Time Bound

by Lora Andrews

  Lila grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and guzzled the contents. “I’m serious, Cait. You need to put your foot down.”

  “No, what I need to do is put everything behind me and start fresh. Just me and my son. That’s all I want. I don’t care about anything else.” Not school politics, her ex, or her past. She locked the door and turned on the outside light.

  “I want that for you, too. You deserve to be happy.”

  But.

  The word hung between them, bloated with the stale remnants of a past argument. “We are so not going there again,” Caitlin warned.

  “You can’t keep shoving your feelings aside. You can’t just pretend everything is okay. There is a limit to what most people put up with, and you’ve gone way past normal levels. You give the words ‘civilized divorce’ a whole new meaning.” Lila set the bottle down. “I’m telling you this as your friend and as someone who loves you. Work through those nasty feelings so you can be ready for whatever life throws you next.”

  Caitlin washed her hands in the sink, scrubbing traces of gray paint from her skin. There wouldn’t be a next time, not if she had anything to say about it. After drying her hands, she wiped drops of water from the countertop and hung the dishcloth over the rack.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not. It’s been a long day, and we’re both tired. Do you want some coffee? I’ve got decaf.”

  “No, it’s late. I still have a stack of open responses to grade. Ah, the perks of being a fourth grade teacher. You K-2 teachers have it made.” Lila winked and reached for her jacket draped over the kitchen chair. “Think about what I said and call me if you need a sounding board.”

  “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll let you know how things go tomorrow.”

  They exchanged a hug. Leaning against the door, Caitlin watched Lila slide into the front seat of her car and wave good-bye. She locked the kitchen door and jolted when her cellphone vibrated in her rear pocket.

  Mandy Cabeceiras—Jadiel’s caseworker. She frowned at the screen and glanced at her watch. 7:00 p.m.

  “Hi, Mandy.” She answered using her best I’m-not-worried voice.

  “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.” Mandy’s normally smooth and confident voice sounded cautious.

  “No, not at all. Is everything okay?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then leaned her back against the wall and waited for the other woman to speak.

  “No, unfortunately. I am postponing tomorrow’s disclosure meeting. Jadiel’s maternal grandmother has come forward and has asked to meet with the agency before we proceed with the adoption.”

  What? “I thought he didn’t have any biological relatives.”

  “That’s what we believed. She moved out of state and had severed ties with her daughter several years before Jadiel’s parents died.”

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Caitlin walked to the sink and looked out the window to the gloomy darkness enveloping her back yard. “Is she pursuing guardianship?”

  “Her intentions are unclear at this time. Relatives are often approached about guardianship. That is not out of the norm, Caitlin. After all, the state’s primary goal is preservation of the family—if, but only if, it is in the best interest of the child. Of course…”

  Mandy’s words grew muffled by the blood pumping in Caitlin’s ears.

  This can’t be happening.

  “…you are home-studied and approved. If this match doesn’t work, you are in our system awaiting another potential match. But please don’t lose faith, Caitlin. Not yet.”

  In a daze, Caitlin muttered the customary thank you and said goodbye, then hung her face in her hands and cried.

  TWO

  Buannachd Mhòr, Ardgour, Scotland, 1450

  Ewen MacLean shoved opened the keep door and strode into the great hall. The familiar smells of the castle assailed him at once —the peat burning in the fireplace, the herbs Mari spread onto the rushes, and the mouthwatering aroma of roasted venison wafting from the kitchen. He drew in a breath and let the tension drain from his jaw. After a hard day of riding, it was good to be home.

  Servants bustled from the kitchen and the hall, preparing the large wooden tables for the evening meal. He nodded greetings as he passed and turned into the narrow passage leading to the laird’s private solar. Light flickered from the torches on the wall, casting shadows on the floor.

  The previous week in Mull had left him restless. It was nothing new. Any time spent in the company of the illustrious Lachlan Bonnach MacLean, seventh Chief of Clan MacLean and third Laird of Duart, left him itching to hit something—or someone—an impulse that was sure to land his arse in the dungeon one of these days. And after twenty-seven years, the man could still twist Ewen’s innards into knots that took him weeks to unravel.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and forced a breath through his teeth. The sooner he reported his findings to Donald, the sooner he could work off the week’s frustrations in the training yard before he did something he’d later regret.

