A chill ran through her at the certainty in Graham’s voice. He was convinced that the MacClaran women were witches, his sworn enemy… and that he’d successfully rescued his wife from them. She needed to get back to the castle, that was for sure… but how was she going to convince him to let her go?
Chapter 12
Bethany took a deep breath. Hopefully, Graham would assume she was struggling to process all this… not trying very hard to come up with a way out of this tent. His hand was still on her back, warm and comforting, and he heaved a sigh as the silence stretched out between them.
“I’ve talked enough,” he said softly, giving her a surprisingly soft smile. “Tell me about what’s happened to you, Galena. How much do you remember?”
She hesitated — should she correct him on her name? How much of the truth should she share with him? The truth was always a good way to improve the reliability of a story… but then again, she didn’t want to make him suspicious. “I don’t remember much,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Only a few weeks… it’s hard to remember anything before that.” Mainly because the time before that I spent in the twenty-first century, she added silently. “I was in the castle… the MacClarans were taking care of me.”
“Aye, they’d want you to think that,” Graham said, an ugly look coming into his eyes. “Typical manipulative witches. They sent you out here to do their bidding with these tools of witchcraft, didn’t they?”
She didn’t want to admit that the gun and phone were ‘tools of witchcraft’ — it would make it that much harder to get her hands on them again, at least if she persisted with this lie. And if she was honest… she didn’t want to keep lying to Graham. He was clearly a good man — he’d just been misled, somewhere, about what had actually happened to his father. Reading between the lines of his story, it sounded like the kind of fairytale a mother would tell to her children about their absent father. The actual truth, she imagined, was a lot different… and she was itching to get back to the castle to find out what it was.
“Let me go back to the castle,” she said now, looking up at Graham’s face. “I can help you. I can be your spy on the inside of the walls.” A double agent… could she pull this off? But Graham was already shaking his head, a smile on his face.
“God, you’re just as brave as you always were. But no, Galena. I couldn’t let you risk yourself like that.”
She couldn’t help but smile a little at that. Galena. A woman who’d looked just like her… a woman who’d drowned in a river, just like her dream… she had to admit, it was sounding more and more like the stories she’d heard from the other women about their own ancestors. Was it possible that Galena was hers — that it was Galena’s death that had brought her back through time to take her place? But that would mean she was destined to fall in love with Graham, wouldn’t it? That was a very strange thought. She needed to know something — but she hesitated before she asked, worried it would damage her story.
“Your father,” she said hesitantly. “You said he served the MacClarans.”
“Aye, he did.” Graham sighed. “And before they exiled him, he bore their name, too. Kenneth MacClaran.”
Her heart sank into her toes. “That means —”
“Aye,” he said softly, clearly conflicted about this. “I’m a MacClaran too, technically… though I’d never wear their sinful name,” he added with a grimace.
Bethany was reeling. Here he was… a MacClaran man whose love had been taken from him tragically young in an accident… then ‘returned’ to him years later. Just like Gavin’s love Morag had returned as Delilah… just like all the other women in the Keep had been brought back through time to take their ancestor’s places. It was clear as day to Bethany now. This was the curse of the MacClarans. Galena was her ancestor… and she’d come through time to take her place. That meant… Bethany felt suddenly dizzy. She sat back in her chair, her head spinning — Graham touched her back again, concern on his face.
“Are you alright, my love?”
“I have to go,” she said, the need to maintain her story evaporating. “Please — you have to let me go.”
“I can’t, Galena,” he said softly, and she gritted her teeth, rising to her feet.
“Graham, you don’t understand — “
“I understand more than you know,” he said softly, getting to his feet as well. “It’s the witchcraft they’ve placed on you, Galena, trying to pull you back to them. But you’re safe here. And the longer you spend away from their influence, the more likely it is you’ll break the hold they have on you. Perhaps your memory will even return.”
She bit her lip. She’d really painted herself into a corner by playing along with the lost lamb routine… yes, it had helped her gain a lot of very valuable new information, but at the same time it had trapped her here. How could she justify going back to the ‘witches’ up at the castle when he was convinced that she was acting under their spell? Her eyes fell on her gun on the table, and she wondered if she could grab it. Graham was standing between her and the table… perhaps she could dive past him, grab the gun, force him at gunpoint to let her go back to the castle? Then she could consult with the other women about what to do about this orphaned member of Clan MacClaran …
But that wouldn’t work, would it? Graham had no idea what a gun was and wouldn’t react to being held at gunpoint the way he would to being held at the point of a sword. She could fire a warning shot, she supposed… but that would wake half the camp and destroy her escape attempt completely. And she couldn’t shoot him. For all that he was keeping her captive here, she couldn’t bring herself to end his life. He was a good man… even if he was deeply misled about the MacClarans.
