Bran, seated at the center of their long table, rapped on the table for silence. The hall fell silent as his father lurched to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane.
“’Tis my honor tae join Clan MacLeay and Clan Acheson with the betrothal of my sole heir, Eadan, tae Dughall’s bonnie daughter Magaidh." Bran turned to Eadan and Magaidh, raising his cup of ale. "May ye have strong sons and continue the peace for years tae come.”
The hall erupted with cheers and Eadan struggled to keep the smile pinned on his face. As the cheers rose to a crescendo, Bran gestured for Eadan to stand.
Dread filled every part of him, but Eadan got to his feet, turning to face the guests.
“I look forward tae a long and fruitful marriage," he lied. “Tae the joining of our clans, and tae peace."
As the cheers and cries continued, Eadan’s gaze landed on Dughall. This time, Eadan knew that he didn't just imagine the dark look in the man's eyes. Eadan’s chest tightened; Dughall was hiding something, and he would find out what it was—before he married his daughter. Eadan kept his eyes trained on Dughall as he held up his ale and bellowed, “Tae peace!”
“Tae peace!” the guests echoed.
Eadan turned, gesturing for the minstrels to resume their music. Many guests stood, streaming to the center of the hall to dance. The ale and wine they'd consumed had taken full affect, and they were giddy with merriment.
At his side, Ronan gave him a meaningful look that said, "Ask your betrothed to dance." Eadan tensed, but turned to Magaidh.
“Would ye like tae join me for a dance?”
“Aye,” she said, though her mouth tightened with dislike as he took her hand.
In a way, it was a relief that Magaidh hated him; if she fawned over him like a besotted maiden, it would make their betrothal—and marriage—even more difficult.
All eyes fell on them as they moved to the center of the hall to dance. Eadan's face had begun to hurt from the strained smile he wore, but he needed to look merry. He felt nothing as he pulled Magaidh into the circle of his arms to dance. Despite her beauty, there was no lust, no affection; not even hatred or dislike. He could have been dancing with air.
There were plenty of loveless marriages among the clan members, and he had no qualms about having one of his own. In fact, he preferred it. The men who loved their wives were distracted from their duties to the clan.
Though Bran was still chief of Clan Macleay in name, Eadan was laird of Macleay Castle, and he'd taken over his father’s leadership duties as chief ever since he’d fallen ill. He wanted nothing more than to focus on leading the clan, overseeing the castle and his lands, without the distractions caused by love. He doubted he would even take a mistress as many husbands did. He would focus only on his role as laird and leader of his clan. And right now, his focus was on getting out of this betrothal—and figuring out what Dughall and his clan were up to.
Chapter 3
Present Day
Inverness and the Highlands, Scotland
Fiona left Aberdeen for Inverness early the next day, rolling down the window to let the fresh morning air flutter through her long brown hair as she drove. She was looking forward to exploring the Highlands; it was where she intended to get most of her sketching done.
She took in the stunning landscapes that surrounded her as she drove—the rolling expanses of flat grassy fields, punctuated by small towns or the ruins of old castles, the hazy outline of mountains in the distance, the stretch of clouds in the pristine blue sky. A tug of familiarity pulled at her, that same sense of déjà vu that seized her when she'd seen that painting. But she shook off the sensation; it was probably because she was enjoying her time here so much.
She arrived in Inverness a couple of hours later, checking into a quaint bed-and-breakfast on the outskirts of town, owned by a kind elderly married couple.
After settling in her room, she had her lunch in the small dining room of the bed-and-breakfast, where she realized with a stab of annoyance she was the only solo diner; once again, couples surrounded her. For the first time since she arrived in Scotland, a pierce of loneliness stabbed her heart. She wasn’t lonely for Derek—or for any man—but there was something missing. It was a feeling that had plagued her over the years, even when she was with Derek; the sense that she’d misplaced something, something she'd lost, yet couldn’t fathom what it was.
