by Allie Mackay
Aidan sighed and began to pace. “An oubliette is a bottle dungeon,” he told her. “A narrow crack in the floor just wide enough for a man to fall through. When he does, the chutelike opening widens into a small round space only large enough to crouch in. There’s no escape unless someone is hauled out by a rope.”
“That doesn’t change the history books.”
He glanced at her, annoyed that she kept harping on that string, but pleased to hear her voice sounding stronger. He paused at the table to pour himself a measure of ale, downing it in one quick swallow.
“What it changes is that my cousin may well be tempted to use the oubliette to end his misery. He’s a vain man, fond of his appearance and comforts. He’ll weary of confinement. The lack of baths and a comb for his hair. If he managed to sweet-talk his way out of the dungeon to climb up onto the gateway arch the night Kendrew claims to have seen him, or if he persuaded someone to taint your wine, he’ll have no further chances to do so. He—”
“How do you know?”
Aidan closed his eyes. “Because I will do all in my power to keep you safe.”
But as soon as the words left his tongue, his stomach clenched and he fisted his hands.
Truth was, he didn’t know.
Not when someone at Wrath conspired with his cousin.
He could only hope.
He started pacing again, well aware that Conan Dearg had been known to wriggle through crevices too tight for a mouse. The bastard had more charm than a whore had favors. But no matter what Kira’s history books might say, Aidan didn’t want her to become one of Conan’s victims.
Even if keeping her safe meant putting certain plans into action.
Things he’d discussed earlier with Tavish and hoped would ne’er be necessary.
He closed his eyes again and ran a hand over his face, forcing himself not to worry about that road until it loomed up before him, leaving him no choice.
After a moment, he drew another deep, lung-filling breath and put back his shoulders, schooling his face into his best expression of lairdly confidence before he strode back across the room, ready to ply his lady with sweet words and kisses until Cook finally sent up a kitchen laddie with her long-overdue broth.
But when he reached the bed, he saw that she’d fallen asleep again.
A restful sleep this time, praise the saints.
Sweet color tinged her cheeks, and for the first time in days her breathing sounded soft and easy. No longer labored and harsh.
Leaning down, he smoothed his knuckles along the side of her face. His heart catching, he kissed her brow. He burned to stretch out beside her, gathering her close and holding her against him all the night through. But she needed her rest and he needed a distraction.
Something to take his mind off that road he did not want to journey down.
It’d been bad enough discussing such eventualities with Tavish.
Frowning at the memory, he made certain Kira was comfortable, then went straight to the table, meaning to help himself to another generous cup of ale and then settle in his chair for the night.
He’d spent the last four nights in its cold embrace. One more wouldn’t make that much difference.
But when he reached for the ale jug, he noticed something amiss. There was a new parchment sheet resting atop Kira’s stack of scribbled notes.
A parchment he was certain hadn’t been there before.
Nor were the boldly inked words slashed across it anything like Kira’s.
They were hateful, fate-changing words.
As he looked at them, his eyes narrowed. He snatched up the parchment and held it closer to the flame of a candle, just to be certain. Unfortunately, he’d not been mistaken. The words didn’t change and the threat remained the same. Next time it will not be monkshood in Kira’s wine but cold steel in her back.
“Nay, it will be neither.” Aidan stared at the words until his blood iced.
A surprising calm settling on him, he walked across the room and dropped the parchment into the hearth fire. He looked on as the thing curled and blackened, disappearing as surely as its meaningless threat. Whoe’er had penned and delivered it wouldn’t be able to reach Kira where he meant to take her.
Perhaps she’d been right all along and they were meant to be together in her time, not his.
How he fared there mattered not.
Only her safekeeping.
Quickly, before any niggling doubts could assail him, he dusted his hands and settled himself in his chair. There’d be much to do on the morrow and a good night’s sleep would serve him well. With Tavish’s help, the upcoming feast night would likely be their best opportunity to slip away unnoticed.
