Niall's Bride: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 4) Page 12

  Chapter 19

  You won’t have to wed an imposter.

  Niall’s words kept reverberating throughout her mind for the rest of the day and into the night.

  Perhaps I want tae wed ye, she thought with an ache as she drifted off to sleep that night. Because I love ye, and ye’re not an imposter tae me.

  When a smiling Liusaidh entered her chamber the next morning with Ailsa and Eithne, carrying several wedding dresses, it was hard not to flinch. The sight of the dresses was a painful reminder of the facade she and Niall had to maintain. Her mother didn’t notice her stiffening posture as she spread out the dresses on the bed.

  “Yer wedding day is almost upon us, daughter,” Liusaidh said, beaming. “Only a fortnight now. The seamstresses did such a lovely job with these. Which one do ye prefer?”

  Caitria looked down at the lovely gowns. How many times had her mother come into her chamber with dresses for her to choose from? How many times had she forced a smile and chose whichever one her mother preferred?

  She looked up at Liusaidh, straightening her shoulders.

  “None of them.”

  Liusaidh froze, her smile faltering.

  “What?”

  Caitria turned to Ailsa and Eithne, who looked back and forth between her and her mother with open curiosity.

  “Please leave us.”

  They quickly obeyed. Liusaidh was frowning now, her hands on her hips.

  “Caitria, what’s the meaning of—"

  “Artair told me the guards found an intruder on the grounds,” she said, evenly meeting her mother’s gaze.

  “That's for Artair and yer father tae deal with. Ye just need tae focus on—"

  “If there's a looming clan conflict, it affects us all. Artair—” she continued, forcing herself to say the false name, “—and I will wed once 'tis resolved. He’s talking tae Father today.”

  “I doonae think postponing the wedding is necessary,” Liusaidh said, her frown deepening. “What is this truly about, Caitria? Ye’ve been so happy, I thought ye were eager tae marry Artair.”

  “I just want the conflict resolved before we wed,” Caitria said shortly.

  “Daughter . . . I’m glad that ye’ve been happier as of late—but ye need tae remember yer place," Liusaidh said, her tone turning cold. "Ye’ll be a wife and mother soon. Ye need not concern yerself with clan politics.”

  A surge of anger roiled through Caitria, and she pulled herself to her full height.

  “Perhaps I will concern myself with such matters,” she returned. “Perhaps I’m not a delicate flower that exists just for ye and Father tae protect.”

  “What did ye say?” Liusaidh hissed.

  “Perhaps I’m more than just an ornament tae put into pretty dresses and marry off tae whichever suitable laird ye and Father choose. Perhaps I can take care of myself.”

  Liusaidh glared, but Caitria saw the faintest hint of pride in her mother's eyes. But it was quickly gone, her expression turning hard.

  “I see that ye must not be feeling well. I’ll have the cooks make ye a hot broth. Tomorrow I’ll return with these dresses and we’ll decide what ye'll wear.”

  Frustration sluiced through her as her mother stalked out of her chamber. Once again, her mother had dismissed her words. But she felt . . . emboldened now. It felt good to stand up for herself, to voice aloud what she'd silently thought for years.

  With a rush of newfound determination, she went to find Hendry, who stood stationed outside the front gates of the castle with another guard.

  “Aye, my lady?” he asked, looking at her with surprise as she approached.

  “I want a dagger,” she said. Never again would she cower before Ferghas if he threatened her. “I want ye tae teach me how tae protect myself using it.”

  Hendry stiffened, and she prepared herself for his protests, for his dismissal of her demand.

  But he surprised her. He smiled and gave her a nod of assent, and she noticed there was a glimmer of pride in his eyes. And unlike her mother, he didn't try to hide it.

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “If ye’re approached from behind, twist back tae take yer attacker by surprise,” Hendry said, demonstrating the move.

  Hendry had taken her to a forest clearing just off the castle grounds, and had proceeded to show her some easy defensive moves using a dagger he’d given her. Caitria had taken to the lesson well, enjoying the sensation of power that ran through her as she slashed her dagger through the air, defending herself against an invisible attacker. Ferghas, she thought darkly. She’d never cower before him again.

