For the first time, a look of belief entered Eadan's eyes, and relief filled her. Now that she'd played along with their ridiculous scenario, would they let her go?
"If—if you would be obliged to provide escort," she continued, hoping she sounded authentic. "I'll just be on my way."
Eadan continued to study her, and for a moment she thought he’d acquiesce, but he shook his head. “Not sure I believe ye, lass.”
Fiona’s heart sank, and panic surged in her chest. They couldn’t keep her here against her will; it was kidnapping.
“I’ve had enough. If I’m not allowed to leave, I’m contacting the authorities as soon as this is all over,” she announced to whoever was listening, and started for the door. But Eadan didn’t budge.
“I’ll let ye leave. One day.”
“What do you mean, one day?” she gasped.
“Ye want tae leave, tae head to this . . . nunnery, aye?”
“Yes,” Fiona said, through gritted teeth. So he wasn't going to drop the act.
“Then I’ll help get ye there. But ye have tae do something for me first.”
Fiona stumbled back, her throat dry. He was the sexiest man she'd ever seen, but he was still a stranger, and if this was some type of weird sex thing—
“’Tis not what ye’re thinking, lass,” Eadan said with exasperation, taking in her panicked expression. “I’ll help ye leave . . . if ye pose as my bride.”
Chapter 5
The woman’s lovely brown eyes widened, and her mouth fell open with astonishment. Eadan’s heart hammered in his chest as he studied her; the idea had come to him out of nowhere. He’d just realized how much it would help him to have her pose as his bride. Her appearance couldn’t have come at a more perfect moment. He’d been trying to think of a way—any way—to postpone or call off the marriage to Magaidh. He needed time to figure out what Dughall and his clan were up to. And now a solution had fallen into his lap, though he wasn’t yet certain how his plan would work.
At the first sight of her, rage had filled him at the thought of one of Dughall’s spies sneaking into the castle. But something else had also seized him; an unwanted rush of lust. Her long, wavy hair, the color of chestnuts, was tousled about her shoulders, as if she’d just stumbled from bed. Her features were soft and feminine, her mouth full and sensual, her deep brown eyes framed by thick lashes. She wore a gown that left nothing to the imagination; he could see the hard peaks of her nipples straining against its thin fabric.
Eadan gritted his teeth against another surge of desire. Now was not the time to think about bedding the bonnie lass, though he’d been quelling his desire ever since he swung her up into his arms and carried her to his chamber, with her lush curves pressed against his body.
“What—I don’t know—no—that’s—” she sputtered, pulling him back to the present. “You’re insane. This is insane. I’m calling the cops as soon as I leave!”
Her eyes scanned the chamber as she shouted these last words, and he frowned, his suspicions again aroused. Why did she keep looking around? Perhaps she was one of Dughall’s spies, and he’d already played into her hands.
But something told him this wasn’t the case. As soon as she’d spouted that ridiculous story about being a fallen woman and going to a nunnery, he knew she couldn’t be a spy. No spy would come up with such a weak story. They’d be more composed, more prepared.
“I’m not marrying you!” she spat. “I just want to get back to my car!”
Eadan frowned. He didn’t know of this “car” she kept speaking of, but he could only assume he was missing something through her strange accent, and she meant to say “carriage”. His suspicions about her spying for Dughall vanished; her confusion and fluster seemed genuine.
“I ken ye’re lying about who ye are, lass, but I doonae care. Ye’re not leaving this castle without my help. I just need tae end—or postpone—a betrothal. The best way tae do that is with a bride. I’ll say we wed in the past, and we thought it was annulled,” he said, thinking aloud. “It’ll give me some time, then I’ll help ye tae the nunnery—or wherever ye’re off tae.”
Horror infused her expression, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. Tears filled her eyes, and his heart filled with both sympathy and annoyance. Was the idea of posing as his bride so abominable?