His mind set, he curled his fingers around the hilt of his family’s precious sword, wondering if fate had caused him to prop the thing against his chair. Or if he’d brought them to this pass by vowing on its ancient, bloodred pommel stone.
Either way, he would not fail.
Not with Kira Bedwell as the prize.
Chapter 13
A full sennight later, Aidan stood in the shadows of the great hall’s entry arch, oddly detached from the chaotic preparations for the evening’s celebratory feast. Everywhere, men bustled about, laughing and jesting, their arms laden with long, streaming garlands of autumn leaves and bright red rowanberries, which they took great pleasure in hanging on the walls and draping wherever they could. Harried servants ignored them, too busy themselves, spreading white linen over row upon row of trestle tables while red-cheeked kitchen laddies dashed after them, looking excited and self-important as they laid out trenchers, ale and wine cups, and knives. Delicately carved spoons of bone that had been his mother’s pride. Extra torches already blazed, too, as did a well-doing log fire in the hall’s massive hearth.
Tempting aromas drifted from the kitchens, enhancing the hall’s smoke-hazed air with mouthwatering hints of what was to come: a bountiful parade of roasted meats, simmering stews, and freshly baked breads. Not to be overlooked, at least two silver candelabrums gleamed on every table, each one boasting fine wax candles waiting to be lit the instant Aidan gave his nod. Even the floor rushes had been replaced, the fresh new layer fragrant with sweet-smelling herbs and dried lavender, much to the frustration of the castle dogs, used to scrounging for scraps of food buried in the matted older rushes.
Not that the new rushes kept them from looking. They did, capering and getting underfoot, barking wildly each time someone paused in their work to shoo them away. Wagging tails, running in circles, and creating general mayhem. As did Aidan’s men, their zeal for the day breaking his heart.
Steeling himself, he drew a deep breath and released it slowly. Whether it pained him or nay, he remained where he stood. The saints knew this might be the last time he looked on such a scene. It was wise and good to brand the memories into his soul. With all respect to Kira’s world, he doubted it could be as colorful and joyous as his.
Despite the dark bits that were driving him away.
As if to prove it, a great burst of ringing laughter rose from the far side of the hall and he glanced that way, not surprised to see Nils and Mundy holding court with Sinead, Evanna, and Maili. The maids wore rowanberry sprigs in their hair and were dancing gaily around the two laughing men as they balanced on trestle benches, trying in vain to festoon the ceiling rafters with bold swaths of tartan.
Nearby, at the high table, young Kendrew did his part as well. Sitting quietly, he busied himself folding the linen hand towels that would be offered to each celebrant, along with a bowl of fresh, scented washing water.
Watching him, Aidan frowned. He’d grown fond of the lad and had plans for him. A muscle twitched in his jaw and his throat thickened. An annoying condition that worsened when the two birthing sisters hobbled past, sprays of ribbon-wrapped heather clutched to their breasts. Adornments he knew they’d made with great care, intending to place them before Kira’s seat at the high table.
In her honor, too
, they’d bathed. More than one soul had commented on that fact to him and he’d noticed it now himself, catching the scent of rose-scented soap and fresh, clean linen wafting after them.
Putting back his shoulders, Aidan swallowed hard and blinked. He was a hardened warrior chieftain, after all, and had no business going soft around the edges just because a young lad he scarce knew sat folding hand towels at his table and two bent old women chose this day to bathe for the first time since he’d known them.
The stinging heat piercing the backs of his eyes had nothing to do with the like.
Nothing at all.
And it especially had nothing to do with how difficult it was to see his people so ready and eager to finally welcome Kira into their hearts. Now, when the time had come for them to leave.
A cold nose nudged his hand then, and the fool lump in his throat almost burst. “Damnation!” He started, reaching to stroke Ferlie’s head when the old dog pressed against him, whimpering. “Ach, Ferlie. Dinna you go making me feel worse.”
“You needn’t go anywhere, you know.”
Aidan jumped at the sound of the deep, well-loved voice behind him. Whirling round, he glared at the only soul besides Kira who knew his plans.
