Time Bound

by Lora Andrews

  Holy crap, that hurt. But the satisfaction of breaking his nose was worth a thousand cracked skulls.

  “You’ll pay for that, bitch.” Gary locked an arm around her neck before she could run and wiped blood from his nose. Pressure built against her windpipe.

  A second shot rang out.

  “I said enough.” The burly guard stood near Ewen and the leader with his arm in the air, the gun clasped in his hand.

  Gary pinched the fleshy part of her arm and shoved her forward to where she’d been standing before the escape attempt.

  “Tie them both up.” The leader wiped his face with a handkerchief from his breast pocket as the guards brought out two metal chairs. “Dwight Eisenhower said, ‘Motivation is the art of getting people to do what you want them to do because they want to do it.’ Let’s see if we can test that theory, shall we?”

  The guards raised their weapons. They weren’t taking any chances this time.

  Gary forced her into the chair. Her desperate strikes bounced off his skin like rubber. The man was built like concrete. He bound her hands and ankles with some kind of cable, tugging the cord taut across her until it bit into her skin. The heat from his sweaty body rubbed against her as he worked. She jerked her face away, gagging at the rancid smell.

  “As much as I enjoyed our sparring lad, enough is enough. Since you both have made your intentions clear, I’m forced to employ alternate methods of persuasion that may prove to be rather, how would you say? Uncomfortable?”

  Burly guy carried over a thin, black box and set it on the middle seat of a row of three chairs beside the leader. He returned to his position to Caitlin’s left, near Ewen. To her right stood Gary with evil eyes promising all kinds of pain if given the chance. Blood still trickled from his nose.

  The leader opened the case and flipped over a red, velvety fabric that revealed shiny implements neatly in place. He pulled out a tool and held it out to the light. The dim warehouse lighting illuminated the blade’s slim, polished surface. He ran a slow, taunting finger along its long, razer-like edge.

  Caitlin swallowed.

  He signaled two of his men to stand behind their chairs. “Now, we’ll begin again. In earnest.” With reverence, he held the slim tool between his fingers inches away from Ewen’s face. “I’ll wager you’re a man of war, no? So, I imagine you know what I plan to do, yes?”

  “Aye. I ken what you plan.”

  “Good then.” He walked to Caitlin and crouched to her eye level. The man’s short hair was disheveled from the fight with Ewen. There was a hard, unnatural glint to his silver eyes. “But perhaps a short tutorial will benefit our Ms. Reed, eh?”

  Oh, no. Her mind was doing just fine filling in the blanks all by itself. She glanced at Ewen, but then shut her eyes against the alarm displayed on his face.

  “My dear Ms. Reed, I am a collector of unique items. A penchant, I suppose, I inherited from my sire. This is quite an amazing specimen, as you can clearly see. The blade itself is constructed of titanium for strength.”

  He gazed lovingly at the implement as if seeing it for the first time. “It can pierce through layers of flesh. It can slice or dice on a whim. Quite extraordinary, really, given its weight and size. And look at that,” he said in mock surprise, running his finger up the narrow, threadlike tip, “thin enough to be inserted into just about any crevice you can imagine.”

  The blood drained from her face and pooled into glaciers at her feet.

  He stood to his full height. “Remove her shoes.”

  What?

  Gary smiled.

  Ewen roared beside her.

  “No. Please, no.” Caitlin screamed as the man’s large hands tightened around her ankles, ripping the sneakers from her feet. Violent shudders erupted simultaneously from every part of her body.

  “Leave the lass be. Ask what you want of me. You have my cooperation.”

  “Ah, is that the way of it then? I promise not to hurt the girl, and you promise to cooperate?”

  “Aye, you have my word.”

  “And who’s word would that be, boy?”

  “The word of Ewen MacLean.”

  “MacLean?” The man stood motionless. His gaze roamed Ewen’s face before lighting with recognition. “Son of Lachlan? Brother of John and Donald?”

  “Aye.”

  “Can it be?” He stumbled back, shaken, his glazed stare fixed on Ewen. “Yes. Yes, how could I not see it before? By god! Do you have it? Let me see the stone.”