“I doonae wish tae harm ye. Look, lass, I assume ye have no money,” he continued, eyeing her thin gown with skepticism. “The village is a ways, and there’ve been raids by bandits—’tis not safe out there. Even if I tried tae let ye go, my father would want ye held until it's confirmed ye’re not a spy—from the English or another clan. Believe it or not, I’m offering ye help.”
“I can’t stay here,” she whispered, her face draining of color. “Please—can you end this reenactment? I won’t go to the cops; I want to go home.”
“I doonae ken what ‘reenactment’ ye’re speaking of,” he said, shaking his head. “Or ‘cops.’ Ye’re an intruder in my castle, but I can help ye. I just need yer help in return.”
She remained pale, taking several deep breaths, before meeting his eyes.
“May—may I ask you something?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“What—what year is it?”
He studied her, dread coiling around his spine. Perhaps she wasn’t right in the head—given her rants and ravings, it would make sense. Perhaps a healer needed to examine her.
She was looking at him with a wild, frightened look, like a rabbit ensnared in a trap. He felt an odd need to comfort her, and reached out to take her hand, and warmth filled him at her touch. He led her to a chair in the corner of the chamber where he sat her down.
“What’s yer name?” he asked gently.
“Fiona,” she whispered.
Fiona. It was a lovely name; it suited her.
“Fiona,” he said, “’tis the year of our Lord, 1390.”
“Oh my God,” she breathed.
She searched his eyes as if trying to determine his words were true. He evenly held her gaze. Fiona let out a curse that even the most lowborn of his male servants wouldn’t use, before her eyes went hazy and she fainted, falling forward into his arms.
“Ye cannae tell me ye think tae keep her here,” Ronan said in a terse whisper.
Fiona was now lying in his bed, still asleep from her dead faint. He thought of waking her, but after confirming that she still breathed, he determined that she needed her rest. And he needed to put his plans in motion—if she agreed to pose as his bride.
“Not forever. I need her tae pose as my bride for a brief time, 'til I can figure out what Clan Acheson is up tae.”
Ronan looked at him in disbelief.
“Are ye mad, Eadan?” he roared, and Eadan gestured for him to lower his voice. “This betrothal’s the only thing that’s stopped our clans from—”
“I cannae marry Magaidh. They’re planning tae destroy us.”
“And what proof do ye have? Is it that ye doonae want tae marry Magaidh? Is this a way of—”
“No,” Eadan said, though it was true; he had no desire to marry the cruel Magaidh. “If I thought Dughall’s intentions were honorable, I’d marry the lass. Ye ken my duty is tae Clan Macleay and nothing else.”
He held Ronan’s eyes. Ronan’s expression softened, and he heaved a sigh.
“Just give me a few days, Ronan,” Eadan continued. “I wouldn’t put the clan in danger if I didnae think something was awry. I’m doing this for all of us. I need time. Please.”
“Fine,” Ronan muttered, after a pause. “But then ye’re marrying Magaidh and letting this poor lass leave.”
“Thank ye.” His gaze strayed to the beautiful intruder who still lay sprawled on his bed. “Now I just have tae convince her.”
Ronan followed his gaze, his mouth tightening.
“What do ye plan tae do? Tell everyone yer bride just happened tae appear? One with strange clothes and an odd tongue?”
“I’ve a plan,” Eadan
said, his eyes still on Fiona’s sleeping form. He only hoped it would work.
Chapter 6
For a few glorious seconds when Fiona awoke, she thought she was back in her room at the bed-and-breakfast in Inverness, and the events of the previous day were just a weird twisted dream. But as she opened her eyes and found that she was in a large bed in a medieval chamber, she wanted to scream. She remembered the Gorgeous Scot—Eadan—telling her, with a straight face and absolute sincerity, that the year was 1390.
She sat up and nearly jumped from her skin at the sight of Eadan at her bedside, seated on a chair. His partially opened tunic revealed a hint of muscular torso, and his dark hair was rumpled, as if he’d raked his hands through it several times. His cerulean blue eyes, filled with caution, studied her as if she were a rabid animal on the verge of attack.
