.
Night had fallen when Ronan finally returned to his manor, tucked away on its own patch of land a small distance away from the castle, its dark gray stone veneer looming in the darkness as he approached.
His uncle had granted him the manor in his twentieth year after the previous owner passed away. And while he spent most of his time there, it never felt as much of a home as Macleay Castle did. He’d grown up in the castle, his uncle Bran having taken him in after the death of his own father. Bran was more like a father to him than an uncle, Eadan a brother.
A sudden stab of loneliness pierced him. Eadan and Fiona would soon start their family and Bran had retired to his own home off castle grounds. Soon the castle would no longer feel like home. He supposed this was why men chose to wed—to create a sense of home. It wasn’t something Ronan had even pondered nor was it something he’d ever wanted. He didn’t want to bear the responsibility of a bride, a family. His series of mistresses brought him great contentment, and he made certain to tell each one before he bedded them he had no desire to wed.
Ronan dismounted from his horse as he arrived in the courtyard of his manor, handing the reins to a stable boy who rushed forward. There hadn’t been time today, but he intended to hold a supper at the castle to seek out his next mistress. He’d make it clear what he was looking for—a lass to warm his bed. Just because Eadan settled down with a wife didn’t mean he had to do the same.
Appeased by the thought, he entered the manor and climbed the stairs, heading down the long hallway to his chamber.
He froze at the sight that greeted him. At the base of his chamber door lay a piece of charred wood. He recognized the darkened bark, wood from an elder tree.
It was an ill omen—and someone had placed it there for him to find.
It was a threat.
Chapter 3
Present Day
New York City
During the train ride back to New York, Kara’s thoughts kept returning to her grandmother’s letter. The things she’d written were crazy, but Alice had been completely lucid and levelheaded the last time she’d seen her.
Kara closed her eyes, rubbing her temple and leaning her head back against her seat. There was a part of her that wanted to believe Alice hadn’t written the letter, that someone had placed it in her attic as some cruel practical joke.
But she knew her grandmother’s handwriting like the back of her hand.
I believe time travel is real.
Kara opened her eyes, her gaze straying to the chest she’d stored beneath her feet, the chest that contained the letter, along with a fourteenth century-era gown Alice wanted her to wear when she magically traveled through time.
Kara recalled her childhood fear of ghosts, and Alice’s repeated assurances that ghosts—and anything supernatural—didn’t exist. I guess time travel doesn’t count.
As her train pulled in to the bustling Penn Station, Kara decided that she would just store Alice’s chest in her living room closet. She ignored the guilt that flared in her chest, but she could hardly do what Alice asked. Time travel wasn’t real, and her request was ridiculous. Insane. Why couldn’t Alice have had a simple last request, like be happy and live your life?
But Alice wasn’t a simple woman. Even as frustration and disbelief coursed through her, Kara smiled at the memory of her grandmother’s unorthodox personality.
Alice had been a history professor at Syracuse University, specializing in medieval studies. Kara had met some of her students who told her about Alice’s nontraditional teaching methods. Instead of lectures, papers and exams, Alice would gather her students in class, her home, parks, or wherever struck her fancy, and held detailed back-and-forth conversations about medieval history. She’d also been a nontraditional guardian, never ruling over Kara with an iron fist, encouraging her to do whatever she wanted in life that made her happy.
“It’s your path, Care Bear,” Alice had told her several years ago. “You already know where you’re going and what you want.”
When Kara entered her studio apartment in Brooklyn, she was still smiling at the memory. She set her suitcase down and marched the chest over to her living room closet, stowing it away in and closing the door, as if the act alone would push the chest from her thoughts.
Well, this is my path, Alice, she said silently. To not entertain crazy ideas.
She spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking, cleaning the mess she’d been too grief-stricken to deal with before she left and resuming her fruitless job search online. The entire time she took great effort to not linger on her grief or her confusion over Alice’s letter; but the letter kept intruding into her thoughts like a pesky itch she couldn’t scratch.
I want you to solve this mystery and save the lives of our distant ancestors—and the countless others who died needlessly.
Kara shut her laptop closed, getting to her feet. She wouldn’t let herself entertain Alice’s words. She wouldn’t.
But the thoughts remained even after she crawled into bed, snatches of Alice’s letter echoing in her mind. Unable to sleep, Kara slid out of bed around midnight and went to the closet to pull out the chest, feeling like a drug addict seeking her fix.
She took out the letter and read it once more, then again, before falling asleep on the couch, the letter clutched to her chest.
When she awoke the next morning, she knew she couldn’t go about her usual routine of heading to the gym, returning to her apartment to job search, grocery shopping, then more job searching. The contents of Alice’s letter had dominated her mind. And Alice knew her well—too well. Kara could never resist a good mystery to solve. It was one reason she’d become an investigative reporter.
Kara got to her feet, reaching for her phone. No more ruminating on her own. She needed outside advice.
