Kaden: A Clean Time Travel Highland Romance (Highland Passages Book 1)

by Annis Reid

  There was certainly no way the lass was telling the truth. A person could not simply travel from one time to another, from the future to the past or from the past to the future. Such things simply could not be.

  There are more things to this life then ye know. His mother’s adage returned to him, words she had spoken to him since he was a bairn. A world which existed beyond that which he could see with his eyes or hear with his ears.

  Yet this was beyond anything even she could imagine, he was certain. It simply could not be true. It wasn’t possible.

  The lass was desperate. She knew the danger she was in, danger which he had taken pains to make her understand. Perhaps he had been a bit too rough with her, placing a hand around her throat as he’d done, but there had seemed little else to be done at the moment.

  He looked down at his hand then, the one which had gripped her slim throat, remembering the hot tears which had spilled onto his skin. She was all too real, all too delicate and easily broken.

  He had never made a woman cry before, and the sight of it mixed with the knowing that her tears were his doing brought him a shame unlike anything he’d ever known. He cringed away from the memory of her crying because of him.

  She saw through him, too, the wicked thing. She knew he had sympathy for her, which meant more reason than ever for her to take advantage of that sympathy. He ought to have taken better care to conceal his thoughts.

  It was not as if he’d never placed shackles around the wrists of another. He’d done far worse, in fact.

  But never to a woman. Whether or not she practiced witchcraft was a question he still could not answer, but he knew she’d made no attempt at harming him. That meant something, at least.

  He had to be rid of her. There had to be a way to make Kirk understand what folly it was to keep her in the village.

  What was it about her that stirred him so? He had a sense of dread for her which should not have been. Were she a witch, involved in practices punishable by death, she would deserve every bit of punishment she received.

  Locking her away, using iron to restrain her, ought to have brought him a measure of peace. She could not pose a threat while shackled in iron. Even wee bairns knew iron rendered a witch powerless.

  Yet all it did was lead him to question whether such restraint was necessary. Perhaps she was ill, taken by some malady of the mind. It would explain her insistence that she’d come from another time in the future.

  Were that the case, she could not be blamed for speaking as she had.

  But it would not explain the markings covering her arms and shoulders. He could scarcely make sense of any of it except for the rune on one arm. Fehu. He’d known it on sight. The others only served to add to the mystery of her.

  The memory of her tear-stained face, streaked with the black substance she wore around her eyes, hit him from all sides no matter in which direction he turned. There had been not a bit of craftiness about her. No understanding.

  He burst out of doors once again, walking the path between his hut and the home of the MacGregor. Rather than living away from the village, Kirk’s father’s father had chosen to build his stone home at the village’s far end. Old Hamish had preferred watching closely what was done on his lands, in his name.

  His grandson was the same as Clyde described him.

  Kaden preferred a bit of space between himself and the village, even the clan. Perhaps that was his mother’s blood, ever wishing to defy what others expected. Perhaps it was simply what he preferred, being on his own, enjoying a bit of quiet without the rest of the village pressing in on him.

  Kirk had offered long ago for Kaden to take a place in his household, to live within the main house with him or to take one of the huts which surrounded it. It had pained him to refuse—one did not refuse their chieftain without strong reason—yet he’d seen no choice but to do so.

  He did not wish to be under anyone’s roof. Anyone’s eye.

  Kirk took his evening meal alone, as was his custom.

  “Forgive me,” Kaden grunted upon finding him seated at the long meeting table with a bowl before him. Root vegetables floated in a thin broth. Another of Kirk MacGregor’s customs, he rarely ate a heavy meal in the evening, swearing that eating otherwise made his sleep fitful.

  Kirk waved a hand. “Nay, stay. Have ye eaten since your return?”

  “Aye, I have at that.”

  He nodded, slurping up broth by raising the bowl to his lips. He dragged an arm across his mouth. “Aye, I suppose my sister had a feast waitin’ for ye and her husband.”

