Dark Truth (The Time Bound Series Book 3)

by Lora Andrews

  The opportunity to train with Faolan had been an unexpected break.

  Dammit.

  Why couldn’t she have had two more days in Ardgour before leaving for Iona?

  Her gaze landed on Rupert conversing with Ian at the bow. She’d have to finagle a name or two from him. Someone honorable. Someone willing to train a woman discreetly without asking questions. Someone not Ewen.

  Harnessing the wind with the sail, her Highlander held ropes in his hands, his black hair tousled, his eyes focused on his task. He wrapped the ropes on a doohickey on the side of the hull and balanced a booted foot against the edge, surveying the rippled expanse of water stretching out before the birlinn like a fierce sea captain watching over his dominion.

  What she wouldn’t give to know what he was thinking right about now.

  Deidre cast her an inquisitive look, then slowly set down the pieces of her basket. “You’re in love with him.”

  “Shh.” Caitlin slapped a finger to her lips. The birlinn was ten feet wide. The wind could easily carry their voices over the singing warrior dudes straight to Ewen’s ears. “Keep your voice down.”

  “I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

  “There’s nothing to see. I’m... I’m just…I’m just having a hard time reconciling the Ewen I know with the Ewen you know. That’s all.”

  Deidre snorted. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but there’ll be no hiding the wanting in your eyes.” Her voice softened. “Or the sadness bleeding from ye now. Did he truly die in your time?”

  The tip of an island was visible ahead. Caitlin drew her fur-lined cloak closed, fighting a chill that wasn’t a result of the cool sea breeze. “Yes.”

  “Ah.” Deidre picked up the willow in her lap and resumed weaving. “I can understand now why you were so determined to leave him behind.”

  Not that Caitlin’s little hissy fit accomplished anything. He was here, heading to Iona. With her. Freaking Scots were stubborn as hell. “You should have stayed behind as well. You’re all nuts, you know that?”

  “Such strange words you speak, but I suppose I’ve my explanation for your odd behavior. I was beginning to worry you were a bit daft.” Deidre laughed. “Dinna fash yourself over it. He has no inkling of how you feel. Men are thick-brained when it comes to matters of the heart.” Her gaze drifted off to Mari’s brother, who laughed good naturedly with Brother Rupert and one of the oarsmen.

  Oh, my god. “You have a thing for Ian.”

  “I have no such thing,” Deidre guffawed. “He is my good friend’s brother, and a pain in the arse if I’m allowed to say such things. There is nothing between us.” She stabbed the strips of willow through the spokes. “I don’t know where you get such ideas in your head, Caitlin, but best ye stomp it out this instant.”

  Unh-uh. “So I suppose the reason he keeps glancing over here is to make sure we”—Caitlin waved a finger between her and Deidre—“don’t fall overboard, right?”

  Deidre’s head snapped to the bow. Ian and Brother Rupert were sorting weapons and chests on the deck into organized piles.

  “Gotcha.”

  Deidre blushed. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  Caitlin grinned. “Sure. Denial will get you nowhere, my friend. But if you promise not to talk about my infatuation with Ewen, then I’ll promise to do the same with Ian.”

  Deidre harrumphed. “Have you a plan for when you reach the abbey?”

  “Not a good one.” Logically, it made sense to start her investigation at MacEwen Castle, but between Brother Rupert’s magic and “the lore,” Iona felt right. “I’d like to question the abbot about the significance of the pendants the monks wear, and then I’d really like to get my hands on some old books. There has to be something about the veil, Brigid, or the goddess’s connection to the MacEwen’s stashed in that old monastery.”

  “Have you thought about warning the MacEwen’s and the other guardians? Perhaps if you protect the stones, this Bres won’t succeed with...well, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Caitlin clutched her cloak tighter. “But what if it’s my involvement here, in this time, that triggers the events of the future? What if by trying to protect the stones, I inadvertently lead Bres to their location? I could be stuck in some cosmic time loop, spinning my wheels, repeating the same sequence in time over and over.”

