Dark Truth

by Lora Andrews

  “How’s your stomach, little one?” Dyn asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  The organ roiled at the memory of his griffin nosediving toward Duart during their flight last night. “Be forewarned that the next time you pull a stunt like that, I won’t fight my body’s natural response.”

  Dyn’s jolly laugh caught the attention of several women in the crowd. “Then I look forward to our time together, little one.”

  Ugh. “I’m going to take the boat.” She really wanted to be mad at the shifter, but it was hard to stay angry at someone who was perpetually good natured.

  “Smile,” he said. “You will scare the mortals.”

  Caitlin growled, but the corners of her mouth kicked up anyway. “Good.”

  “Has anyone heard news from Ewen or Rupert?” Deidre asked.

  Dyn’s expression sobered. “We have not.”

  “Maybe they’re at the abbey.” Caitlin’s stomach sank. Or maybe something went wrong. “Dyn, can you bring me back?”

  “No one leaves.” Brigid handed her a ring.

  “Wait...is this what I think it is? The Bres detector?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Of course,” Brigid said in a haughty tone that didn’t match her expression. She passed Deidre another ring. “Walk through the gathering, but stay together. The stone has a five foot radius so you will need to be relatively close for the color to change. Do not draw attention to yourselves, do you understand?”

  Caitlin slid on the ring. The band was platinum with a quarter-sized gray stone seated in the center. “So what color are we looking for?”

  “Blood red.”

  * * *

  Bres was not in the building. She and Deidre had circled the great hall twice. They’d stepped outside once. And they’d explored the upper levels to no avail. Three hours later, she’d met Ewen’s stepmother, and his half siblings which consisted of his two older brothers, his soon-to-be-married sister, and Annabel, the youngest MacLean—an effervescent eight-year-old girl with pretty hazel eyes, a love for dancing, an inquisitive mind, and a brother that was still M.I.A.

  Caitlin swallowed another sip of wine, her head beginning to spin from the combination of alcohol and lack of food. She had tried to eat, she really had, but her stomach knotted at the sight and smell of the various dishes laid out on the large tables along the far wall. Sitting with Deidre at a table adjacent to the great hall door, she alternated between watching the entrance and watching Ian patrol the room. Dyn and Brigid melted into the crowd, but Caitlin could feel their presence nearby. Weaponless MacLean warriors stood like sentries at key spots around the room. The musicians played. People danced. And the newlyweds sat at a table upon a dais looking completely bored.

  If this were her wedding, she’d be undressing Ewen with her eyes and counting down the minutes until they could make a beeline to the bedroom.

  She smiled, her eyes blurring. Bring him back, please, she begged whatever god who’d listen.

  And then she felt it.

  A prickling along her skin. The sensation of being watched.

  Slowly, Caitlin turned her head. Villagers and guests held hands and danced in a circle around the three musicians playing a cheerful tune at the center of the room. Men and women gathered in small pockets, scattered around the great hall. Laughter vied with the shouts and cheers of boisterous men. The MacLeans took up most of the hall to the right, as if an invisible boundary had been drawn on the floor to keep the bride’s clan out.

  The Campbells stuck to the left, some eyeing the MacLean guards with dubious expressions while others partook in copious amounts of food and drink. One man in particular stood out. Thin, balding, and unabashedly staring at her. He finished his drink in one gulp and set his cup down, never taking his eyes off her.

  Crap. Stalker eyes.

  Caitlin jerked her head away, then surreptitiously glanced back.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  He was swaggering to the center of the room, and unless he had friends at the next table, Caitlin was his destination. She grabbed Deidre’s hand. She was in no mood to deal with an old, drunk Campbell.

  “We need to move. Now. Where’s Ian?” Weaving around the dancers, Caitlin spotted Ian’s blond head up near the dais. “He’s over there,” she told Deidre while tugging her hand.

  “What the devil has gotten into you?” Deidre asked.

  Good question. She’d handled plenty of drunk men in her lifetime. A simple “no thanks,” or “I’m married” normally did the trick. But something about this guy gave her the heebie-jeebies, and one thing she’d learned over the past few weeks was to trust her instincts. And that’s exactly what she was doing. Trusting her instincts.