  “She did,” Kaden confirmed. Aunt Isla had outdone herself, trading eggs and anything else she could pull together all in the name of preparing a welcome feast for Clyde. He’d never seen a couple so devoted to each other.

  There were even moments when he longed for the sort of warm, loving life they shared, yet those moments were few and far between. They never lasted long. Yet it would be quite a thing to have someone to come home to.

  “What brings ye to see me?” Kirk asked, pointing to a chair. Kaden took this for the invitation it was and had a seat. While he had no desire to sit, there were only so many times one could refuse the head of their clan. Even unimportant refusals tended to carry more weight when a man of importance made the request.

  “Now that the others have gone,” he murmured, careful to keep his voice low for the sake of the household’s other members, “I thought we might speak of the—the witch.” Important to refer to her as one, since that was who Kirk believed her to be.

  “Aye. What of her?”

  “Do ye plan on sending her to the other side of the village? To the jails?” While the ten cells were never all filled at once, there were ever at least three men held at one time. Men who passed their time in a state of drunkenness, breaking up the tavern or, worse, their own homes. Rarely was anything of a serious nature the reason for a man to spend a night or two locked away.

  Kirk nodded. “Aye, I do at that. Why? Do ye protest the notion?”

  “Nay. That is, not entirely.”

  His good humor died. “But ye do believe it to be a mistake? Is that what ye are tellin’ me, lad?”

  Kaden had not been a lad for many years, but he accepted this without argument. “I believe if the entirety of the village sees the witch and knows where she is—guards or no guards—it could cause a great deal of excitement. Especially to jail her with men. It is not done.”

  “I care nothing for a witch’s modesty,” Kirk grunted. “Let her share a cell with one of them for all it concerns me. If she had a bit of modesty and right feeling to her, she would not roam the highlands in such a state of undress.”

  A fair point, one which Kaden conceded with a nod of his head. “Aye, to be certain. Yet I am of greater concern for yourself.”

  A raised eyebrow, one split in two thanks to a thin scar cutting through it. “Myself? And why is that?”

  “Ye know ‘tis a capital offense, consulting with a witch.”

  “I do.”

  He blinked. “Yet ye wish to do so. I canna blame ye—I believe it to be a fair notion.” The lie tripped from his tongue in what he felt was a convincing manner. “But do ye believe the entire clan and the village must know of your plan? What if one of them was to spread it around that we have a witch working on our side? We could all hang for it.”

  Kirk chewed slowly, thoughtfully, and Kaden all but crawled out of his own skin with impatience. Surely, the man would see reason.

  “Have ye told her what I expect of her?” he asked.

  “Nay, as I didna feel it my place. I have not spoken much with her. That would easier, as well, if she remained here. On your land, in the stables. Thee would be no casual visits from interested strangers wishing to get a glimpse of her. Or worse, to abuse her.”

  “Why would that be worse?”

  “It could cause an uproar. Ye know how easily such things build. Ye would have trouble on your hands. And the crown may learn of a wi
tch being held that she might offer her services in aid of a clan. I dinna wish to see that occur.”

  “Nay, nor do I.” Kirk finished his soup and pushed the bowl aside. “Verra well, then. Ye make good sense, and I canna deny it. Fair enough. She shall remain in the pen until we need her, and no one is to see or speak to her unless I grant permission.”

  “That is good to hear.”

  “And I grant ye permission.”

  “What’s that?” Kaden’s eyes opened wide before he had the chance to guard his reaction. “I didna ask for permission.”

  “But I grant it just the same. She takes well to ye, I am certain.”

  “Ye dinna know it.” He held his arm up for inspection. “This is what I got for the pains I took to shackle her.”

  Kirk snorted. “A cat has claws.”

  “To be certain.”