She sent a quick text to her friend Jon, her former co-worker from the magazine. She and Jon had gone out on one bad date in which they’d discovered they had zero chemistry, but they did have great compatibility as friends. Jon was one of the most logical people she knew. While she didn’t intend to tell him all the explicit details of Alice’s letter, she’d tell him enough for him to give her advice.
Jon responded almost immediately to her text, agreeing to meet her for lunch at a nearby bistro. He met her outside the bistro, his dirty-blond hair mussed, as if he’d been raking his hands through it, his brown eyes filled with concern. Stepping forward, he gave her a long embrace and murmured his condolences.
Once they were seated, she kept the conversation light, telling him about details of her trip upstate as she tried to figure out how to broach the subject of Alice’s letter. But midway through their meal, Jon set down his fork, his face infused with concern.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. “What is it?”
Kara studied him, taking a breath. How to word this?
So my grandmother’s final wish is for me to go back in time over six hundred years and despite my best efforts, I’m actually considering it.
“I have a—question for you,” she hedged. “Do you believe in . . . aliens?”
Her face flamed as the waiter refilled their glasses with water just as she asked the question. The waiter’s face remained impassive, but his lips twitched.
Jon’s eyes widened with both amusement and surprise. She waited for the waiter to leave before continuing. “Fairies? Monsters? Things most people don’t consider real?”
Now Jon’s amusement faded, and he studied her with growing concern.
“Kar, what’s—”
“I’m just curious,” she interrupted. "Humor me."
“Well,” Jon said, after a long pause, “the short answer is—no. The long answer is . . . anything’s possible. There’s a lot we haven’t discovered yet. And—wh
at’s that Sherlock quote? When you’ve excluded the impossible, whatever remains—”
“However improbable, must be the truth,” Kara finished. She leaned back in her chair. But that was the problem. Time travel was impossible. Wasn’t it?
“There—there’s something Alice wants me to try,” she said, as Jon pinned her with a probing look. “Something she requested in a final letter. Something I think is impossible . . . but I’m feeling guilty for not doing it.”
“I suppose you’re not going to tell me what this impossible thing is?”
“No,” she admitted. “Sorry.”
“OK,” Jon said, raking a hand through his hair, his eyes filling with a patient understanding; he wasn’t going to push. Kara smiled at him, relief flowing through her. She was glad she'd contacted him. “What’s the downside to trying this thing she wants you to do?”
Kara considered. She would lose a few days from her job search. And she’d have to take money from her increasingly meager savings for a plane ticket to Scotland.
But if she did go, it would at least assuage her guilt over ignoring Alice’s final plea. And she’d get a vacation out of this whole bizarre thing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a vacation.
“Thanks,” she said. “You’ve just helped me make my decision.”
“You’re . . . not going to go seek out aliens, are you?” Jon asked, looking so genuinely concerned that she had to laugh. “Fairies? Monsters?”
“No,” she said, still chuckling. Try time travel. “When I get back, I’ll tell you what Alice asked me to do. Trust me, you’ll laugh.”
“Well,” Jon said, returning her smile with a shrug. “I look forward to it.” He held up his glass of water. “To the impossible.”
“To the impossible,” she echoed, clinking her glass with his. To time travel.
Present Day
Larkin, Scotland
The next day, Kara was on a flight from JFK to Aberdeen International Airport. She’d felt ridiculous as she packed the fourteenth-century gown in her suitcase, but she reminded herself she was doing this for Alice. And, selfishly, to quell her guilt and curiosity.
She arrived in Aberdeen in the late evening and rented a car from the airport to drive to the small town of Larkin, the closest town to the coordinates Alice had provided.
Though it was dark, she could make out the stunning landscape of the Highlands around her: the dark rolling hills, the patches of forest in the distance, the glittering night sky. For some reason that she couldn’t pinpoint, a chill settled over her as she drove deeper into the Highlands, along with the uncanny sense she’d been here before. Alice had taken several research trips to Scotland, but she'd never invited her along, and Kara had never come to Scotland on her own.
Now Kara wondered why. Had Alice somehow known all along that she’d one day ask Kara to do something like this?
Kara sighed, pushing the thought from her mind. There was no use filling her mind with even more questions.
After arriving at the quaint bed-and-breakfast in Larkin, the only one in the tiny town, she stayed up late reading and rereading Alice’s letter, as if it would reveal new information, information that would answer the plethora of questions swirling around in her mind.
The next morning she dutifully put on the gown Alice had provided. She’d seen Alice wear similar clothing for reenactments she did with the local historical society, so she knew to start with the underdress, then the tunic, and finished with the lavender gown. She’s though the gown would be uncomfortable—but it was far more comfortable than she’d expected, the fabric soft against her skin. Alice had told her corsets didn’t become a thing until the sixteenth century, and for that Kara was grateful.
Not that it matters, she told herself. She would take this gown off as soon as she returned to the bed-and-breakfast and begin her vacation in earnest.
