Dark Truth (The Time Bound Series Book 3)

by Lora Andrews

  Ewen?

  Her heart thumped. She stared at the door, then her wrist.

  No time like the present.

  She dragged herself across the room and opened the door to find Mari and Deidre smiling at her. Caitlin swallowed her disappointment and welcomed them in. It took a few convincing lies before Deidre accepted the fact that Caitlin had done a decent job of changing her bandages. In the meantime, Mari deemed her well enough to venture into the keep for the midday meal since Caitlin’s fever had miraculously subsided.

  Good thing because she honestly couldn’t stand another minute confined to the room and its wool-stuffed mattress, which added another layer of guilt to the survivor’s mountain at her feet. Mari and Deidre were just two of the people Ewen had sacrificed his life to save. This clan meant the world to him, and she was grateful for their concern.

  But time was working against her, and every second lost was one second closer to Samhain. Hell, she’d didn’t even know if Samhain was required for the time spell, but the timing had been significant to MacInnes and Bres, so the date had to mean something in the scheme of all things magical and god related.

  “Caitlin.”

  The sound of Mari’s voice snapped her out of her mental plotting.

  Mari stood on her tiptoes with a garment in her hands.

  “Oh. Sorry.” Caitlin stooped to allow the garment to slide over her head.

  During the next half hour, her caregivers hemmed, hawed, and fussed over her as they tied or adjusted one garment after another. There were a few piqued eyebrows—yes, I’m the weirdo who hates dresses or skirts in any time period—but luckily for Caitlin, the not-broken wrist served as the perfect excuse for why she couldn’t dress herself. Memorizing the order of the clothing was easy enough. She now knew the difference between a léine and a kirtle, and no, a girdle was not an amazing fat reducer but a belt worn low on her hip. Go figure.

  But her luck was bound to run out.

  Like now. After leaving the room on their way to the great hall, she tripped over her skirt. A firm hand wrapped around her elbow.

  “I didn’t save your life to have you break your neck in the stairwell,” Deidre said.

  Yeah, Caitlin wasn’t keen on breaking her neck either. She gripped her skirt with her left hand to prevent a repeat. She missed her sneakers. The stupid slipper things they’d fitted onto her feet weren’t helping her stability.

  Sure, blame the shoes.

  “I’m in no condition to catch you, either,” Mari chuckled, taking the lead down the stairs.

  Her words were enough to slow Caitlin’s steps and wipe the panic-riddled thoughts about her strange healing ability, the time spell, and her feelings for Ewen from her head.

  She let go of the skirt and edged closer to the left, flattening her palm against the stone wall for support. Like several of the medieval castles she’d visited previously, the steeply curved stairwell was designed to ascend clockwise. A right-handed swordsman racing up these steps risked tripping on the varying height of the risers, some long, some short. If he managed to stay on his feet, then the interior curve of the wall would hinder the swing of his sword, exposing his body to the oncoming defender, who, being familiar with the uneven pattern of the stairs, would have the advantage of the outside wall to attack unencumbered.

  Pretty ingenious. Of course, her opinion might change if she took out the laird’s wife, and between the damn skirts, her natural clumsiness, and the overwhelming claustrophobic feeling generated by the narrow space, there was a high probability the fearsome MacLean chieftain would do more than scold if she accidentally harmed the lady of the manor.

  Speaking of which, she’d expected a visit, or something, from the chief, but two days had passed without a word from the burly man.

  Or Ewen.

  God, she missed him.

  She missed the husky baritone of Ewen’s voice whispering against her ear. The smell of his skin. The feel of his calloused palm when he held her hand. His smile. The cute crinkles around his eyes when he laughed. She’d missed everything about him except the haunted look on his face the moment before he’d thrown her through the portal.

  That look terrorized her dreams.

  Every. Single. Night.

  Caitlin braced her trembling hand against the rough wall and focused on the next stair. Dwelling on the past—dwelling on what could have been—would do neither of them any good. Fate had decided their paths. All she could do now was march forward to stop Bres and ensure Ewen stayed alive.

  “Word of the attack has spread,” Deidre said in a hushed tone. “People are naturally on edge and curious about my poor cousin who was caught in the middle of a terrible ambush.”