  “Are you daft, man? I know naught of the stone you speak of.”

  The leader turned from Ewen and gestured toward Caitlin. “Marcus.”

  The guard behind Caitlin clamped his hands to her shoulders and restrained her protesting body to the chair.

  “You force my hand with your denials. Disclose the whereabouts of the stone, and we can end this now.”

  With the tool in his hand, the leader bent before her and snatched her foot with his free hand. With a nod, he ordered Gary to immobilize her legs while he traced the tip of the tool along the edge of her toenail.

  “No. Stop. Please. You have the wrong person.” Caitlin fought against the deathlike vise on her foot, twisting and thrashing her body in an attempt to kick the tool away. “I’m telling you, you have the wrong person. I don’t have your stone. I don’t know what you want from me.”

  The man positioned the tool.

  Movement erupted beside her. A chair flipped. Bodies crashed to the floor.

  The vise on her ankle tightened. White hot pain shot through the bed of her toe. Her captor inserted the tool deeper into her flesh. Blood flowed over metal, dripping onto the concrete. Her vision dimmed. She jerked her head away, fighting the anchoring weight on her legs and shoulders with a clenched jaw as fire radiated up her leg like hot coals.

  The sounds in the warehouse dimmed—Ewen’s threats in the background, the scramble of feet. Courage found her, flowing from deep inside her soul to bury the screams that begged to be released. She refused to crumble. Refused to give the man the satisfaction of breaking her.

  “Stubborn. An admirable quality. Your grandmother would be so proud.” He bent over and gripped her cheeks, his face inches away from hers. “Tell me where you’ve hidden the stone.”

  “You heard her speak,” Ewen yelled out. “The stone is not in her possession. The truth is in her eyes, you bluidy coward. Leave her be.”

  The leader released her and sat. He pulled the implement from her toe and stood. The burning sensation eased, replaced by a throbbing ache. Blood dripped from the tool’s tip, one mesmerizing drip after the other.

  The two guards lifted Ewen off the stone floor and righted his chair with a clang.

  “Very well.” The man pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbed the perspiration on his brow, and then wiped the blade against the crisp, white cloth. With careful movements, he set the implement inside the pretty box and closed the lid, dropping the soiled cloth to the floor. The soft click of his fancy soles against the hard concrete floor echoed in the quiet, hollow space that surrounded them.

  He stopped short, deliberately, and faced Ewen, ignoring Caitlin altogether. “If she does not hold the stone, then how do you explain yourself, Ewen MacLean of Duart. How do you explain the impossible?”

  Ewen stilled.

  “Ah, have I your attention now, do I? One of you is lying, and I’ll wager a small fortune it’s the girl. Shall I prove it?”

  NINE

  The urge to shred the bluidy ropes with his teeth chafed at what was left of Ewen’s self-control. Since the moment he had wakened upon the soggy earth of this god-forsaken land, he had been as helpless as a bairn, drowning in a sea of unfamiliarity.

  Now images of the woman’s torture at the hands of a man he had presumed to be dead—felled by his own hands during the skirmish in the woods—stained his vision. What sorcery marked this monster to heal wounds that would have killed an ordinary man? There was nary a bruise on the bastard’s ski
n, no testament to the lethal blows Ewen had executed against him.

  “Shall I prove to you, Ewen, son of Lachlan, that things are not as they seem?”

  Ewen had eyes. He could see for himself magic was at play, but he wouldn’t give the wretch the satisfaction of knowing his words had an impact.

  Hands clasped behind his back, the man circled Caitlin’s chair, preying upon her dwindling morale.

  Christ, it was as if the devil himself had ascended to this mortal plane to mock him. Ewen wrestled with the rope at his wrists, careful to control his movements to prevent the metal chair from scraping against the stone floor. There was something about this enemy—his look, his mannerism, the way his left eye twitched when he held a man’s eye—that poked at Ewen’s awareness but then galloped out of reach before the memory could coalesce.