  “Ewen, is that you?”

  Ewen stopped and pivoted toward the sound of Mari’s voice. “Aye, it is.”

  She rounded the corner. Dark circles marred the delicate skin beneath her eyes. “Is my rascal brother with you?”

  “Nay, Ian is outside tending the horses.” He leaned over and accepted the hug his sister by marriage offered. “Are ye well?”

  “Aye, we are.” Stepping away, she brushed loose strands of auburn hair from her face, then settled her hand on her belly. “The bairn and I are fine. Just fine. It’s that bull-headed brother of yours you need to be worrying about.” She pointed her chin toward the solar door. “He’s been waiting for you since we received word you’d be arriving today.”

  Ewen frowned. Someone alerted Donald of his arrival?

  “He’s been in a foul mood ever since. I’m of a mind to clobber him over the head. ‘Tis fortuitous that Brother Rupert chose today to visit as well.” Amusement lit Mari’s dark eyes. “Should either you or I murder my dear husband before the day is through, we can rest assured he’ll be buried with his final graces.”

  “Brother Rupert is here?” Ewen hadn’t seen the Benedictine monk in years, not since he was a lad of ten and six.

  “Aye, he arrived from Iona this afternoon. It would seem both our laird and the good brother are anxious to speak with you.” Flicking her hands, she shooed him toward the door. “Go on now. Discuss what needs to be discussed. I’ll notify Brother Rupert of your arrival. Trina will fix your chambers and bring you food and drink. Then you will rest. You’re weary, Ewen. I can see it in your eyes.”

  She was right. His mind raced with what he’d seen in Mull, and no amount of sleep would wipe those images from his memory. “Save your worry, lass. All is well. Besides”—he winked—“in two moon’s time, it will be you we worry over if that bairn is anything like his father.”

  “He, is it? Well, we’ll see about that, now won’t we?” She harrumphed and started toward the great hall. “Remind our laird that when he’s concluded his chieftain duties for the night, the Lady of Buannachd Mhòr awaits his company.”

  Ewen chuckled. “As you wish, my lady.”

  When he entered the solar, Donald was hunched over the ornate table near the window, scowling at a parchment spread upon its surface. Ewen closed the door. The sound jarred his brother from his intense scrutiny of the document.

  “Is this the infamous missive that has sparked the seeds of treason in your dear wife and set your mood afoul?”

  The scowl disappeared from Donald’s face. With his red hair and bushy beard, the laird of the MacLean’s of Ardgour had the look of a mad Viking with the brute strength to match. He rounded the table and greeted Ewen with a hearty warrior’s embrace. “It’s good to have you back. Come, sit, we have much to discuss.”

  Ewen didn’t like the seriousness of his tone.r />
  Lowering his considerable frame into a chair across Ewen, Donald stubbed a thick finger to the parchment on the table. “Received from Duart this morn along with a message to expect your arrival this eve. What say you of the alliance? Are you in accordance?”

  Ewen read the first lines of the contract and growled. A betrothal to Alisa Cameron.

  “I take it our father did not discuss the alliance with you?” Donald asked.

  Ewen shoved the parchment away. “Nay, this is the first I’ve heard of it.” He’d spent a week suffering the chief’s presence, and the man hadn’t had the decency to tell Ewen he was about to chain him to a Cameron lass. Bluidy hell. “What’s he about? Why send word to you if he’s set on this path?”

  “What would you have said had our father suggested the betrothal? ‘Aye, father? As you wish, father?’ Nay, Ewen. Our father is no fool. He knows you are blinded by the past and would give no credence to his endorsement of the pact.”

  “That is a lie.”

  “Is it?”

  Ewen slapped a fist against the table. “My rancor has naught to do with my mother.”

  “And what of Isobel Frasier?”

  The name slammed Ewen’s mouth shut.