Fiona suddenly stilled, the sensation of eyes on her skin prickling the back of her neck. It was the same sensation she'd felt back at the museum in Aberdeen. She took a quick look around the dining room, but all the couples were engrossed in each other, and no one paid her any mind.
She swallowed, getting to her feet. Was she getting paranoid? She decided she needed to get some air, perhaps do some sketching. She'd intended to spend the day exploring Inverness, but decided instead to head out to the nearby town of Larkin, nestled in the midst of the Highlands, with plenty of breathtaking views. Sketching always relaxed her and helped take her mind off things.
It was still sunny out when she left. The bed-and-breakfast owners told her a sunny day was a rare thing in Scotland, and to enjoy it.
As she drove out of Inverness and into the surrounding Highlands, a sense of calm and relaxation settled over her. She made a mental note to give Isabelle a big hug and thank her for convincing her to transform her honeymoon into a solo vacation; she didn't realize how much she'd needed it until now.
She was driving for about half an hour when she approached a forked road—the one on the left led to the town she was heading to, the one on the right led toward the mountains.
A sudden and inexplicable urge to turn right filled her, and Fiona gave into it, taking the road that veered right. She told herself that she’d briefly explore what was up ahead, then turn back around in a few miles.
The surrounding vistas were even more stunning here; the dark green hills and mountains that surrounded her spiraled into the sky toward clouds that blanketed the horizon, leaving only small patches of blue.
Fiona slowed down as she approached the ruins of what appeared to be a small medieval town, with several decrepit houses, and even a lone, aging castle in the distance.
She pulled over to the side of the road, looking down at the map on her phone, but there was no indication of any town here. She also checked the physical map she’d brought with her, and her guidebook, but they were both the same—no mention of the ruins of a medieval village.
Fiona got out of her car, looking around. There wasn’t another soul in sight, and the main road she'd turned off of was miles behind her. In this moment, she felt like the only person in the world.
She took in the stunning vista that surrounded her, and knew she couldn't pass up the opportunity to sketch it.
Moments later, she found a comfortable sitting position on the ground and took out her pad to sketch. Soon, she became absorbed in her work, and everything else faded away. It was what she loved most about sketching or painting—the act took her out of place and time—it was what she did whenever she needed refuge from the stressors of everyday life.
When she finally looked up, her sketch almost complete, she blinked in astonishment. The sun hadn’t moved, but she was certain that at least two hours had to have passed, which often happened when she got lost in her sketching.
She dug into her purse for her phone, glancing down at the time. And she froze.
It read the same time she’d arrived—2:15 p.m.
But that was impossible. She wondered if the dodgy cell reception of the Highlands made her cell's clock unreliable.
Fiona stood, heading to her car, and poked her head inside to look at the clock. But it read the same time. 2:15 p.m.
She shook her head, pushing aside her unease. Regardless of the time, she should head back to Inverness; she owed Isabelle a phone call. Reaching down, Fiona gathered her things, but she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Movement from the ruins of the castle.
Fiona straightened, studyin
g the castle. She noticed the movement again. A woman. Though she was some distance away, Fiona could tell it was the same mysterious woman from the museum in Aberdeen.
Panic, fear and shock clawed its way through her chest. With a chill, Fiona recalled the sensation of eyes on her back at the bed-and-breakfast. The woman was following her.
Hot anger replaced her fear. Fiona dropped her things, stalking toward the castle.
“Hey!” she shouted, but there was no sign of the woman as she approached. "HEY!"
Fiona reached the ruins of the castle, stepping into the courtyard. She hesitated as another swell of déjà vu swept over her. This time the feeling was so overwhelming that she swayed on her feet. She looked around at the crumbling castle, unable to shake the sensation that she’d been here before. She swallowed as another chill crept up her spine.
Focus, Fiona. She needed to find that woman and find out what the hell was going on—and why she was following her. Fiona turned, scanning the courtyard. There was no sign of the woman, though she couldn't have gotten far.
"I know you’re here! Why are you following me?”