Fiona ignored the surge of desire that flowed through her, taking a breath. She had the horrible feeling that this was no reenactment, and that Eadan spoke the truth. She was somehow, inexplicably in the year 1390.
"Morning, lass," Eadan said, his tone as cautious as his expression. "I take it ye slept well."
"I—I need to leave. Please," she said, stumbling out of bed on shaky legs.
If she was indeed in 1390, she had to figure out how to get back. She’d arrived in the cellar of the castle. Maybe that was where—the portal was? She had to stifle a hysterical laugh at the thought, but if she'd arrived in the fourteenth century, it had been through some sort of portal. Unless she just had a complete breakdown and this entire situation was in her head.
“I doonae think so," Eadan said, getting to his feet. "No one besides myself and my cousin ken ye’re here. If ye go wandering about the castle, my father and the other clan nobles will want tae question ye.”
Panic flooded her body, and she took several calming breaths. Don’t panic, she urged herself. Think.
"May—may I look out the window?" she asked, speaking past dry lips.
Eadan gave her a puzzled look, but he nodded. She moved past him and peered out the window.
Outside, there were no ruins of a medieval village, her car, or any hint of modernity. Instead, there was a large circular courtyard surrounded on all sides by the castle. Servants in medieval clothing bustled to and fro—a stable boy led two horses toward the gate, two chambermaids carried a large bucket in between them, several male servants carried sacks of what looked like wheat into the side entrance of the castle.
Beyond the courtyard, there was no sign of tourists, cars, cement-paved roads, or any signs of the twenty first century.
Fiona swayed on her feet, clutching the side of the window. Eadan was instantly at her side, helping her back to the chair as he’d done the night before.
To her relief, he said nothing, allowing her to lean forward to press her fingertips to her forehead. Her mind spun, even as she tried to keep calm. Thirteen ninety. How was this even possible?
She dimly realized that Eadan was now speaking, and she had to force herself to concentrate on his words.
“I still doonae believe yer story, but I doubt ye’re a spy. I do believe ye’re eager to leave, and I can help ye with that."
She looked up at him, her heart hammering. “Thank you.”
“But the terms haven’t changed,” he said, holding her gaze. “Ye must help me first.”
Dread curled around her spine as she remembered his insane proposition from the night before. A part of her had hoped she hadn’t remembered that correctly, that traveling through time had messed with her memory.
“No,” she said, at the same time that he said, “I need ye tae pose as my bride."
Fiona glared at him. She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she might be in another time—and he wanted her to pose as his bride?
"Are you out of your mind?" she demanded. "I'm leaving here, and—“
"I'm giving ye a choice, lass; I willnae force ye tae stay. But if ye try tae leave on yer own, without a penny to yer name, ye’ll find it difficult. Someone will stop ye, and bring ye back to me, or to my father, and as I've said before, ye’ll have tae deal with stern questions from the other nobles who aren’t as patient as me. Tensions are high between our clans, they willnae believe yer story of just happening to arrive here. I'm guessing ye willnae get very far. Or,” he continued, his tone softening, “ye can let me help ye. It willnae be a real marriage, just for show, so I can end my betrothal and get tae the bottom of something. If ye help me, I'll help ye get back. Ye have my vow.”
Fiona closed her eyes, dazed. When he laid it out like that, it almost seemed rational. Can you get me six hundred years into the future? she thought, dazed.
There was still a part of her that clung to the hope of a logical conclusion—that she was dreaming, in some twisted reenactment, or that Eadan, Ronan, and the people in medieval clothing milling around the castle grounds were all crazy.
She needed proof first. Proof that she was indeed in 1390. If so, his proposition was . . . logical. She had no other allies in this time, no other ways of getting out of here. Eadan hadn’t harmed her, and he seemed genuine.