Tavish, good and trusted friend, cousin, possible half brother, and soon to be new laird of Wrath, stood lounging against the wall, his arms folded and his dark eyes glittering challenge.
“You, of all people, know why I must leave. Why it must be tonight.” Aidan met his gaze, trying not to see the hurt behind his friend’s piercing stare. “No one will miss us if we slip away when the revelries are at their highest, everyone deep in their cups. And”—he glanced out an arrow-slit window—“it will be full dark tonight…no moon.”
“Ach! How could I forget?” Tavish slapped his forehead with the ball of his hand. “The night’s blackness and the mist will shield you from curious eyes when you clamber up onto the gatehouse arch, looking for your time portal.”
“Saints, Tavish.” Aidan grabbed his friend’s arm, gripping hard. “Dinna you start on me too,” he said, keenly aware of Ferlie’s sad, unblinking stare. “We canna stay. I’ll no’ have Kira’s life threatened.”
Tavish arched a brow. “Since when has a MacDonald e’er run from a foe?” He flipped back his plaid, patting the hilt of his sword. “Together we can protect your lady. Here. Where you belong. Both of you.”
Aidan shook his head. “I am no’ running away. I’m seeing Kee-rah back where she belongs and where I know she’ll be safe.” Whipping back his own plaid, he displayed the Invincible’s proud hilt, having asked Tavish earlier to give his old sword to Kendrew once he was gone.
Curling his fingers around the sword’s ruby red pommel stone, he willed his friend to understand. “Have you ne’er loved a woman, Tavish?” He spoke as plain as he could. “Loved her so much that you know you’d no’ be able to breathe without her? Enough no’ to care about your pride? So much that you’d do anything to keep her safe? Even if the doing might rip your soul?”
Tavish just looked at him.
“That is how I love Kee-rah.” He let his plaid fall back into place, covering the ancient sword. “Too much to trust even a blade as worthy as the Invincible. No’ when my foe is invisible and dwelling within my own castle walls.”
Tavish shrugged. “Kill Conan Dearg. Let me kill him. There has to be a connection. Once he is no more, whoe’er it is will surely slink into the shadows.”
Aidan sighed. “You know I canna do that.”
The weight of the Invincible seeming to increase at his hip, Aidan held his friend’s stare, amazed that Tavish could forget how, many years ago when they’d been boys, his father had accidentally slain his own brother, not recognizing him in the fury and bloodlust of a fierce battle melee.
The tragedy had marked Aidan’s father for life, and he’d made both boys kneel with their hands on the Invincible’s jeweled pommel, swearing on its sacredness ne’er to take up a sword against a kinsman.
No matter the reason.
’Twas an oath Aidan had broken a time or two, much to his sorrow. But he’d ne’er acted in cold blood, and he simply couldn’t. Not when he remembered how haunted his father’s eyes had been all his living days.
And now he’d made yet another vow on his family’s holiest relic, this time calling on the Ancient Ones to save Kira from death by poisoning.
A plea they’d answered.
He couldn’t risk their anger by breaking not one but two such pacts.
As if he guessed, Tavish glanced into the festive hall, then back at him. “You truly mean to leave us? Nothing will change your mind?”
“My mind was set the instant I found that parchment. ’Twas no empty threat, but penned with true venom.”
“Then I shall go with you.” Tavish clapped a hand on his shoulder, looking quite taken by the notion. “I wouldn’t mind seeing those flying machines and tour buses.”
“Nay, you must stay here to laird in my place.” Aidan reached up to press his friend’s hand. “The clan will follow you well. Our friends and allies respect you. Equally important, our foes know not to cross you.”
“There are others. Good and worthy men—”
“It will ease my mind to know Wrath is in your hands. Yours and no one else’s.” Aidan paused, needing to swallow. His damnable throat was closing on him again. “I’ll have your word, Tavish. Only so can I go in peace.”