Kara eyed herself in the mirror. She'd tucked her honey-blond hair back in a messy bun, and anxiety filled her green eyes.
“This is how much I love you, Alice,” she murmured.
Before leaving her room, she tucked a large pashmina around her body to avoid curious looks from the other guests. Fortunately, it was gray and drizzly outside so the pashmina didn’t seem too odd.
She used her GPS to take her to the coordinates Alice had provided. She veered right on the forked road that took her deeper into the Highlands until she arrived at her destination.
Taking off her pashmina and storing it in the backseat, Kara took in the sight with surprise. She’d arrived at the ruins of what appeared to be a medieval village. There were no tourists or signs. It was completely desolate.
As she got out of the car, another chill settled over her, the type of chill that slithered through her whenever she walked down an empty street late at night. A sense of looming danger.
She hesitated by the side of her car. She could just climb back in and drive away; she’d come to the coordinates as Alice had asked. Alice hadn't provided any detailed instructions beyond that.
As she lingered, hesitation rendering her still, the wind suddenly picked up around her and she could have sworn she heard a faint whisper in the breeze.
“Kara.”
Kara's heart picked up its pace. It was a woman’s voice with a strange accent she didn’t recognize. Her throat went dry as she looked around, but she was the only soul in sight.
Unease seized her, but something else filled her chest as well. A pull. She found herself stumbling forward, as if she were a magnet drawn to its source, toward the ruins of a castle on the edge of the village.
“Kara.”
That whisper again. Shaking, Kara arrived at the ruins of the castle, looking around as she stumbled into the courtyard, but there was no one. Was she just hearing things?
The wind increased around her, tugging at her body, her gown and hair whipping around by its force. She had to reach out to grasp the crumbling castle wall to maintain her balance.
Fear crept down her spine as she noticed that neither the nearby trees nor the grass around the castle moved with the force of the wind; it was as if the wind was localized only to the castle. She heard Alice’s voice—her words from the letter. I believe time travel is real.
With panic swirling through her veins, Kara turned to leave the ruins, but it was nearly impossible to move with the force of the wind pulling on her body.
And like invisible hands, the wind jerked her backward. She screamed as the world around her dissolved in a dizzying blur . . .
Chapter 4
1390
Macleay Manor
After finding the ill omen outside his chamber door, Ronan spent most of the night questioning his servants, trying to determine if any of them had seen a stranger entering the manor. Beathan looked furious when Ronan told him of the ill omen, vowing to help him find the perpetrator. But none of the servants they’d questioned had seen anything amiss.
Beathan seemed suspicious of their ignorance, but Ronan trusted his servants. He treated them well, and they were loyal to him and the clan. Many had worked at his manor the entire time he’d been laird.
“Donnae forget that Dughall’s men turned some of Eadan’s servants against him, and they were loyal as well,” Beathan cautioned, after Ronan questioned the final servant and they stood alone in his study.
“If one of them is the traitor, I’ll find out,” he said, though he wasn’t sure how. “I want a guard on the front and back entrance—’til this is sorted.”
Beathan left him alone, and Ronan took a seat at his table examining the piece of burnt bark. The elder tree wasn’t common in the Highlands; it needed more fertile soul. Many in the Highlands believed spirits lived in these trees and to burn them was an ill omen. Ronan did not believe in such superstition, but he believed in the sender’s intent. Someone had taken great effort to seek one of these rare trees, burn its bark, and leave it for him to find as a warning.
That night he drifted off to sle
ep with troubled thoughts plaguing his mind. A banging on his door early the next morning roused him.
"M'laird!"
Ronan sat up, alarmed. It was Beathan's voice; he sounded panicked. Ronan shrugged into his clothes before hurrying to the door.
“What is it?” he asked, swinging it open to find a wide-eyed Beathan.
“There’s another lass wandering the grounds—a different one this time,” Beathan said.
Ronan closed his eyes, his shoulders sinking with annoyance.
“We already searched the grounds for— “
“This one didnae disappear,” Beathan interrupted. He moved past Ronan to the window, peering out. “She’s still there.”
Ronan trailed Beathan to the window, stiffening as he followed his gaze. There was indeed a lass emerging from the forests on the far edge of the grounds—he couldn’t make out any of her features beyond her golden hair.
Confusion filled him, and then fury, as he recalled the burnt elder wood he’d received the night before. Had she been the one to do it?
“I’ll handle the lass,” Ronan said, his mouth tightening as he stepped back from the window.
Moments later, he stalked out of the front door, making his way toward the lass. She stood frozen on the edge of the grounds and didn’t try to flee.
As he drew closer to her, his mouth went dry. She was by far the bonniest lass he’d ever seen—hair the color of burnished gold, a heart-shaped face with a generous mouth and eyes a deep green that reminded him of a verdant meadow. She was tall for a lass, her slender curves pronounced beneath the lavender gown she wore. He felt himself harden against his kilt as hot, molten desire filled every part of him.
Ronan's Captive: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 2) Page 2