  Fionn’s seer stone had registered two shifts in the timeline. Had she caused them both? Was some higher force manipulating her destiny, pushing her along some predestined path that would only lead to one outcome? Ewen’s death?

  Deidre twisted her mouth to the side and watched the oarsmen rise from their seats. “That is a real possibility, one I hadn’t considered. It’s quite the conundrum ye find yourself in, now isn’t it? Well, if there is one good thing to come from this journey, ’tis the wedding.”

  Caitlin frowned. “How so?”

  “The festivities will distract ye both from the dangers you seek, if only for a short time.”

  Um, no. The union of the future Chief of Duart, Ewen’s half-brother Lachlan, to a Campbell bride, was not the kind of distraction Caitlin needed. The wedding would draw important people who might not find her oddities amusing. Besides, the wedding would only delay her. Time wasn’t on her side.

  “I appreciate the hospitality and the invitation to participate, really I do. But the wedding is a clan thing. I think it’s best if I remain holed up somewhere else until the boat resumes sail for Iona. People will ask too many questions. What if I run into a MacEwen?”

  Old Caitlin’s fears and insecurities had a way of rising up and choking her when she least expected it.

  “Nonsense,” Deidre said with wave of her hand. “It’ll be good for you to enjoy the cèilidh. Besides, he’ll appreciate you being there.” Deidre tipped her head to the back of the boat.

  Caitlin looked over her shoulder.

  Ewen stood by the rudder, hands on his hips, the familiar scowl cemented over his brow.

  She looked away before he could make eye contact. “Because of his father?”

  “Aye, he told ye?”

  “I know they’ve had a difficult history.” Ewen had never forgiven his father for his extramarital affair with his mother.

  Deidre tugged on the last strip of willow and daftly maneuvered it around the spoke. The base of the small basket was nearly finished. “Yes, and now his father forces a betrothal to—”

  “A betrothal?”

  “Did he no’ tell you? He’s to marry a Cameron lass. Donald delivered the còrdadh to Alan Cameron when they traveled to Lochaber.”

  Cold flushed her body.

  “Forgive me.” Deidre squeezed Caitlin’s hand. “I didna think before I spoke.”

  “No, no, it’s okay.” Caitlin pulled her hand away. “He should get married.” Her throat caved in. “He deserves to be happy. He’ll make her the best husband.”

  And one day, a great father.

  She blinked away the tears quickly. This was good. This was the happy ending he deserved. This was what she’d wanted all along.

  So why did it hurt so much?

  “…since Mari and the baby cannot attend. Not in her state. And, well, Donald would not leave her side, as is his due. Therefore, Ewen must attend in their stead, along with Ian and myself, and Mari hoped you would join us as well.”

  “Ah—” Before she could say no, a shadow loomed over her.

  Deidre glanced to her right, then quickly placed the willow and completed base in a bag by her feet. “I think there’s a sail that needs mending somewhere on this birlinn,” she said getting up.

  Oh, god. Ewen was behind her.

  Don’t you dare leave me, Caitlin telegraphed with her eyes.

  Without sparing her a glance, Deidre took her bag and nimbly climbed over six or so benches toward the bow of the ship.

  Traitor.

  “May I have a word with you, lass.”

  At the sound of his rich voice, her heart
jumped in her throat.

  “Sure.” She rubbed her sweaty palms across her cloak. A strange buzzing touched her skin. Nerves. Had to be. She glanced out to the loch for some unknown reason.

  Ewen lowered his tall body onto the bench opposite her, his muscular leg filling the gap between them. She angled her knees to avoid touching him. The temptation to be inside his head was too great, and her heart too weak to control the impulse.

  “Congratulations,” she blurted. “I heard you’re getting married.”

  His eyes widened. Then he frowned and stood abruptly. His hand shot to his nape and he rubbed the back of his neck like he’d been stung. Turning his head to the left, he peered into the distance—to the exact spot generating a nervous tug in her stomach.

  The buzzing in the air intensified, raising the hair on her arms.

  Magic.

  Not just any magic. Strong magic. It tasted bitter on her tongue, unlike the lemony flavor of the magic protecting the Tempus Stone when they’d found it hidden beneath Castle MacEwen.