She’d been staring up into his face, and she became abruptly aware of how close they were, of the proximity of his body to hers… and suddenly, shocking her to her core, Graham closed the distance between them and claimed her lips with his own in a soft but surprisingly passionate kiss. Too surprised to respond, she froze, feeling his arms go around her, her own hands dangling uselessly at her sides… he has soft lips, she thought dizzily, surprisingly soft, and she could feel her body responding to the kiss, feel her heartbeat accelerating as she started to kiss him back, enjoying the feeling of his hands against the side of her face…
God, what was she doing? Alarmed, she broke away, staggering back a few steps as she belatedly raised her hands to ward him off. He was staring at her as though struck by lightning, and she imagined she had a similarly dumbstruck expression on her face, too.
“Don’t do that again,” she warned him, narrowing her eyes even as her traitorous heart continued to pound.
“Sorry,” he said simply, spreading his hands. “I — I’ve missed you, that’s all. But I’m a stranger to you, with your memory gone, I know that. It won’t happen again. Not until you want it to, if you ever do.”
A treacherous burst of something like regret flared in her chest, and she ignored it, turning away a little and fiddling at the hem of her shirt to hide her discomfiture. God, he was a good kisser. That was — that was certainly a distraction. It was as though the kiss had broken through a wall she’d erected — a wall between her and the acknowledgment that Graham was a handsome young man, and her exact type, too… those blue eyes, that long blond hair she was itching to run her fingers through, the unconscious grace and power in his body…
She shook herself. “It’s okay.” Focus on the situation, she scolded herself. Focus on the mission — the mission to get the hell back to the castle as soon as possible. “What’s going to happen in the morning?” she asked now, keen to change the subject.
He hesitated. “Well, Cristabella will be back by then. Matthew wants you to meet her. If you explain to them what we’ve figured out tonight… that the MacClaran witches stole your memory and have been manipulating you… maybe you can help us defeat them.”
Sure, she thought faintly. That’s definitely the side I’m on. Another pang of regret, s
tronger than the first. This was a serious complication, this sudden rush of feelings for Graham. She’d have to keep a close eye on that. Could it be Stockholm Syndrome, already setting in? Definitely not. She felt a yawn coming on, and Graham smiled at her.
“We ought to get some sleep,” he said softly. “I’m afraid I only have the one bedroll — are you willing to share?”
She glanced over at the bedroll he’d indicated, hesitating. “What’s the alternative?”
“I’m more than willing to sleep on the ground.”
She looked down at the hard, rocky ground and sighed. “No. Let’s share.” Graham was an ally — she had precious few of those in this camp.
It would be better for her if he was well rested, right? And besides, the night was cold, and this tent didn’t have a fire in it like her little room back up at the castle. The extra body heat would go a long way to making sure she didn’t freeze to death overnight. That is the only reason, she told herself firmly as she and Graham settled down in the bedroll together, their bodies pressed close together. Up this close, she could smell the scent of him… sweat and dirt and a strong, masculine musk that was doing things to her body she couldn’t control…
“Tell me about myself,” she murmured, not trusting herself to lie here in silence for much longer. “What was I like, before I lost my memory?”
“You were trouble,” he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest — she could feel the vibrations in her body. “A trouble-maker and no mistake. Always running headlong into danger. And clever — sharp as a tack, you were, everybody knew it. I was amazed you fell for me,” he said softly, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “You were always smarter than me. We played chess every night on your father’s old set, and no matter how hard I tried, you beat me every time.”
She could feel her heart beating hard. “I love chess.” She’d been playing chess her whole life — ever since her mother taught her when she was four-years-old. She loved the game. She often thought it was why she’d been drawn to the military — the simplicity of it, the beautiful complexity that unfolded from the same set of pieces and moves… was it possible that that love had been passed down to her from an ancestor from hundreds of years ago?
Graham sounded like he was smiling when he spoke. “So you remember a little. That’s wonderful.”
She opened her mouth… then closed it again, feeling unbelievably conflicted. She felt awful about misleading this man. Initially, she’d just been focused on her own survival… but now that she knew that it was very likely she was the reincarnation of his lost wife, that manipulation felt horrible. The way he spoke about the manipulative witches of Clan MacClaran … wasn’t she doing the same thing by twisting the truth to suit her own ends? It wouldn’t have mattered, of course, if she didn’t care what he thought about her, if all she cared about was getting away from these mercenaries as fast as possible… but she realized to her alarm that that had changed. She cared about Graham. She cared about his quest to avenge his father, his lost wife… she wanted to tell him the truth, to help him see that the MacClarans weren’t his enemy. Was there a way to tell him the truth without completely destroying his trust in her?
It wasn’t likely, was it? She’d led him to believe she was his wife, a lost, insomnia-struck young woman who’d been taken in and manipulated by the MacClaran witches. How could she tell him that far from being one of their tools… she was one of them? She was just as much a witch as any of the others, after all. He’d certainly never look at her the same again… never kiss her again like he had, so sweetly….