“I—I need to confirm something first," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. She didn’t want to tell him she was from the future; she had the feeling that wouldn’t go over well. She’d have to stick to her made-up-on-the-spot story. "I want you to take me to the nearest village. I—I don't need to talk to anyone. I just need to look around. Please,” she said, as he studied her with suspicion. “And then—” Fiona took a breath. She couldn’t believe she was saying this, but what choice did she have? “And then I’ll pose as your bride.”
He relaxed and nodded.
"I'll have tae get ye some clothes," he said, his eyes raking over her, and her face flamed at his critical appraisal. "If anyone stops us, ye’re tae say nothing, understand? We'll stay tae the back of the grounds tae avoid being seen."
She nodded, relief flowing through her as he left. As soon as he was gone, she checked every square inch of the room, but there was not a single outlet or hint of anything modern.
Eadan returned more quickly than she’d thought, with a white tunic, an underdress, a green gown, and plaid fabric that she could use as a cloak, something Eadan called an airisaidh.
“Had tae tell quite the story tae get those clothes,” he grumbled, before leaving the room to allow her to change.
Fiona looked down at the clothes, nervous. She was used to simple maxi dresses or jeans and button-down shirts. But getting dressed was intuitive, and she slipped into the underdress and tunic before stepping into the green gown. She took special care to wrap the plaid cloak around herself, wanting to be as unobtrusive as possible.
She went to the door and swung it open. Eadan's gaze raked over her, a strange look filling his eyes. Desire? But it was gone before she could interpret it. But that didn't stop her mouth going dry, and a hot spiral of arousal from coiling through her as his eyes locked with hers.
What the hell was wrong with her? She needed to come to terms with this whole time travel thing, not get distracted by the handsome Scot.
"Remember, say nothing,” he said. “When we return, we come straight back tae my chamber.”
"Agreed."
They took the back entrance out of the castle, and she kept her head bowed low beneath her cloak. He led her out of the the courtyard toward the stables where he fetched a horse from a stable boy who gave her a curious look.
Eadan gently helped her up onto his horse, and she tried not to react to his closeness when he placed his arms around her, holding her close as they rode away from the castle.
Fiona took in their surroundings as they rode, and her heart sank. They were on a winding dirt road that cut through endless fields of green; there was no sign of modern paved roads, signs, or cars. In the far distance, she could make out manor homes and villages dotting the surrounding lands.
Eadan slowed the horse as they reached the outskirts of a small yet bustling
medieval village. Fiona took in the cobblestoned streets, the thatch-roofed cottages, blacksmith and carpenter’s shops, and an ale house. The villagers who roamed through the streets and tended to the surrounding fields with horses and plows all wore medieval clothing—long tunics, plain gowns, and breeches.
She could try to convince herself that this was an elaborate reenactment; there were plenty of authentic medieval villages in Scotland. But Fiona took in the faces of the villagers, their expressions ranging from neutral to blank to weary. They weren’t playacting. This wasn’t some elaborate joke, or reenactment. This was real life. She was in the year 1390.
"Lass," Eadan said, his voice rumbling in her ear. He must have felt the tension in her body. "I assume this isnae where ye meant tae arrive?"
"You can say that," Fiona replied, taking a steadying breath.
He turned the horse and took them back to the castle. Fiona clenched her shaking hands at her sides as a stable boy took the horse from them, and they headed inside the castle through the rear entrance. She was so consumed by her turbulent thoughts that she barely noticed the servant who stopped them.
“Dughall wishes tae speak tae ye, Laird Macleay,” he said, his eyes straining toward Fiona with curiosity. At her side, Eadan stiffened.
“I’ll be right there.”
Eadan gripped her arm, leading her back to his chamber, and she was glad for his firm hand. Her disorientation made it difficult to walk.
Once they arrived in his chamber, he closed the door behind them. Fiona walked to the bed on shaky legs and sank down into it, taking a deep breath.
“I have tae take my leave, but I’ll be back shortly,” Eadan said. He gestured to a table in the center of the room, where a chambermaid had left a tray of food. “There’s food and drink if ye’re hungry.”
Eadan's Vow: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 1) Page 3
