Time Bound

by Lora Andrews

  Caitlin reached into her back pocket and pulled out the parchments Reverend Mitchell had given them at the kirk. She unfolded the sheets of paper on the table.

  “I know who can help us find the stone.”

  She’d peaked his curiosity. “Who?”

  “Jean Currie.” She placed the papers side by side and slid them in his direction.

  The names he could read, oddly spelled as they were, but the rest was a jumble of queerly formed lettering combined in strange patterns to form foreign-looking words.

  “She’s the connection between Mary Walker and Mariota MacEwen. See? Jean and John Currie witnessed Mariota’s marriage. She also witnessed Graham Patrick marry Mary Walker. And if you believe Mariota and Mary are one and the same, then Jean Currie witnessed the same woman marry two different men.”

  Which meant she could identify the real Mariota MacEwen. Jean Currie would also know what drove four otherwise sane individuals to flee Kilfinan, and why one holy man took their secret to the grave.

  Caitlin ran a hand through her hair, flipping her dark brown locks to the back of her head. “There’s more. On the plane, MacInnes told me he had possession of a letter my grandmother had written to Jean Currie.”

  “Aye, you made mention of such at the kirk.”

  “That’s right, I forgot. She’s the common denominator, Ewen.”

  “It would appear so.” But did this Jean Currie yet live? MacInnes would have sought her out first. It was a logical first step.

  “Iona told us Mariota and Jean were inseparable. Like best friends. But growing up, I knew another woman as my grandmother’s dearest friend. A woman by the name of Janet McCabe.”

  Like the others, Jean Currie had taken on another name.

  Caitlin glanced to the front door, to Daniel’s form standing by the window. Her voice grew soft, but her eyes were alive with a mixture of excitement and grim determination.

  “Janet and my grandmother met in Scotland before my grandparents immigrated to the US, which coincides with what Iona told us about Jean. And according to my grandparents, Janet served as my grandmother’s maid of honor when she married my grandfather. At least that’s the story I grew up believing. I believe these documents support that fact.”

  “This Janet is the woman you inquired about at the kirk?”

  “Yes.” Color leached from her skin, and she slapped a hand over her mouth.

  Ewen stood abruptly, his eyes scanning the tavern, but he saw no threat. No sign of MacInnes.

  “I questioned Reverend Mitchell. You don’t think Daniel overheard, do you?

  Ewen’s pulse slowed. No danger, just worry for her seanmhair’s friend. He lowered himself to the stool. “No.”

  “What if he starts asking questions about her in town? Oh god, Ewen, I could have endangered her life.”

  Unfortunately, the odds had been against this Janet McCabe well before Caitlin had uttered her name. MacInnes might have already found her, but Ewen wasn’t about to voice that worry out loud, not when Caitlin feared she may have jeopardized the woman’s life.

  He reached for her hand again, craving the soft feel of her skin, but curled his fingers into his palm instead. The lass was not his to touch, no matter how much she tempted him. Once they found the stone, they would each be returned to their lives. He to Alisa Cameron.

  And Caitlin to…

  A growl formed in his chest. “You spoke to the Reverend in private.” His voice sounded rough, like glass scraped over stone. “You were no’ overheard.”

  She exhaled a quick breath. “You’re right. We need to find her, Ewen. She lives here in Scotland. I just don’t know what town.”

  “We’ll find her. But first we return to the MacEwen keep.”

  “You want to go back to the castle? There’s nothing to see there. We need to get to a library with a computer and internet access so I can locate Janet’s address.”

  “Aye, but that will wait. I have a truth to confess. At the ruins, you asked if I had seen anything resembling the crucifix, the one taken from the castle grounds. D’ye remember?”

  Those fern-green eyes slid over his face warily. “I do.”

  “A fortnight past, I was called to investigate a gruesome death on the island of Mull, my birthplace. A young man was found dead with his arms tied over his head.” He left out the gruesome details about the body’s condition, then dipped his finger in his ale and drew the crux ansata symbol on the wooden table.

  Curious, Caitlin leaned forward. “That resembles an ankh, the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic for life.”