  Her pulse spiked.

  “You feel it too, don’t you?” She joined him portside, the narrow bench still between her legs, and pointed to the island. “The magic stems from somewhere over there.”

  An inlet led to a beach and a group of buildings with a large white structure at its center.

  “Where are we?”

  “Lismore,” Ewen answered.

  Brother Rupert, Ian, and Deidre crowded behind them. Donald’s four warriors remained alert at their stations.

  “Is that a church or a castle?” Caitlin squinted, trying to get a better look. The square-shaped structure had a steeple, reminding her of the kirk at Kilfinan.

  “The structure on the left is a castle. Built by the Northmen with an interesting history.” The monk cupped a hand over his eyes. The wind blew against his robe sleeve. “The other would be a monastery, lass. St. Moluag’s to be exact.”

  Who on earth was St. Moluag?

  Her palms itched. “There’s magic surrounding the compound. I can barely see it from here, but I’d bet that’s why we’re all feeling weirded out by that place.”

  Ian stared out across the loch, his face tight. “I doona feel anything but the certainty we shouldna be here.”

  “Aye,” Deidre agreed. “An overwhelming sense of doom. ’Tis quite unsettling.”

  Brother Rupert climbed over a bench to get closer to where she and Ewen stood. He gripped the rope running from the mast to the cleats attached to the boat with one hand and flattened his other against the top edge of the hull.

  “St. Columba founded the abbey at Iona. Moluag was his contemporary. Now, ’tis said there was a wee rivalry between the two holy men. Before founding Iona, Columba set his sights on Lismore, as did Moluag. The two set off on a race to stake claim to the isle. When Moluag saw Columba speeding across the loch, he realized he would not reach Lismore in time, so he took an axe, chopped off his little finger, and flung it ashore to land on the beach, then yelled to Columba, ‘My flesh and blood have first possession of the island. I bless this great garden in the name of the Lord.’”

  Well, now...that’s a lovely tale.

  “Maybe we should hide the axes”—she jutted her chin to the pile of weapons by the bow—“in case you feel the sudden urge to follow in your ancestor’s footsteps.”

  The monk laughed. “Needless to say, Moluag’s sleight of hand did not sit well with his counterpart, but Columba did go on to found Iona. Moluag gained favor with King Brude of the Picts and converted a great many to Christianity. Both men worked to spread the word of the Lord throughout Scotland, as was their calling. It was here, on Lismore, where Moluag built his first monastery.”

  “Lismore is no’ far from Oban. Does that not strike ye as odd?” Ian asked Ewen, one blond eyebrow perched significantly higher than the other.

  Ewen grimaced and exchanged a guarded look with the monk.

  What was she missing? “Why is Oban significant?”

  “Because of Randal Macquarrie,” Deidre answered.

  Ewen crossed his arms, and the vee between his brows deepened. “He is one of the men who attacked me on the field.”

  Oh.

  Her stomach rolled, and it had nothing to do with the swelling waves.

  “The man had no memory of participating in the raid against Ardgour, and he claims to have been seized from his home.” Ewen leaned over, his arm brushing her shoulder, and pointed to Lismore, directing her gaze beyond the center of the island to the mainland. “He lives there, near Gleann a’ Bhearraidh, just beyond the shore in Oban.”

  “And the other two men disappeared from farther up the loch along the same shore?” God, she’d feel so much better with a weapon in her hand. Faolan’s dagger was strapped around her thigh, but the sword was packed in the chest with the clothing Mari had graciously donated for her to wear during the festivities. Caitlin owed the Lady of Buannachd Mhòr big-time. “I’m assuming the ritual circle the Cameron’s found isn’t too far from this location either?”

  “Aye, it is not.” Ewen didn’t bother to disguise the gravity of the situation from his voice.

  Crapola.

  If Luke were here, he’d tell her this was no coinkydink. And he’d be one hundred percent correct.

  The sail flapped angrily against the mast, the wind whipping between the rigging and thick wool. The birlinn rocked a bit more forcibly than before. Caitlin braced herself against the hull. Toppling into the cold water of Loch Linnhe was not on her bucket list.