  My poor cousin? Huh?

  Caitlin glanced over her shoulder. “You mean me?”

  Deidre waited for Caitlin to take the next stair. “Aye.”

  “They’ll offer you their sympathies,” Mari explained. “For the loss of your brother who died valiantly protecting you when our lands were attacked. Such a shame. Instead of celebrating your reunion, we are mourning dear Tèarlach.”

  It was probably taboo for an unmarried woman to travel alone, but Tèarlach? Why not name her imaginary brother something easy to remember like Jamie or Alec?

  “I see.” Caitlin rubbed the tip of her nose. “So Deidre and I are cousins on my mother’s side?”

  “Yes. Our maternal grandmothers twice removed.”

  Sheesh. Might as well play along. “So, we’re from Argyle near the Loch Fyne area,” she added. The closer to the truth, the better the lie. And who knew, maybe she’d gather information about the MacEwens in the process.

  Mari reached the bottom of the stairs and threw Deidre a curious look. “I didna recall you telling her of your McNaughton ancestors.”

  “That’s because I did not.” Caitlin caught Deidre’s frown when the woman cleared the landing to follow Mari down a narrow hallway.

  Okay. She’d officially wigged herself out. The fact Deidre had family originating from the Loch Fyne area had to be purely coincidence, right? “Lucky guess?”

  At the end of the hall, loud chatter rose from an adjoining room on the left. Straight ahead was a closed door. Caitlin slid over a step and peered through the open archway, wincing as the movement drew a stab of pain from the healing wound on her neck.

  The vast room occupied most, if not all, of the keep’s lower level. Table after table was filled with animated clansmen and women. Massive double doors took up a good part of the far left wall.

  The great hall.

  She remembered being carried through this room, but not much else.

  Deidre lowered her voice and leaned into Caitlin’s right ear. “If anyone asks, you traveled from a village bordering Lochaber near Invergarry. ’Tis where your kin now lives and why our laird travels with his marshal to Tor Castle. To speak to your laird.”

  Ewen left without saying goodbye?

  The thought stung.

  Up ahead, the door opened. Harried kitchen workers rushed through the arched entrance, hands loaded with platters of food.

  Mari’s gaze swooped from the disappearing kitchen staff to Caitlin. “Donald and Ewen are delivering the body of one of the attackers to the Cameron chief, along with news of the raid. You”—she emphasized the word with a dip of her head—“were too weak to travel and remained here to grieve the death of your brother.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Caitlin scrunched her face. “Why create this elaborate deception for someone you barely know?” And when had she become so…cynical?

  “Because”—Mari touched her arm—“I know what it means to be alone.” Intense regret broke through Caitlin’s shields. “I know what it means to run from something larger than you.”

  Mari had lost someone. Someone that reminded her of Caitlin. She dropped her hand, breaking the connection between them.

  “Thank you.” Throat thick, Caitlin looked away. She’d always had trouble accepting kindness. N
ow was no different.

  An awkward moment fell between them before a shrill voice broke the silence.

  “My lady.”

  Mari squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, good Lord, take me now. Tell me it’s not who I think it is.”

  Deidre threw a glance out into the room. “It’s not who you think it is.”

  “You lie.” Mari snuck a peek past Caitlin’s shoulder and groaned. “Damn you, Deidre MacDonnell.”

  Standing near the door of the great hall, a middle-aged woman craned her neck and locked her eyes on the three of them.

  “If we run now—”

  “Too late,” Deidre said to Mari. “She’s hailing us.”

  Mari raised her cupped hand and executed a very queenly wave in return. “Bluidy hell,” she said through a clenched jaw. “Why today? I’ve not the patience, nor the stomach, for sermons.”

  Across the hall, the woman’s steely features formed a prim mask. She straightened her spine and hustled through the busy room, weaving around tables without missing a beat.

  Poor Mari. Someone was on a mission.

  Sucking in a breath, Mari plastered a pleasant smile to her face and greeted the older woman with a graceful dip and a whoosh of her long skirt. “My dear Margaret, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit this day?”