  Ewen arched a brow. She was well learned. “We call it crux ansata in my time. Does the MacEwen crucifix resemble this symbol?”

  “Yes.” Caitlin sat back against the wall, her brows scrunched as she examined the sketch drying on the tabletop.

  “The bodies were discovered inside a circle etched into the ground.” He drew a circle around the crux ansata.

  She glanced up. “Bodies?”

  “We found the first in Ardgour two months ago. A local girl killed in the same manner. Villagers reported seeing a dark-haired woman fleeing the scene. Yesterday morning, a woman matching that description was spotted in the fields near my home. In my haste to find her, I was attacked, and when I awoke, I was on the forest floor. With you.”

  Her frown deepened. “Are you saying these murders, the crucifix, and this woman are all connected to the stone?”

  “I canna say for sure, but coincidences of this sort are not natural. The crucifix was found among the ruble of the castle. Swene was the last MacEwen chief, and his son searches for the Tempus Stone in your time on those lands. And”—did he dare reveal the whole truth? —“before I lost consciousness, that same woman uttered these words, ‘Save her. She is all that stands between our world and theirs.’”

  Caitlin’s mouth dropped. “Save who?”

  Ewen caught her gaze. Since landing in this world, he had only encountered one woman fitting that charge. “You.”

  “No, you can’t be serious.” Her face blanched. “Me?”

  “I believe so. I believe I was sent here to…” To what? Help her find the stone? Or save her from MacInnes?

  “Are you saying this woman sent you here to save me? How? How did she send you?”

  Ewen shrugged. “I was hurt. I recall her chanting in a strange tongue that left me weakened and my attackers immobilized.”

  She shook her head slowly, her frown cemented to her face. “That would mean—”

  “Magic.”

  By her expression, she didn’t want to believe it. Neither did he.

  “We can’t just assume it’s magic, Ewen.”

  Her aversion to magic paralleled his own, and oddly enough, comforted him. But it was magic that had landed his arse in the twenty-first century. “No?”

  “No.” Her voice was weak. She bit her lip and looked away, then folded her arms across her chest. The swell of her breasts pushed against the soft fabric. The innocent action fired heat to his belly. He tore his eyes from her chest.

  God’s teeth. Had he lost his mind?

  “If it was only magic, my gut tells me MacInnes would have replicated it a long time ago. There has to be more. Look, MacInnes told us my grandmother disappeared from the castle with the stone, and if that’s true, we can only assume she reappeared pretty close to the ruins in 1965. MacInnes was somehow caught up in whatever sent her forward in time, and he was later abandoned. In a three year span, between 1965 to 1968, five of the six friends changed their identities and left Kilfinan. And now we have the crucifix added to the mix. And you.”

  A shiver raced up his spine. In the back of his mind, he heard his máthair’s words. Be wary of the words you whisper into the wind.

  “I agree with you, though. I think Swene MacEwen is involved somehow.” She raised her hand and ticked off the points. “He’s MacInnes’s father, my grandmother’s brother, my great uncle, and he knows you.”

  Caitlin stopped sho
rt and considered him.

  Ewen’s throat went dry.

  “Wait, how do you know Swene? I didn’t think the MacLeans were allied with the MacEwens.”

  “We are no’ allies. Or friends,” he growled.

  Acumen shone in her lovely eyes as she took what he said and worked to discover his link to the last MacEwen chief.

  Ewen sighed.

  No secrets.

  Aye, but some were better left dead.

  He fisted his hands under the table, his throat tightening with the words he was about to speak. “My father was imprisoned by the Earl of Mar in retaliation for his support of the Lord of the Isles. My brother John, Laird of Coll, sought the Campbell’s aid to free our chief, and as his squire, I attended him on our travels to Innis Chonnell, the Campbell seat in Loch Awe.”

  The distaste of the memory burned like acid in his innards. Swene toppling him to the floor. His fingers digging into Ewen’s trews. Rank, liquored breath spilling over his body.