  “She’ll not have the chance to claw ye now.” He leaned in, arms folded over the table. “And ye will visit her, and ye will speak with her. Ye will tell her to perform for me, and she will perform. Ye ken?”

  “What if she will not prove herself?”

  “What do ye think, man? As ye say, ‘tis a crime against the crown to consult with a witch. She would only get the same treatment or worse, elsewhere, from anyone else. Make certain she knows it.”

  He thought back to his hand around her throat. “She knows it well.”

  “Then ye should have no trouble convincing her to do what she must do. And ye will convince her, will ye not? Witch or no, she will listen to ye just as all lasses listen whenever ye speak.” Kirk laughed as if this were truly amusing. “Aye, she might have witchcraft on her side, but ye have that face, man. Ye might prove quite valuable.”

  There was no keeping himself from bristling at this. “Have I not proven my value before now?” he nearly spat.

  “Och, ye know I dinna mean it, not truly.” Yet it sounded as though he had. Yet this was Kirk’s way. Were Clyde there, he would remind Kaden of it. Nothing mattered but what was happening in that very moment. It was of no difference that he’d proven himself time and again.

  What Kirk wanted now was all that mattered, and now he wanted a witch to perform for him.

  If ye are not a witch, ye had better hope for a quick death, he thought, imagining the woman’s face in his mind.

  7

  What day was it?

  What time was it?

  Hell. What year was it?

  Anna woke up in a pile of straw. Not the most uncomfortable place she’d ever spent a night, by far, but her back and her shoulders weren’t her biggest fans. If she could only have made herself more comfortable, but how could she when she could barely move her hands?

  This had to come to an end. She couldn’t imagine spending another night in shackles, waking up every time she tried to move in her sleep. The iron was so heavy. She couldn’t even scratch an itch, and there was one on her lower back which kept bugging her on and off throughout the night.

  The simplest thing in the world, scratching an itch. How many times had she done it without thinking? Without even stopping what she was in the middle of doing? Feel an itch, scratch it. Done. But not now, with her hands bound in front of her.

  She wiggled back and forth in the straw, hoping there would be enough friction to at least ease her discomfort. No such luck. Frustrated tears sprang to her eyes as despair crept in on all sides.

  This was how she would die. Trying to scratch an itch. She would spend the rest of her life with an itch she couldn’t quite reach, and no way to free her hands. When she had to pee, somebody would have to be there to help her do it.

  Would they ever feed her? The growling of her stomach distracted her from the itch on her back. It was enough to nauseate her, the emptiness. She breathed slowly as a pang twisted her stomach in knots.

  How long did it take before a person starved to death? She tried to remember. It took longer to starve than it did to die from dehydration, that much she knew. Maybe that was how they planned to kill her. They’d withhold food and water.

  With any luck, it wouldn’t take too long. She closed her eyes. What was the point of being awake? What was the point of anything?

  Then, she remembered the point. Her dad, at home with his nurse. Would he even know she was gone? Maybe not, but he still needed her even if he didn’t know it. She was all he had. It was selfish to want to sleep and forget everything when he needed her to come home.

  But how was she supposed to get there? This wasn’t Oz, and her boots weren’t ruby slippers. She wouldn’t click her heels together three times and wake up in her own bed, safe and sound.

  She knew, because she had tried. It seemed worth a shot at the time.

  If it got her home, she would’ve done anything. Absolutely anything.

  “Maybe not anything,” she muttered, staring at the ceiling. There were lines that she’d have to draw. If one of those nasty, filthy, toothless guys told her she could go straight home to her own time if she slept with them, she might have made herself get used to being where she was and settled for hoping things would work out for everybody else in her life.

  Just the idea made her skin crawl. How did anybody ever procreate in these times? Oh, right, nobody knew any better. They were all used to being stinky and dirty.

  Her stomach growled again, and this time one of the horses in a nearby stall whinnied and snuffled around in its straw. “Yeah, you’re hungry, too. At least somebody will come in and feed you. Maybe they’ll feed me at the same time.”