  A familiarity…

  The ringleader stepped between Ewen and Caitlin’s chairs with a bemused expression on his face. “Is that doubt I see in your eyes, MacLean?”

  “You’ve done naught but prove you’re a coward without honor. It will take more than mere words to prove otherwise.” And at the next opportunity, Ewen vowed the devil would pay for his sins in blood.

  The smug smile returned to the man’s face. “I plan on doing just that, never you fear.”

  He was too confident for Ewen’s liking.

  Caitlin sat with her back stiff against the metal chair, her injured foot limp against the gray floor. The braw lass withstood the bastard’s torment in silent agony, and now held her head in a defiant, upward tilt that masked the tremors rolling through her body like aftershocks.

  Ewen knew naught of this enemy or his fealty. It was the reason he had hidden his identity—to prevent his capture from being used against his clan. A miscalculation that resulted in harm to an innocent woman.

  “Tell me, Ewen, what is the year of your birth?”

  Caitlin’s head snapped in the leader’s direction.

  Ewen eyed the man suspiciously, unease prickling his spine. His calm demeanor didn’t fool Ewen.

  “Oh, come now, lad. There is no need to be shy. Let’s have it.”

  Ewen stretched his neck. “I was born in the year of our Lord, one thousand, four hundred eighteen.”

  “Oh, my god.” The words rushed from Caitlin’s mouth.

  “Yes, yes. Quite astounding, isn’t it, Ms. Reed?” He turned his head to Ewen. “And what would today’s date be?”

  Mouth dry, Ewen swallowed. The response to what he was about to say would confirm his worst fears. “It is the twenty-first day of October, in the year of our Lord, one thousand, four hundred fifty.”

  “That’s…” Caitlin’s jaw dropped.

  “Amazing. Absolutely amazing, isn’t it? Ms. Reed, why don’t you enlighten our Mr. MacLean of the true date. Let’s not leave the poor bastard in the dark.”

  “How can this be possible?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “Go on, lass. ’Tis naught you can say that will hurt me. Speak true.” Despite his words, Ewen’s heart clunked in his throat, and he braced for the worst.

  “It’s—” her eyes filled with compassion—“October twenty-first, two thousand…”

  His heart dropped.

  Christ…centuries. It was worse than he’d imagined. Hundreds of years forward in time. More than half a millennium. If he hadn’t been strapped to the chair, he would have fallen on his arse.

  “For a relic, you look rather well, old boy,” the man said with a hearty slap to Ewen’s back.

  Finally, his suspicions were confirmed, but it was more than a man could take without forewarning. Without preparation. God’s teeth. He’d thought to seek his family, but now even that aim was outside his reach.

  “Why have you brought me here?” Ewen ground out.

  “Why have I? You are sorely mistaken to think I was responsible for your trip to the twenty-first century. No, no, no. The person you should be directing that question to is our lovely Ms. Reed.”

  “Me?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, you.” The man pointed a finger in her direction. “You opened the portal.”

  “You’re crazy. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Ah, but you do not deny its existence.”

  Caitlin’s mouth dropped open.

  “What? No, excuses? Perhaps another Caitlin Reed witnessed the portal?” He snickered.

  She pulled furiously at the rope. “I—I—Ewen, I told you what I saw. I told you the truth.”

  “Lie upon lie,” the man said with two loud claps. “A learned familial trait, to be sure. One I shall not soon forget. And I suggest you do the same,” he said to Ewen.

  “Why would the lass open a portal that would bring me to this time?”

  Caitlin’s voice rose. “He’s lying to you. He’s the one behind all of this. Didn’t you hear him? He broke into my house. He’s been stalking me for god knows how long. He’s the one talking about stones and portals, not me.”

  “Ah, yes, the stone your grandmother stole. The one that ripped me from my family at a tender age.” He turned to Ewen. “You and I share much in common.”

  “What? That’s impossible. My grandmother would never hurt anyone, and never a child.”

  Ewen concentrated on the man’s face. A resemblance. To whom?

  “That stone, the one our Ms. Reed refuses to relinquish, can return you to Ardgour. To your home.”