  Ewen shook his head. Campbell had stood at the door and watched the drama unfold with nary a sound until John’s angry roar halted the indignity of that which had been done to Ewen. Excuses were made, compensation promised, yet Campbell had been unwilling to sever ties with MacEwen. He risked war with the mighty MacLean’s to protect a cur like Swene.

  For years, Ewen had speculated about the rationale behind Lord Campbell’s choice to protect a worthless wretch like MacEwen. But now it would seem the man had machinations of his own at play that night. After all, MacEwen had lost everything to Campbell. His lands. The barony. His clan’s legacy.

  “Ewen? Are you all right?” Caitlin’s soft voice wrenched him from his dark memories.

  He scrubbed a hand across his face. “The Campbell refused to aid my brother. During the negotiations, Swene MacEwen took it upon himself to free me of my dagger. It was the only thing I had left of my màthair after her death.”

  Her eyes softened. “How old were you?”

  “Eight.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Swene MacEwen was a terrible person.”

  “’Tis of no matter.” He was done wallowing in his shame. “We search for your Janet McCabe after revisiting the ruin. Trust me. We will find her,” he said with conviction.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, to the twisting of her bottom lip as she worked through whatever thought plagued her mind. He fought the impulse to pin her against the seat. To cover her mouth with his own. To taste the sweetness of her lips again and again until she begged for more.

  “Ewen, have you wondered why MacInnes chose me?”

  Her question caught him by surprise. He stilled. Of course, he had.

  She tipped her head to meet his unsettled stare. “He’s spent over four decades searching for my grandmother. If it were simply blood, why not capture my mother instead of me. Not that I would want that, but genetically she’s more of a MacEwen than I am.”

  She raised her hand to her neck and curled her fingers around an object hidden beneath her wool chemise, then closed her eyes, exhaling a slow breath. “I lied to you.”

  Don’t say the words, lass.

  “I…” Caitlin clamped her mouth shut.

  Daniel slid into his seat.

  The chirpy serving wench belted out a shrill, “Here we go, dearies,” and deposited a plate of devil-knew-what before him.

  Ewen tightened his fist. Christ, he wanted to kill someone.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Simon clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the arched terrace doors overlooking the Baixa district. Clusters of tin-glazed tile-roofed buildings, their facades illuminated with artificial light, marred his view of the River Tagus before him. At this time of night, tourists wandered about the tree-lined boulevards and wide plazas, drawn to the shops and restaurants that littered Lisbon’s historic center.

  The picturesque view was not worth the twenty million euros Cordelia had paid for the four-story Pombaline-era building. Not for a city filled with rude and cantankerous people. Of all the places someone of her ilk could choose to live, she chose Lisbon.

  Simon turned away from the terrace. The penthouse’s modern decor reeked of misspent Morelli money. She spared no expense. Contemporary art—probably the work of a poor wretch she took a liking to—was splashed against bright white walls, a contrast against the checkered tile in the living area. Ornate trim and carved woodwork in various shades of white framed the ceiling and the large crystal chandelier. A pair of yellow-green upholstered Harry Bertoia diamond chairs sat in an otherwise bland pallet of neutral-colored modern furniture.

  He supposed the bakeries held their appeal, but there were only so many pasteis one could consume before the stench of the city soured one’s stomach. Good lord, she was practically squatting with the locals. Simon shivered.

  Disgusting.

  “Ah, there you are, darling.” Wearing a lavender negligee, Cordelia flowed into the room from the arched doorway separating the living quarters from her private wing. The robe fell open, revealing the plunging neckline and lacey overlay that was the mark of her exclusive design.

  Yet another whim in a slew of failed business ventures.

  She sauntered to the liquor cabinet and poured brandy into two crystal glasses. “You certainly took your time.”

  Schooling his features, he smiled. “I came with all due haste.”

  “Hmm.” She topped the decanter and lifted the brandy glasses, one held in each hand. “Did you?”

  At times like these, he questioned his decision to postpone her execution. “Yes. I abandoned my efforts and immediately boarded my jet to Lisbon.” A slight bow of his head. “As requested.”