  “Caitlin.” Deidre tugged back.

  “Sorry. One of the Campbells looked like he was about to hit on us.”

  “I swear, we speak the same language, but at times I have no idea what you are saying,” Deidre grumbled, sneaking a look behind them.

  Ian spotted them and waved them over, his eyes fixed on Deidre.

  Caitlin looked back and caught another glimpse of the guy. Sure enough, old, drunk Campbell dude was standing at the edge of their table looking mighty unhappy with her course of action.

  What the hell?

  “Who is he?” Deidre asked.

  “You’re asking me?”

  Her friend rolled her eyes.

  “Have you eaten?” Ian asked Deidre when they reached him.

  “Aye,” the healer blushed, and what girl wouldn’t when a man like Ian lapped you up like you were the jelly to his peanut butter. It was cute and strangely embarrassing. Deidre elbowed Caitlin. “Ask him.”

  “Ask me what?” Tight lines pulled at the corners of Ian’s eyes. He’d lost his jokester smile after Lismore. They all had.

  “That man standing at our table,” Caitlin started.

  Ian tilted his head up. Less than a second later, his nostrils flared.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  “Swene MacEwen.”

  Caitlin’s stomach hit the floor.

  “What? Swene MacEwen?” Oh, god. “What is he doing here?”

  “The bluidy fool pissed and gambled his fortune away, and now Campbell’s got him by the bollocks.” Ian clenched his jaw and glared at Swene. “The man’s lands were granted to the bride’s grandfather in repayment of MacEwen’s loans, and he would have lost the barony had he not produced a bastard heir. I’m sure the Campbells are thrilled with that stroke of luck. Stay away from the wretch. Both of you.”

  Ian didn’t have to tell her twice.

  “Can I talk to you?” he asked Deidre.

  She shook her head. “Not now.”

  Oh, for crying out loud. “Go. I’ll be fine,” Caitlin said.

  Ian moved to a quiet spot near the dais, almost at the corner of the room. Deidre watched him go. She handed Caitlin a cup of mead. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

  “Now you’re just looking for excuses not to talk to Ian.”

  “He can wait.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.” Deidre smoothed her hands against her skirt. “Let me make you a plate.”

  “No, I can’t eat right now. And you should go talk to your man before he throws you over his shoulder.”

  “He...he is not my man.” Deidre glanced at said man. Then frowned. “Things have… Och, I canna talk about this now.”

  Caitlin hid a smile until Swene MacEwen’s slimy stare seared her back. She gulped her mead, the sweet taste coating her tongue, and edged to the right, leaning her shoulder against the wall. The group of rowdy MacLeans standing at the next table shielded her from Swene’s strange fascination. Half of her mind raced with a million questions. The other part wanted to shut down for ten or fifteen minutes of quiet time. Plans were to spend the night here, at Duart Castle, but something tugged her back to Iona.

  “I think I should head back
to the abbey.”

  “And what if Ewen arrives. He willna be happy to know you’re gone.”

  If Ewen arrives.

  “God, Deidre. Where is he? Something must’ve gone wrong. It’s been two days.”

  “Oh, praise the Lord.” Deidre said, craning her head to see over the crowd. “He’s here.”

  Caitlin jumped. And before she could run the thirty feet to the door, out of nowhere Brigid grabbed her arm.

  “Hush, child.” The goddess’s grip was like steel. “This is not your time,” she whispered firmly in Caitlin’s ear. “If you throw yourself into that man’s arms, there will be consequences.”

  “It would be most improper,” Deidre added.

  They didn’t have to say more. This was fifteenth-century Scotland. Even woozy as she was, she had an inkling that the social norms of this period were way more conservative than those of her time. “You’re right.”

  Hesitantly, Brigid released her arm.

  Caitlin’s lungs contracted at the sight of Ewen. A primal response. Hair wet and slicked back into a queue, he’d changed into clothing similar to what the other nobles wore. But on him, the gaudy doublet and hose showcased a powerful build honed to muscular perfection. Sexy as sin.