  “’Tis time you sheathed your fury, brother. If not for yourself, then for our father who grows older with each passing year.”

  Donald leaned back into his chair and considered Ewen with eyes nearly identical to his own—a vivid blue that could see through to a man’s soul or rip his courage to shreds.

  “You live on the sidelines, watching others gain that which you desire. You guard, you protect, you gladly give your life for my people, and yet you do no more than what is necessary for yourself. Do you think I don’t see the longing in your eyes when you look upon my interactions with Mari? Think you I doona understand the pain that dwells in your heart?”

  Ewen sighed and shoved off his chair. “What have I to offer a lass? I’m a soldier and a bastard son. ’Tis no life for a young bride.”

  “You are a MacLean, and now our father offers you the chance to have a keep of your own. A wife. Children. Kin. I did no’ let my illegitimacy hamper my aspirations. You know this. You battled by my side in the taking of these lands, in the laying of the first stone of this keep. You defend my borders with your life. Think you I will not do the same for you?”

  “I do not doubt your loyalty.” Ewen stabbed a hand through his hair. “You are in support of this contract?”

  “I am,” Donald said. “The alliance has merit. Alan Cameron grows weary of our attacks.”

  “And what of John? Did he agree to forfeit his claim?” The territory in question had been bestowed to their older brother, John, by Alexander, Lord of the Isles, after the Camerons deserted him to fight on the side of the Royal Army. But the Camerons retaliated and took back their lands—lands the MacLeans had spent the last eleven years attempting to reclaim. And with Alexander MacDonald dead and his son now at the helm…

  “Mayhap this was John’s idea. His way to mend the wrong he and Isobel dealt you so many years ago.”

  “Remorse, now?” Ewen snickered. “Think me a fool? John would not give up these lands without good reason.”

  “Nay, you are no fool. Neither is the Cameron or our brother. MacDonald will march to Inverness now that Livingstone has lost the king’s favor. Rumor has it the king will renege on his promise to MacDonald, and our young Lord will not easily forgive his forced marriage to Livingstone’s daughter. The earldom of Ross will draw us into bloodshed anew. It is inevitable. The Camerons will side with the king, and we with our young lord. Cameron respects you, as does our father, who I might add has managed to bear friendship to both Islay and the Crown. This alliance, fragile as it may be, will further those aims and protect our people.”

  “And where’s the sniveling Campbell in this mess?” Ewen asked.

  Donald’s face darkened. “Marrying off his daughters and forming alliances across the lands. Our young Lachlan has been betrothed to the Earl of Argyll’s daughter. The wedding is in a fortnight.”

  Ewen fumed. The Campbells would be in their midst, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He scrubbed his cheek and looked out the window. Frost had settled upon the glen. Mayhap it was time he buried the past and let go of his hurts. Forget Isobel. Forget John. Forgive his father. Battle no longer quelled the restlessness inside him. With his hands, he could carve a life from the land he loved. He could set down his sword.

  But marriage?

  The last thing he expected upon his return to Ardgour was to be saddled with a bride. Aye, the lass would make him a fine wife. She would want for nothing but his love. That he could never promise, his heart long gone, lost to another who’d ground her pretty heel into the bluidy organ and left him with a scarred pulp beating in an empty chest.

  He ground his teeth. “Fine.”

  Donald whipped his head, eyes wide. “What did ye say?”

  “I’ll marry the lass and mind our borders. Tell the chief his ploy worked.”

  Donald “The Hunter,” first laird of Ardgour, bounded from his chair and pulled Ewen into a bear hug. His chest vibrated with a deafening laugh that rang in Ewen’s ears.

  Bewildered, Ewen twisted out of his brother’s embrace. “God’s teeth, man. Have you lost your mind?” Clearly, impending fatherhood had addled the laird’s brain.

  “By God, I expected a fight. Never did I think I’d see this day. You make me proud, brother,” Donald said with a hearty slap to Ewen’s back. “We will bring peace to our people. We will keep Ardgour safe from our enemies.”

  Ewen glanced at the contract. Or die trying.