  “By the saints,” Deidre gasped. “What is that?”

  Several feet ahead, portside, the sea was no longer calm. Or blue. The undercurrent dragged the boat toward the churning waters.

  “Man your oars,” Ewen barked to the four warriors at the bow.

  Two men lowered themselves onto the first bench while the other two headed for the seats behind Caitlin, in front of the rudder.

  Springing into action, Ewen leaped over several benches and landed near the foot of the square sail. “The wind is working against us.” Brother Rupert and Ian were already at the rigging, working to help Ewen drop the sail.

  “Caitlin. Deidre. To the mast,” Ewen yelled over the clattering of ropes and braces and shrouds. “Anchor yourselves.” Sea water sloshed over the side of the hull, spilling inside.

  Stumbling to the center of the boat like two drunks on their way home, Caitlin and Deidre climbed over four benches to reach the center of the boat. They sat facing the bow with the beam between them, Caitlin on the left and Deidre on the right, amidst the sound of grunts, screeching wind, and creaking wood.

  After the sail dropped, Ian and Brother Rupert took the nearest open bench, grabbed the oars, and joined the four warriors already rowing like their lives depended on it. Ewen flew to the stern to man the rudder. Despite their herculean efforts, the boat continued to drag left, inching ever closer to the raging water.

  Bubbles surged to the surface of the loch.

  “Harder,” Ewen shouted. “Turn her around.”

  Cold seawater sprayed against Caitlin’s face, her hair whipping around her head, stinging her cheeks. Her eyes locked onto the loch’s surface.

  Oh, god.

  “There’s something…” She blinked. Something big was rising to the surface.

  The men grunted, oars slapping the sea, straining against the rocking tide.

  Boom.

  A hard jolt to the bottom of the boat. The vibration thrummed across the floorboard beneath her feet.

  What the hell was that?

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Then nothing. The water stilled. The surface, a polished sheet of metal, reflected the angry clouds above.

  The men stopped rowing.

  She froze, her heart hammering against her ribcage, threatening to jump ship. An ominous chill settled around her.

  “Row,” Ewen ordered, his voice fierce. “Put your bluidy hearts into it and doona stop.”

  Whe
re the water had whirled a moment earlier, a blue head broke through the surface. Followed by another and another. She counted, three, four, five, six creatures with fanged mouths, big alien eyes and thick, linebacker-wide necks. A bony plate resembling a spiked conch shell covered the top of their hairless heads, forming a deep, hardened ridge along the center and across their foreheads. The creatures were big, not Fomorian big, but bigger than any of the humans standing inside their too-small birlinn. An observation solely based on what she could see on the surface alone. Who knew what lay beneath?

  “Lord have mercy,” someone said. Probably Brother Rupert, Caitlin guessed, too mesmerized to turn her head.

  The sky darkened.

  “They have silver eyes.” Deidre’s voice shook. Her left arm clamped the mast.

  Five feet away with only a two-foot draft between them, the creatures ogled the humans with their scary orbs, two on the left, two on the right, and two in the middle farther apart. If Caitlin drew lines from their equidistant positions, they’d form a perfect, six-pointed star.

  “Hold,” Ewen said, his voice so calm she turned her head. He stood at the stern, a bow in his hands, the quiver hanging from his belt. He notched the first arrow.

  And waited.

  Caitlin’s breath frosted before her face.

  The creature closest to the birlinn opened its mouth. A high pitched whistle emitted from its throat. Or its blowhole. Or from wherever mermen produced high-frequency signals.

  Mermen.

  Oh, my god.

  Without making a sound, the creature holding the farthest point of Caitlin’s imaginary star disappeared beneath the water. Five seconds later, something hard rammed into the side of the hull.

  Caitlin jerked from the impact. So that’s what those conch-shell heads were good for. Ramming wooden boats. Good to know.

  The first arrow flew through the air and hit its mark, piercing the whistling leader’s neck. Inky blood released into the loch and floated to the surface like slick oil.

  The mermen submerged.

  “Row,” Ewen commanded, eyes peeled on the dark water. He released another arrow.