  “My lady, I heard tell of the terrible attack in the glen.” The woman’s voice vibrated with a severe head-mistress vibe. “I’ve been praying to Our Lady, Mother of Mercy, ever since, asking for her guidance and blessing upon the clan.”

  “How kind of you,” Mari said with the same smile still pinned to her face.

  Margaret scanned the tables behind her, her gaze darting from one group of garrulous villagers to the next. “My lady,” she whispered. “’Tis an omen, you see. An omen you must not fail to heed.”

  Deidre turned her face to hide the roll of her eyes.

  “Your concern is much appreciated. Now if you’ll—”

  The old woman clasped Mari’s hand. “My lady, you must not ignore the signs.”

  Mari slipped her hand from the woman’s grasp. “Ah, the signs, I see.”

  “Yes, the signs. They are everywhere. Widows, the married, and especially our maidens, are in peril of being overcome by the devil. We must ensure all are confirmed in their Christian faith. You must stress to our good laird the importance of the kirk. Do not tarry in its construction. We are daughters of Eve. Without prayer, we lack the moral strength to resist sin. Build the chapel and dedicate it to our virgin saints—Saint Katherine, St Apollonia, the Virgin Mary.”

  “Aye, Margaret. I’ll do my best to convey your wisdom to our laird when he returns. Many blessings to you and yours. Now, if you don’t mind, I must attend to Lady Caitlin. I trust you’ve heard of her misfortune?”

  “You’re a tall one,” the woman said to Caitlin with a wrinkle of her nose.

  “It’s our MacDonnell blood, is it not?” Deidre nudged Caitlin’s arm.

  “Uh, right.” Caitlin cradled her wrist to her stomach. The woman’s scrutiny was giving her a massive case of the heebie-jeebies.

  “I’ll pray for you, lass, and your dear departed brother.” Margaret’s gaze dropped and fixated on Caitlin’s neck.

  For a second, Caitlin froze, fearing the woman had spied the pendant, until she remembered the pendant was long gone and bandages wrapped her neck instead. Nonetheless, there was something odd about the old woman’s expression. Something unnerving about the way she examined Caitlin’s throat that set her nerves on edge.

  “Come, Caitlin.” Mari took her by the elbow. “Trina will have something for you in the kitchen. You’ll need your strength for healing and prayer, now won’t she, Margaret?”

  “Aye, she will.” The woman redirected her laser focus from Caitlin to Mari. “You be sure to speak to the laird. If I were you, my lady, I would not tarry. I’d no’ wish to bring the Lord’s wrath on my head, not with the bairn so close to being born.”

  At the mention of the baby, goosebumps skittered up Caitlin’s arms. This woman was so not right in the head. Definitely two loaves short of a dozen.

  “Good day, Margaret.” Mari turned and dragged Caitlin toward the kitchen.

  Deidre held open the kitchen door as Mari guided Caitlin through. “You’ve the patience of a saint.”

  Caitlin’s eyes widened as she took notice of the deceivingly large kitchen bustling with activity. Thick stone arches framed the window on her left and the load-bearing supports that divided the middle of the room. Three large tables, four if you counted the one against the wall, streamed in vertical rows down the length of the kitchen, each surrounded by five or six chatty women pounding dough, grinding grain, or pulling leaves from plants spread across a section of the tabletop.

  A humongous hearth took up the far end of the room where equally massive kettles hung from hooks. Dead birds and clumps of dried herbs or weird leafy grasses were attached to a metal contraption resembling a wrought iron ceiling fixture. Several baskets of fruits and vegetables sat in a corner beside the roaring fire.

  Mari sunk onto a wooden bench facing a long table at one end of the large room. “Saint? I’d wager there are some in this very room who would argue I’m the spawn of Satan.” Mari winked at Caitlin. “Aye, old Margaret is a pain in the arse, but she is also the niece of the old chief, and let’s no’ forget she chose to remain with us when the MacMasters were ousted by the MacLeans no less. The world has not been kind to her. Rumor has it her daughter’s father abandoned her before the bairn’s birth. Sit, Caitlin.” She swatted the bench. “Trina, bring this poor dear some porridge. She’s not eaten since yestreen.”