She heard a scurry of movement coming from her left and turned. It had come from a crumbling tower; she could see a winding set of stairs leading below.
Fiona hurried toward it, making her way down the set of stairs, which was surprisingly solid compared to its crumbling surroundings. It led to what appeared to be an ancient, ruined cellar.
She looked around, disoriented. What if this was some sort of trap—and the woman had led her down here on purpose? Panic rising in her chest, Fiona turned back to head up the stairs, but the cellar had darkened, and she could barely see in front of her.
Taking deep breaths to calm herself, she found the wall with her hands, feeling along its rough surface to help guide her back to the entrance.
But she froze as a sudden rush of wind filled the cellar—as if a miniature invisible tornado had appeared. Her heart rate increased, and she tried to keep her grip planted on the wall to keep moving toward the entrance, but a tug of wind jerked her body back, away from the wall, and impossibly, she was falling . . .
Chapter 4
1390
Macleay Castle
When Fiona opened her eyes, she had a massive headache. Disoriented, she sat up, looking around at the dark cellar, momentarily forgetting where she was or how she'd gotten here.
And then it all came back to her. The mysterious ruins of the village, the woman who'd been following her, Fiona chasing her into the pits of the castle, the tug of wind, and the sensation of falling.
Fiona climbed to her feet, clutching her head. What had caused that wind? Maybe there'd been a sudden storm, and the rush of wind had caused her fall. Whatever had happened, she needed Ibuprofen, water, and a long nap back in her room at the bed-and-breakfast. If she saw that woman again, she'd just have to contact the authorities.
Though the cellar was still dark, Fiona could now see enough to make out the stairs up ahead. She blinked, taking in the cellar. It looked slightly different. It was larger, with no signs of decay. In fact, she saw barrels of wine and sacks of flour stacked in the far corner. Had someone been here?
Shaken, she made her way to the stairs, starting to ascend, but stilled when she heard two male voices.
"I’m telling ye, Ronan, they’re up tae something. I doonae trust them.”
“Yer father’s wise, he wouldn’t let Dughall fool him. Be happy with the lass, she’s bonnie and will give ye strong sons—"
“’Tis not about Magaidh, 'tis about protecting the clan.”
Fiona had heard thick, almost indiscernible Scottish accents since she'd arrived, but these sounded . . . different. Though she could understand them—barely—it was almost like they were speaking another language.
Other people are here, Fiona realized in a daze. When she’d arrived, the village had been a ghost town.
She climbed the stairs and froze when she reached the top.
Two handsome men stood in the corridor. They wore medieval-looking clothes—dark tunics and green plaid-patterned kilts. One was tall with brown hair, golden eyes, and strong angular features.
But it was the one who stood closest to her that made her throat go dry. He was tall, well over six feet, with dark wavy hair, cerulean blue eyes, and a finely chiseled jaw dotted with faint stubble. He was ridiculously, painfully gorgeous. A rush of heat spiraled through her, and she swallowed.
"Ah—sorry,” she said, when she was able to speak. Maybe this was a historical reenactment? One of her guides had told her such reenactments took place in some castles throughout the country. “I—sorry to interrupt. I just need to get to my car.”
She started to step forward, but the Gorgeous Scot intercepted her, his eyes narrowed. His gaze swept over her from head to toe, taking in her disheveled brown hair and her navy blue maxi dress, and Fiona flushed at his appraisal. His eyes darkened with something she couldn't identify before he met her gaze again.
“Who are ye, lass?” he demanded. “A Sassenach spy? One of Dughall’s whores here tae spy on me?”
Fiona gasped, anger coursing through her. Who the hell was this guy—and what was this? If this was a reenactment, he was taking it way too far.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I was just leaving,” she snapped, moving around him, but he again blocked her path.
“Not ’til ye tell us who ye are,” the Gorgeous Scot demanded.
“I—I don’t have to,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, though she barely reached his broad shoulders. She glared at him. “Now—I don’t know what type of reenactment this is, but I'm leaving and you’re going to get the hell out of my way!”