  “And one day, our sons will rule together.”

  Sons. Ewen’s throat tightened. It was a dream any father would aspire, and one he’d never let himself hope for. At the table, he gripped the quill. A decade of hostilities would not be easy to quell, but for a chance at a family of his own, he’d risk his life. And more.

  He signed his name to the parchment and sealed his fate.

  “You have the look of a man condemned to the gallows.” Donald rounded the table and pushed the contract aside to allow the ink time to dry. “Ye’ve naught to fear. Mari tells me she’s a bonny lass with a fine disposition for a wife. Now tell me, what news have you of Mull?” he asked warily.

  Ewen set the quill on the table. He’d come prepared to discuss what he’d discovered, but now the conversation was at hand, the words were lost. Battle-hardened as he was, the condition of the murdered lad sent goosebumps up his arm.

  “By the saints, Ewen, speak.”

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, Ewen let out a slow breath. “The body was found outside of Lochbuie. Drained of blood with a tear to the neck. Same as the lass found here.”

  And same as his mother. Ewen’s chest ached.

  “By God…” Donald fell into his chair. “Who was she?”

  “He was the baker’s son. A lad of ten and six. A farmer found him inside a circle drawn in the earth. Like Malie, his arms were tied above his head.”

  Donald closed his eyes briefly. “You spoke to the villagers?”

  “They are fearful. Many speak of the old ways. Of dark magic and human sacrifice.” None spoke of the raven-haired lass seen fleeing the site of Malie’s murder.

  “This smells of witchcraft. It was wise to send for Brother Rupert.”

  Ewen shook his head. “I did not think to summon him. Although the facts are damning, it’s too early to speculate on who”—or what—“is behind these deaths.”

  Perhaps things were graver than he’d imagined if, in the midst of these strange happenings, the monk willingly broke his monastic routine and traveled from the abbey in Iona to solicit Ewen. And by the darkening of Donald’s expression, his brother agreed.

  “Iona has long existed in the shadows of the supernatural. Perhaps he can shed light on this mystery. Ewen, you must find the miscreant before fear overwhelms our people.”


  Ewen rubbed his eyes. “Aye.”

  Donald rose and reached for the flagon of whiskey on the trestle table. He guzzled the fiery brew, hissed, and then passed Ewen the bottle. The heat of the liquor burned Ewen’s throat and settled his gut. Joining his brother at a chair by the hearth, they drank in companionable silence, eyes focused on the flames, the uncertainly of the task before him weighing heavily on them both.

  A worry for another day.

  Ewen closed his eyes and settled back into the chair. Tonight he would enjoy the company of his laird, the comforts of home, and a flagon of devil’s brew.

  THE SUN ROSE beyond the hill. Ewen stood outside the stables, hands on his hips, watching color explode across the sky as his mind wrestled with one thought after another.

  “I knew I’d find you here, lad.” With his black robe rustling in the breeze, Brother Rupert leaned a wide shoulder against the stable door and peered at the horizon. “When you were a young boy, you would oft do the same when sleep failed to claim your mind.”

  “Aye, well I remember.” Ewen smiled. “It’s good to see you.”

  “I’d prefer it be under different circumstances.” Affection warmed Rupert’s golden eyes—eyes that could also turn fierce and instill fear in a broken boy with a restless soul. Ewen had no doubt the good brother could still give chase across the fields to club a wayward lad, or two, if the need arose.

  Ewen grinned. He had the phantom scars to prove it.

  “These deaths are unnatural.”

  Snapping to the present, Ewen glanced at the field. “Is it witchcraft or something darker?”

  Brother Rupert shrugged. “There are others versed in the religions of old, but from what I know, this ritual is ancient, older than much of what we have recorded at the abbey.”

  A ritual? “You were not in Mull to make this assessment. Other than a circle drawn in the earth, there is naught to indicate Druidry.” Two separate incidents. Two naked youths drained of blood laid out in identical positions inside a roughly drawn circle.

  “No,” Rupert acquiesced, “I was not, but I have witnessed this work before.”