Tavish scowled at him and turned away, only to swing back around and grab Aidan by the arms, dragging him into a swift, crushing embrace. “Saints, but I shall miss you!”
“Ach, chances are we’ll be rejoining you in the hall—back before the sweet courses are served.” Aidan almost wished that would be the way of it. “We canna be sure anything will happen. It is a chance, naught more.”
“Nay, it is more. You will be sent forward to Kira’s time.” Tavish pressed a hand to his heart. “I feel it here.”
“We shall see,” Aidan said, trying to make light of it.
Truth was, he felt it too.
Almost as if the air around him was already shifting and the cold afternoon mist beginning to drift across the bailey was lying in wait, silent and watching. Anticipating just the right moment to thicken, swirl, and speed him away.
A chill tripping down his spine, he grabbed his friend’s shoulders, pulling him close one last time. “I must see to Kira,” he said, releasing him. “I’ve returned her old clothes and she may need help hiding them beneath proper raiments for the feast.”
Tavish nodded. “How long will you remain with us? Before you go?”
“Not long.” Aidan glanced back into the hall. It was more crowded now, and louder, some of his men already carousing. “Perhaps you can help by making sure the ale flows a bit faster than usual?”
Again Tavish nodded. “As you will.”
“So be it, my friend.” Aidan turned away, suddenly needing to be gone. “Live well.”
But before he’d gone three paces, Tavish halted him with a hand to his arm.
“There might be one unexpected difficulty,” he said, looking pained.
Aidan waited. Something told him he wasn’t going to like whatever his friend had to say.
“Well?” He looked at him. “What is it?”
“Not it, her.”
“Kee-rah?”
“Nay.” Tavish shook his head. “The MacLeod widow. She—”
“Fenella MacLeod?” Aidan’s brows lifted. He hadn’t heard word of the she-devil since he’d spurned her attentions some long while ago. “What of her?”
“She is here and will surely expect a welcome at the feast.”
“How can she be here?” Aidan rubbed the back of his neck, the thought of the predatory widow making his flesh crawl. “The MacLeod holding is on the other side of Skye. I didn’t send her word about tonight’s celebrations.”
“Be that as it may, she is here.” Tavish looked miserable. “Down on the landing beach with one of
her galleys. She sent word a short while ago, claiming her vessel has sprung a leak. I was coming to tell you when I saw you standing here, looking into the hall.”
Aidan snorted. “MacLeod galleys ne’er spring leaks. Their fleet is almost as well kept as our own.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Tavish agreed. “The woman is curious. She’s heard of Kira and wants to see her.”
“Ah, well.” Aidan considered. “There we have your first duty as Wrath’s new laird.”
Tavish blinked. “My first duty?”
Aidan nodded.
“You must keep the MacLeod woman occupied tonight. By fair means or foul.”
Hours later, Kira sat beside Aidan at the high table in Wrath’s crowded great hall, worrying about what might or might not happen when they finally managed to sneak away from the feast and out into the bailey. Beyond that, only a few other things really concerned her.
How wonderful it was to finally have good-fitting, comfortable shoes on her feet again.
That the panties she’d missed so much now felt constricting. That wearing her medieval garb over her regular clothes made her look fat.
And that if the big-breasted, raven-haired siren sitting with Tavish at the other end of the table didn’t stop sending slow, knowing smiles Aidan’s way, she and Aidan would be on their way well before he intended.
A departure she would truly regret, because if everything went as planned, she’d likely never again have the chance to experience this kind of medieval pageantry.
Not for real, anyway.
And she knew without having ever attended one, that a twenty-first-century medieval banquet place couldn’t hold a candle to Aidan’s feast. No matter how flashy and fancy, how expensive, or how many supposedly hunky male models they engaged to play at being knights.
“Aidan.” The siren’s low, husky voice slid around the name like a caress. “You didn’t tell us your good news,” she purred, leaning forward just enough to display the generous swell of her breasts. “How proud you must be—an heir for Wrath at last.”
Kira’s face flamed.
Aidan, man that he was, fell for the ploy.