“The lass has a mouth on her,” said the other handsome Scot, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“'Tis no cause for laughter, Ronan,” the Gorgeous Scot grumbled. “If Dughall sent a spy—"
“Let’s bring her tae yer father. He can ask—"
“No. If she’s a spy, I want tae question her,” the Gorgeous Scot's eyes sparked dangerously, and she felt another inappropriate rush of desire.
Fiona swallowed hard. Spy? They thought she was some sort of spy? Her mind clawed through possibilities and reasons—maybe this was an interactive reenactment in which she had to play along. Maybe they were being filmed. She looked around for cameras, but there were none.
“Looking for Dughall’s backup, are ye, lass?” demanded the Gorgeous Scot. He stepped forward, and Fiona yelped as he swung her up into his arms, carrying her down the corridor.
“Eadan, what are ye—?” the other man demanded, exasperated.
“I’ll get my answers from the lass—alone.”
Now, Fiona's fear returned. She was pretty sure that in reenactments—even interactive ones—the actors weren’t allowed to touch the participants. She began to struggle in his grip.
“I didn’t sign up to be in this, OK? I found this town by chance. Show’s over. I just want to get back to my car.”
Eadan gave her a sharp look but kept walking. They went up a series of winding stairs; her struggles were useless against his strength. He kept her in his arms until they entered a massive room—a medieval chamber—that was the size of her one-bedroom apartment back in Chicago.
Fiona stumbled back as soon as he released her. She looked around, terrified. Where were the cameras? The other tourists?
“What are ye looking for, lass?” Eadan demanded. “Ye willnae find any of Dughall’s men here to save ye.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Fiona roared. “Who the hell is Dughall? Look—I—I don’t know what is going on, but I just want to go back to my car and get back to Inverness.”
“Inverness?” he hissed. “What business do ye have in Inverness?”
“I don’t want to be a part of this damned reenactment!” Fiona shouted, to whoever could hear. “I just want out!”
“Reenactment?” Eadan’s handsome brows
knitted together in confusion. “What are ye on about, lass? And what type of gown is this? Ye’re almost naked. Even whores doonae put their wares on display like this.”
Fiona glared at him. He wasn’t going to drop the act. And whoever was holding this reenactment wasn’t ending it. Maybe she had to play along in order for it to end? She was certain that keeping a tourist hostage and forcing them to play along with a reenactment they didn’t sign up for was illegal, but if that's what it took to get the hell out of this castle—
Fiona stilled, her heart leaping into her throat. The castle. When she’d entered its courtyard, it had been in ruins. Now, from what she could tell, and from what she'd seen as Eadan carried her up the stairs, it was fully functional.
Again, her mind struggled to keep up. These men—these actors—must have moved her. It was disturbing—and definitely illegal—but whoever ran this reenactment had to have moved her. Her explanation for all of this was getting more far-fetched, but there was no other explanation.
“Trying tae come up with more lies, lass?” Eadan asked, his eyes narrowed.
“I—I got lost,” she stammered.
“Lost?”
“Yes,” she said, trying to come up with a lie that was as close to the truth as possible. If she had to play along to get out of this, so be it. “I—I'm not a whore, but a disgraced woman. I was betrothed to an Englishman who betrayed me. I—I fled from him and ended up here. I only hoped to hide in the cellar for a few days before continuing on my way.”
“Do ye think I’m a fool?” Eadan spat. “How did ye get in the castle?”
“I—I snuck inside. In the middle of the night. I’m—I’m sorry,” she said hastily. “Now, if you’ll just let me be on my way—"
“And where were ye headed?”
“To—to a nunnery. Jenloss Abbey, just east of here,” she stammered, reaching for any scrap of medieval history she could think of. That was where disgraced women went in medieval times—she hoped. She’d seen the name of the abbey in one of her maps and prayed it existed in this time. “It’s the only place that would take a fallen woman such as me.”
Eadan's Vow_A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 2