  Or maybe not. Maybe this was their way of torturing one they thought was a witch.

  It wasn’t more than another few minutes before footsteps sounded. She stayed where she was, stretched out on her back. She wouldn’t jump to her feet and smooth down her hair and try to make herself look pleasant for them. Screw them.

  Besides, even at her worst, she looked better than the best of them.

  “Ye must be hungry by now.”

  A tiny flicker of hope burst to life in her chest at the sound of his voice. Funny how she knew his voice already, though that made sense in a way, since it was the kindest she had heard since waking up or whatever it was she did. He had come to her, and from the smell of it, he had brought food.

  “I was hungry yesterday,” she muttered, still staring at the ceiling. No, she wouldn’t even let herself look happy to see him. No use giving him ideas.

  He muttered something under his breath which was probably a curse from the sound of it. “I must ask your forgiveness. It had not occurred to me they would not feed ye. I ought to have brought this for ye last night.”

  “Yeah, you probably should have. But whatever. I was too upset to eat, anyway.” That wasn’t a lie. All she could think about all night was the feeling of his hand around her throat, and what it would be like when a rope took its place.

  She heard him open the lock on the door before swinging it toward himself. He entered the stall, placing a bowl and mug next to her on the floor. “It isn’t much, but it is all I found in the household. Perhaps I can bring something a bit better later on.”

  She finally let herself look at him, and he was just as handsome as she remembered him. There was a minute overnight while she tossed and turned and tried to get comfortable that she was sure she had imagined him. He stuck out like a sore thumb around all the others. Some of them might have been decent looking if they took better care of themselves, but he was flat-out gorgeous.

  And he was looking down at her with concern. “I thought it best not to bring Blair with me, as we do not wish news of your capture to be spread about the village yet.”

  “Why? Don’t want anybody to know you have a woman in shackles around a bunch of horses who, by the way, stunk up the place all night long?”

  He scowled. “To tell the truth, it will be better for all of us if few people know there is a witch on the place. I dinna expect word of ye not to spread, but I hope to keep it quiet for all our sakes.”

  This again.
She sat up—not without struggle, but she would’ve rather flailed around on her back like an overturned tortoise than accept help—and glared up at him. “Do I lapse into some other language when I tell you I am not a witch?”

  “Ye can tell me all ye like, lass. It doesn’t matter what I think, and by the way, I am still uncertain.” But the way he lowered his eyes when he said it told her he might be lying. One thing she had always been good at was knowing when a person was telling her the truth.

  “So what you’re saying is, you aren’t the one making the decisions around here.”

  “Ye could see that for yourself when we brought ye in, so your attempt at stirring me to anger is without use. The MacGregor makes decisions, and ye met him. Kirk. The chieftain of our clan.”

  “So he’s the one I have to convince. How do I convince somebody I’m not a witch? He’s already made up his mind.”

  “Aye, that is the case.” He cleared his throat, glancing toward the corner where the bucket sat. “Do ye need to…”

  She nodded, and it took some effort to not smile a little. Good. Let him be uncomfortable. Let him wonder what he was going to do with her. She wasn’t here to make life easier for any of them. Especially since none of them were making it easier for her.

  “Yes, I guess you’ll have to help me with that. Since you don’t want to bring one of the women from the village to help me.”

  He growled. “Get up, then.”

  He was actually going to do it. She didn’t think he would. Indecision froze her in place.

  He growled again, louder this time, and those gentle hazel eyes of his hardened and flashed. She remembered the animal way he’d breathed when he was close to her, the tightness of that strong hand around her throat. Maybe this wasn’t the guy she should piss off.

  Before she could apologize, he bent and took her by the waist. She gasped in surprise as he lifted her to her feet, just as easily as he had lifted her in and out of the saddle. He was a monster, incredibly strong. She thought again that maybe she should be a little nicer to him.