  The crowd parted as he strode across the floor, head and shoulders above most of the gathered men. Braern and another guard trailed behind him. If this had been her first time seeing Ewen, say alone in a parking lot or a dead-end street, she would have backed up slowly, her flight response kicking into high gear. Lethal power leached from this devastatingly handsome man in massive doses. He was the gladiator in the ring the audience cheered for. There was nothing soft about his face until he smiled, and then everything around her faded into nothing.

  He held her eyes for a second longer than he should have, winked, then joined his father and Ian at the front of the hall.

  The blood rushed to her head all at once. Or maybe it was the wine. She braced a hand against the wall. Brigid held her up, shaking her head.

  “You need to eat to keep your strength.”

  Suddenly, she was starving. “Okay. I can eat now.”

  Brigid released her arm.

  “Thanks, by the way.”

  The goddess frowned. “You have no need to thank me.”

  “No, I do. If you hadn’t stopped me before...” Her gaze cut to Ewen. “I would have complicated things for him.” And made a complete fool of herself.

  “The man is honorable,” Brigid said. “Like his father and his grandfather before him.”

  “That’s why you sent him.” Because he was Draconian. And because she was a nitwit, she asked the question. “Is the oath reversible?”

  “You act as if his nature is an embarrassment. There are no greater warriors in existence.”

  Caitlin’s head hurt. “Can the oath be reversed?”

  The goddess’s body jolted as if she’d been punched. Then her eyes darted to Ewen. “No. But if he made the oath, he made it willingly. You are his true mate. Finding one’s kindred is a gift. Do not throw it away.”

  She’d been afraid that somehow the choice hadn’t been his. But—

  “May I have word?” a man slurred.

  Swene MacEwen had found the liquid courage to approach her. He cocked his head at Brigid. “And look who it is. The village healer I havena seen in oh”—he latched one bloodshot, watery eye on Caitlin—“some thirty-two years. How is it both of ye doona look a day older than the last time I saw ye? Eh?”

  “You are quite mistaken, sir,” Brigid said forcefully.

  “Mistaken, am I? Nay, witch, I beg to differ. Now…” He waved a forefinger in front of Caitlin’s face. “Doona go making a scene in front of your rich friends, Mariota.” He swung his stubby finger at Brigid. “I’ll be having a word with my dear sister who I have mourned for lost all these years.”

  He thought she was her grandmother?

  This situation was so fucked up she didn’t know what to say, except, “I’m not Mariota. My name is Caitlin. Caitlin Cameron. I’m related to Ian and Mari”—god, was she getting her lies screwed up?—“and I’m under the protection of Donald, the MacLean of Ardgour.”

  Swene narrowed his eyes and chortled. Once. Twice. Each snort growing louder than the last.

  “Be gone,” Brigid said. “Or it will be your corpse they fail to find.”

  The man turned beet red, a gross, gurgling sound emitting from his throat. He cut Caitlin a hideous glare, then swaggered across the hall, pushing innocent guests out of his way.

  “What the hell does he want with me?” Caitlin rubbed her forehead. MacInnes had claimed witnesses saw her grandmother disappear from the castle with the Tempus Stone in her hand, but he’d never said who. “Do you think he’s after the stone?”

  “I will call Dyn,” Brigid said. “I think it’s best we depart for the abbey immediately.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWO GIGGLING WOMEN bumped into Caitlin on their way to join the dancers. A fleeting sense of glee and lust touched her mind. She shook her head and set the half-full cup of mead on the table.

  Note to self: You do not have this mental shield thing down pat. At least not when she was stressed and slightly—okay, a twinge more than slightly—drunk.

  Wait. She was talking to Brigid about…

  Oh, yeah. Leaving for the abbey.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” she said. Parts of the conversation she’d overheard between Brigid and Dyn floated back into her muddled brain. Caitlin wanted her magic back. “You’re going to teach me. I know I don’t have my pendant, but maybe if you ask nicely, Abbot Dominic MacKenzie will lend me a medallion.”

  “Those medallions are bonded to the brothers.”