  A part of Ewen resisted the man’s words while the other beckoned. If what he spoke was true then …

  The man shook his head. “You doubt me still?”

  “What proof have you?”

  His lips pursed into a smug smile.

  Ewen had played right into the bastard’s scheme.

  “Wait here.”

  Ewen rolled his eyes. As if he had any other choice.

  The man turned and walked the few feet to the SUV stationed directly ahead of where he’d left them bound to metal chairs and searched inside the vehicle.

  “This doesn’t feel right.” Fear brightened the depths of Caitlin’s green eyes.

  “Aye, you’ve the right of it, lass.” Ewen opened and closed his hands, warding off the numbness that crept from his bound wrists to throb at his fingertips. Now, if only he could do the same to the dread building in his chest.

  The two guards moved from behind their chairs to stand with a third to Ewen’s left. The other four stood to the right, bodies rigid as they held Caitlin and Ewen in their sights. The leader strode between the two groups with his arm outstretched and his prize balanced in the flat of his palm.

  Ewen’s màthair’s sgain dubh.

  Air froze in his lungs. He remembered the knife in his mother’s agile hands, skinning game, her melodious voice encouraging him to watch. Her laugh a balm to his young soul. The feel of the ancient Celtic design engraved on the smooth ivory handle was a memory burned into the pad of his thumb.

  Swene MacEwen.

  “Look familiar, Ewen, son of Lachlan? My father bragged to any that would hear the tale of how he had poached this gem from the MacLean’s bastard.” He waved the dagger for all to see. “How ironic that you and I should chance to meet here at this time.”

  Ewen had been eight when Swene had stolen the dagger from him. Shame fueled his recollection with rage—a rage he would funnel into retaliation once he freed himself of his restraints. He would puncture the man’s sternum and gut the bastard alive with his màthair’s knife. Sentence the man for the sins of both father and son.

  Swene MacEwen’s son licked his lip. “I hate my father almost as much as I hate his sister.” He dragged his silver gaze from Caitlin and settled his attention on Ewen. “Like you, I was taken without warning. I have spent forty-two years tracking that stone and my traitorous Aunt Mariota. Forty-two years waiting to return to our time.”

  “Aunt? No,” Caitlin said with a vigorous shake of her head. “No. Mariota is not my grandmother’s name. She didn’t have a brother.”

 
Ignoring Caitlin’s denials, Mariota’s nephew narrowed his hawk-eyed stare on Ewen. “Join me. Help me return us both home.”

  TEN

  My traitorous aunt?

  The words thundered through her mind, crashing and stomping and smashing what little calm she had managed to claw together. Shock paralyzed the pain in her foot, and she could no longer feel the numbness in her hands, or smell the metallic, industrial odor that permeated the warehouse.

  Ewen zeroed in on the lunatic’s face.

  “Mariota is not my grandmother,” Caitlin said.

  He ignored her renouncement.

  “Ewen, listen to me.” Not a flick of recognition passed over his handsome face. Was he buying into this crap? Was he actually considering the man’s offer?

  “Oh, I’m sure the wily bitch changed her name. Make no mistake about it.” Her would-be cousin pointed to the frame lying face down on the concrete. “That woman is Mariota MacEwen, my father’s sister.”

  “That’s impossible. It would mean…” A nervous laugh rattled in her throat. Her grandmother was Mary Walker. “No. No. That’s not possible.”

  Mary MacEwen Walker. She had always thought it odd that her family never made mention of their MacEwen history to anyone outside of their immediate family.

  What the hell was going on?

  Her sweet Scottish grandmother was not linked to this man or involved in anything that resembled this craziness. Caitlin’s skin tingled, adding to the surreal feeling of being trapped in a strange dimension. One where she was tied to a chair and forced to live the twist ending, where her only ally was a fifteenth-century Scottish warrior who was about to switch sides.

  Fifteenth-century? She sounded as crazy as her psychotic cousin.

  Breathe. A logical explanation would explain everything.

  Ewen curled his lip. “It will take more than a common dagger and a farfetched tale to prove you are of my time.”