  Sliding onto the bench across from Mari, Caitlin recognized onions, leeks, and artichokes in a bowl on one of the tables. She did her best to keep her expression neutral but, holy crap, how could you not be impressed?

  Conversations lulled. The women’s gazes lingered on the bandages at her neck and arm.

  Ugh.

  It was like being the new girl all over again. Only worse. Caitlin could see the questions forming in their eyes. Who is she? How did she survive? Why her? The hushed whispers grew as heads leaned into one another like dominoes spiraling around the room.

  Two women approached the table, one Caitlin recognized as the maid who’d brought her meal the day before, Trina, the stocky woman with the warm smile. Bowls, cups, and spoons were spread between Caitlin, Mari, and Deidre. Several workers at the nearest table turned and cast surreptitious glances.

  Smile and nod. It was Caitlin’s tried and true solution to all the awkward moments in her life. As long as she didn’t over-smile in a crazy loon kind of way—all teeth and pushed up nose—she’d be okay. After all, exposing her nose hairs was no way to woo over her new medieval friends.

  Damn…she was babbling. In her head. Again.

  Caitlin shook off the nervous flutters in her stomach and smiled.

  Three heads snapped with renewed interest to the dough in their stilled hands.

  Deidre pushed the bowl of gruel closer. “Eat. You need your energy.”

  Um…no thanks. “I’m not hungry.” Caitlin forced another smile. “My appetite hasn’t really returned yet.”

  Her stomach growled.

  Loudly.

  Freaking traitor.

  Deidre laughed. “It doesn’t look very appetizing, now does it?”

  Caitlin glanced at the anonymous chunks forming lumps inside the brown mush and tried not to grimace. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Try it.” Deidre pushed the bowl another inch closer. “Trina’s porridge is the best in all of Scotland.”

  A snort sounded from the back of the room. Trina shook her head and beat her dough.

  Mari placed an overfilled spoonful into her mouth and moaned. By the zest in which she ate, the woman was either starving, or she carried a small herd of warrior babies in that pregnant stomach.

  Caitlin spooned a bit of the thick porridge. She could barely tolerate oatmeal, an
d if she overlooked the strange clumps, the porridge had a similar consistency. How bad could it be? She swallowed and was pleasantly surprised to learn Deidre hadn’t led her astray. Sweetened with honey and a host of other spices she couldn’t distinguish, the bits of onion, carrots, and dried fruit gave the porridge an interesting flavor.

  “Deidre, I think you might be right. This is the best porridge I’ve tasted.” Of course, she left out the part about it being the only porridge she’d eaten, modern or medieval.

  Color flushed Trina’s cheeks.

  Score one for the new girl.

  A kitchen worker turned from her station with a platter of cut fruit in her hands. She set it quietly on the table before Caitlin with a wink and a broad smile.

  “Thank you.” Caitlin reached for a piece of fruit. The soft banter of voices grew around her. Without warning, her throat clenched and grief tore open the wound in her heart. Everyone she loved was gone, and if things didn’t pan out with the MacEwen journal, she’d be stuck in this century.

  Alone.

  She watched two women engaged in an animated conversation swap out a large pot on the hearth. Would it be so bad? This could be her life. She could work side by side with people like Mari and Deidre. And, in time, she’d get to know this Ewen better. Who knew where things could lead?

  Maybe she was looking at this situation completely wrong. Maybe the stone had sent her back to start fresh. Maybe it wasn’t about stopping Bres and finding a way back to the twenty-first century, but about starting over. About living. About second chances.

  The kitchen door swung open. Tall, blond and gorgeous, Ian swaggered into the room and slid across the bench to sit beside her.

  “I see you survived the hag,” he said to Mari, but his attention jumped to Caitlin.

  “Where is your empathy, brother?” Mari narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t let these two”—she waved a hand at Ian and Deidre—“influence your opinion, Caitlin. We should always base our judgement on a person’s actions. Deeds speak louder than words.”

  Ian snorted.

  Mari twitched her nose. “Nor should we judge the mother by Laoghaire’s mistakes.”

  Several snorts sounded from the ladies in the kitchen.