  Well, that made sense. “That’s why my pendant sealed itself around my neck? Why I was able to use its magic but my grandmother couldn’t? Which is kind of strange, isn’t it? When you think about it…”

  As drunk as she was, she caught the flick of emotion that crossed the goddess’s face quick as lightning. “This is not the time to discuss these matters,” she said, scrutinizing the MacLeans on either side of them. “Come. Dyn is waiting for us outside.”

  “Wait. I need to let Ewen know I’m leaving.” And warn him about Swene. Oh god, Swene. He and Ewen had history. This was bad. Really bad. “Just give me a minute to make sure he’s okay.”

  She glanced back to ensure her great uncle was nowhere near, and after failing to see his bloodshot eyes and greasy hair, she determined the coast clear and eased her way through the crowd, destination Ewen.

  A large hearth consumed the wall behind the raised table where poor, young Lachlan sat alone, downing drinks to the loud adoration of his posse. Deidre and Ian were lost in what appeared to be a pretty intense conversation to the right of the massive stone mantle. Looking left, she skimmed over the heads of rowdy men and flirtatious women until she caught sight of her Highlander’s jet-black hair.

  Head and shoulders bowed, she couldn’t see his face or the person he conversed with. Squeezing between smelly bodies, she carefully made her way over, stopping a few feet away. His sister-in-law had her hand clasped to his arm, batting her eyelashes pleadingly.

  The muscle at his jaw ticked.

  Caitlin had enough sense to not interrupt, but not enough to not eavesdrop, so she craned her ear and angled her body to get a better view of Isobel.

  “Would you refuse an old friend, Ewen?” the woman asked in a sugary voice that put the mead to shame.

  “Where’s John?” Ewen asked.

  Isobel arched a delicate brow. “Outside, perhaps.” She shrugged her shoulder, leaning in slightly, enough to draw a man’s eye to her ample breasts.

  Oh, my god. She’s flirting with him.

  Ewen tilted his head up, which meant his gaze was way over her five-foot frame.

  Caitlin almost busted out laughing. She covered her mouth.

  Isobel re-dug her claws into Ewen’s arm. Tears brimmed her baby blues.
“All I ask is but a moment of your time.”

  Oh, puh-leeze.

  “We have naught to discuss,” Ewen said in that tone, the one a real friend would recognize as his I-smell-through-your-bullshit voice.

  “After all these years, after all the affection between us, is this how you speak to the woman you purport to love?”

  Holy shit. She was that Isobel.

  “Loved. And you made your choice.”

  “I want to make another.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “How can it be too late? I know you love me. I see it in your eyes. We can run away together, finally, you and I. I’m all you have ever wanted.”

  Un-freaking-believable. Caitlin’s blood boiled.

  Ewen removed Isobel’s hand from his arm.

  “Darling, please. John’s drinking himself to an early grave. He—”

  Before Caitlin could hear the rest of Isobel’s sob story, Ian hauled her out of hearing range. “Lass, ’tis better you’re not party to that conversation.” He looked worried.

  For her.

  Did he think her jealous?

  Caitlin held up a hand. A wobbly hand, but the gesture worked, stopping Ian mid-speech.

  “Shh. Ian, it’s okay. I know what you’re thinking. But that man over there is the most honorable man I know. I love him. I do. I really do. There. Now you know, too.”

  Ian brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “And, ah, does my friend over there know about these feelings?”

  “Yep. He sure does. So, you see, Ewen wouldn’t play with my feelings if he were in love with someone else. But that witch over there broke his heart. And she’s probably toying with his emotions right now, batting her perfect eyelashes and pimping her perfect breasts. She married his brother, for crying out loud.” Oh, my god. John was the laird, the one Isobel used Ewen to catch.

  She felt a warm hand at the small of her back.

  “Did ye say perfect breasts?” Ewen’s warm breath teased her ear.

  God, tell me I wasn’t imitating the woman. “Um. Can I plead the fifth?”

  The chuckle Ian tried to smother earlier broke loose. “Aye, my friend. I think you’ll have your hands full with this one.”