She drifted off to sleep in the midst of these concerned thoughts, and maybe that was why her dreams were so unpleasant. Again, she returned to the river that she’d dreamed about the other night, but this time there were figures lining the riverbank, jeering and shouting at her as she struggled to breath, struggled to get back to the surface of the water and catch her breath… her body kept ricocheting off rock after rock, her limbs breaking, blood in the water as she screamed and screamed for help, but no matter how loud she screamed, her voice was always drowned out by the drumming and splashing of a torrential downpour of rain on the roof…
She woke up disoriented and breathless, a scream dying on her lips, with Graham’s arms around her. He was sitting up in the bed, holding her tightly in his arms, and she realized that she must have been thrashing around in her sleep. But was she awake yet? She frowned, disoriented and sleepy — she could still hear the roar of the rain, but quieter this time. Finally, her mind caught up. It was raining — the gentle patter of rain on the roof of the tent was what she’d heard. Graham was gazing down at her, worry in his blue eyes as he murmured soothing words to her in that gorgeous accent…
“Sorry,” she said finally, her voice hoarse from screaming. “I — I had a bad dream.”
“You were screaming,” he said softly, reaching out to stroke her face. There was a curious intimacy to the gesture, and she was aware she was all but lying in his lap… but somehow, it felt familiar, comfortable. It made sense for Graham to be comfortable like this — after all, he thought she was his wife — but it confused her a little to feel so at home in his arms.
“I must’ve woken half the camp,” she said softly, giving him a rueful smile. “God knows what they’ll think is going on.”
There was a long silence… and then, as if it was inevitable, they were kissing each other again, and Bethany couldn’t tell who’d initiated the kiss this time, her or Graham. His body was so warm against hers, so pleasant — there was something so comforting about his caresses, about the way their bodies seemed to fit together, and still disoriented and sleepy from the dream, she couldn’t bring herself to stop him, to pull herself away, to remind herself to keep her focus on what mattered, on getting out of here…
But then the sound of bootsteps on the path outside pulled her from her reverie — and a horribly familiar voice broke the spell between them.
“Graham! Make yourself decent. Lady Cristabella’s here to see the captive.”
Chapter 13
Graham looked into her face for a long, shocked moment before he scrambled to his feet. She sat up too, reaching blindly for her boots, some part of her recognizing that this could be an opportunity for escape if she played her cards right… even if most of her conscious mind was still thinking about kissing Graham, resenting the interruption for stopping their passionate kiss from going any further than it had…
It’s all part of the escape attempt, she told herself dizzily as she laced up her boots, her heart pounding with what she had decided to believe was the adrenaline of escaping her captor. She was just manipulating him with her feminine wiles, that was all… she had to suppress a laugh at that. She had about as many feminine wiles as her army boots did — but it felt good to have them laced up. It felt like she was ready to go. But her heart sank a little as Graham hurried back over her with the rope in hand, giving her an apologetic look as he grabbed her hands and bound them again. That is interesting, she thought, flexing her wrists against the bindings. Had he been under orders not to untie her? She was already leading him astray… good.
She turned to the door of the tent as the fabric was pushed aside. Here was Matthew, looking a little bleary-eyed — he must have headed for bed before being awoken by the return of Cristabella, whoever she was. It was still dark outside, the rain pounding on the roof of the tent … she guessed it was probably the wee hours of the morning, from how dark the rest of the camp seemed through the tent flap. Everyone sensible was asleep. But not her visitors. Because behind Matthew, a torch raised high in her hand, was a woman — and Bethany’s eyes widened when she looked at her.
She was stunningly beautiful, that was the first thing that Bethany noticed about her. She had a great mane of dark auburn hair that tumbled across her shoulders and flicked back and forth with every movement of her elegant head. Her features were strong and fine, high cheekbones accenting the glow of her dark brown, almost
black eyes. She was darker-skinned than most of the rather pale Scottish women Bethany had encountered, and when she spoke, it wasn’t with the Scottish brogue she was becoming accustomed to.
“So this is the MacClarans’ newest pet, hmm? She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” she murmured, moving forward to scrutinize Bethany. As she did, she unfastened the long dark riding cloak she was wearing and tossed it carelessly onto the table, revealing a clinging gown of a deep crimson that clung to every curve of her body.
Not the most practical clothing for riding, Bethany thought, raising an eyebrow at the sensual outfit… but very practical clothing for making men stare and drool, she thought, noticing how Matthew was staring at her from behind. She seemed to know about it, too — though her eyes didn’t move from Bethany, there was a consciousness to the way she was holding herself that indicated that her sex appeal was anything but unconscious.
Bethany realized she hadn’t come alone. Four men, each holding a torch, had filtered into the tent behind her… strangers, all four, with hard faces and the mismatched armor of the rest of the mercenary company. A personal guard, perhaps? She’d need it, looking like that in a camp like this. Bethany couldn’t help but be impressed with her courage. It was clear she had considerable influence over Matthew — that much was clear by the way he was looking at her, and even the way he’d spoken about her earlier. But using sex appeal for manipulation… it was a dangerous game.
“We found her spying on the camp,” Matthew explained, moving forward to gather Cristabella’s coat in his arms — he started carefully folding it, seeming almost nervous around the woman. “She had those strange tools on her,” he added, gesturing to the table, where Bethany’s phone and gun were still sitting. But Cristabella’s gaze was fixed on Bethany still. She was uncomfortably close to her, inches away — Bethany could smell her perfume, see the infinitesimal shifts in her face as she scrutinized her.
Highlander Avenged: A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 10