  Her heeled slippers clacked against the disagreeable tile. She handed Simon the glass and took a sip from her own, her eyes locked to his face. “Simon, Simon, what have you been up to? My sources tell me you’ve been a very naughty boy.”

  He arched a brow. “Is that so?” Was this a ploy, or had he spies in his midst?

  “Do you have anything to confess? I’m all ears, darling.” Sparkling white teeth flashed across her cosmetically-altered skin.

  Feigning innocence, Simon shrugged and set his drink on the table. “No. I’ve kept you abreast of all my dealings. As discussed, we are currently in Kilfinan pursuing a viable lead. One I’m anxious to resume.”

  “Tell me, how did you come upon this lead? We searched that old church years ago.”

  Simon sighed. “During the vault’s renovation, the newly appointed minister discovered registries that had been conveniently misplaced. Should I be offended you haven’t read your email?” Letting some of his irritation show, he cocked his head. “What’s this about, Cordelia?”

  She tossed her red mane over her shoulder and stepped closer.

  He stiffened. Revulsion wove a path through his ribcage.

  Cordelia dug a long fingernail down the side of his face. “After all I’ve done for you, you would betray me?”

  He grabbed her hand. Maybe he’d murder her now. Throw her body over the terrace to the plebeians waiting down below.

  “I have done no such thing.”

  She arched a perfectly plucked brow. “Is that so?”

  He let go of her hand. Someone had let the cat out of the bag. What exactly did she know? Only a handful of his men had been with him at the warehouse. If one talked, then Cordelia would know about the Refiçío.

  And Caitlin Reed.

  “I owe you and Tereus my life. Why would I jeopardize my standing? I have everything a man could want. Wealth. A position within the company. Perhaps you’ve been listening to the wrong people.”

  “Perhaps.” Smiling, she walked past him and set her drink near his in front of the white sofa. She turned and sashayed to the arched doorway, stopping at the intercom. “Renaldo, send up our guest.”

  “Sim, senhora,” a male voice answered.

  “Obrigada, darling.” Although fluent in Portuguese, Cordelia had chosen to speak English
to the doorman. Clearly another of her tactics meant to fluster him.

  How cliché. Simon almost rolled his eyes. Let her play her little games. Once he had the stone in his possession, he would have the final laugh. And laugh he would when her blood flowed through his fingers.

  The door opened and, lo and behold, in walked Gary Meyers.

  Well, apparently there would be no need to rehash the Protocol. Where was the honor of old? He’d provided Meyers with a job and a roof when he’d been little more than a two-rate drug dealer. And this was the thanks he got?

  Good help was much too hard to find.

  Meyers leered as he approached Simon and came to a stop beside Cordelia. The arrogant son of a bitch meant to cut him down?

  Oh, my dear boy, you have no idea the storm you’ve unleashed, but you’re soon to find out.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Simon asked, glancing at Cordelia and Meyers. The three of them stood in a half arc in her living room with Cordelia to his left.

  She grazed a hand across the guard’s broad chest. “Gary has told me of some interesting developments, haven’t you, darling?”

  “Wait.” Simon held up a hand. “Let me guess. A second stone and Mariota MacEwen’s granddaughter. Am I right?”

  The guard’s eyes snapped to Simon before Cordelia turned a lazy glance in his direction.

  Simon didn’t give either one of them a chance to talk. “For some time now, I’ve feared someone in my ranks was playing me for a fool.”

  “You’ll have me believe this was all a set-up? Really, Simon.” Cordelia’s laugh boomeranged between the too-white walls, dousing him with her petulant sarcasm.

  He cocked an eyebrow and then moved across the room to grab his brandy. “Your father has spent millions searching for the woman. Do you believe I, a man with a fraction of his wealth, could locate this woman when he could not? Please.” He swallowed the brandy in one gulp. The glass dangled from between his fingers. “You’ve known me all my life. I’m a resourceful bastard. If I were to attempt a betrayal of this magnitude, do you think I’d leave someone like him around? Honestly, Cordelia, you amuse me with your naiveté.”