  “There’s my bride tae be.”

  She whirled to find Niall approaching them, and as always, just the mere sight of him made her breath hitch in her throat. His chestnut hair was windswept, his tunic open at the collar, his blue eyes alight with amusement. Why did he have to be so handsome—and why hadn't Artair’s identical appearance not affected her the way Niall’s did?

  Because ye love him, a voice whispered. He may be the only man ye’ll ever love.

  “I asked the other guards where ye’d gone,” Niall continued with a smile. “Should I be jealous of Hendry?”

  “I was teaching the lady defensive moves at her request, my laird,” Hendry stammered. “I would never dream of—”

  “I jest with ye,” Niall said, his eyes twinkling. “Please—continue.”

  She tried to concentrate on practicing, but it was impossible with Niall’s intense gaze trained on her every move. There were several times that Hendry had to tell her to focus.

  “Ye’re off tae a fine start, my lady,” Hendry said some time later, lowering his sword. “I do need tae return tae my post. Come find me when ye want another lesson.”

  “Aye,” she said. “I thank ye, Hendry.”

  Once they were alone, Niall’s expression turned serious, his accent shifting to his natural one.

  “Your father agreed to postpone the wedding—but only for another week. We’ll have no choice but to go to him with what evidence we have before then—and pray that Ferghas doesn't have the means to retaliate. Besides what you’ve learned from Ailsa, Latharn’s discovered a couple of servants who’ve witnessed or suffered from Ferghas's abuses. As for your brother’s death, a noble close to him told Latharn that he acted strangely after Tadhg died—but that’s hardly proof of wrongdoing.” He sighed, raking his hand through his hair. “I hope that’ll be enough to at least cast some suspicion on Ferghas.”

  She nodded, looking down at her dagger and twirling it around in her hands.

  “And then ye’ll leave?” she asked quietly, though she already knew the answer. “Tae return tae yer own time?”

  He didn’t respond for a long moment, and when she finally looked up at him, his face was tight with conflict.

  “Caitria,” he whispered, “I—I don’t belong here.”

  “Aye. Of course,” she said, turning to move past him.

  His hand shot out to grip her arm, stopping her before she could leave the clearing. He turned her to face him, his blue eyes filled with frustration.

  “You don’t know how much I wish things were different,” he whispered. “Caitria . . . I ache for you.”

  Caitria wanted to tell him that she more than ached for him—that she loved him. But she was unable to speak, her eyes locked on his, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she passionately returned it, her dagger slipping to the ground. She couldn't focus on his eventual departure, not now. She only wanted to relish the feel of his hard, muscled body against hers, the demanding pressure of his mouth against hers, the essence of him.

  Their kiss intensified, and he walked her backward to a nearby tree, his lips trailing down her neck, to her chest . . .

  “I need you, Caitria,” he whispered. “You’ve consumed me, ever since you first came to me in my dreams.”

  And I love ye, she told him silently, gasping as he lowered her bodice to seize one of her nipples with his mouth, suckling hungr
ily as he hitched up her gown.

  "Niall . . ." she whimpered, as he lifted his kilt, returning his lips to hers.

  "Yes, my Caitria," he whispered. "I love the sound of my name on those lovely lips. Say it again."

  "Niall," she whispered. "Niall . . ."

  His name turned into a moan as he sank into her, hoisting her up by her rear to surge into her. She gasped at the pleasurable sensation of his flesh melding with hers, and wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms looping around his neck as he thrust himself inside her, pounding her into the tree.

  “Caitria,” he gasped, as they moved together, his breath hot on her face. “My Caitria…”

  "My Niall . . . " she returned, his name becoming a litany on her lips as they continued to move together.

  When they cried out their mutual release, she buried her face in his chest, tears stinging her eyes, and despair replaced her sated desire, not knowing how she was going to live without the man she loved once he vanished back through time.

  Chapter 20

  Niall escorted Caitria back to her chamber after their hasty lovemaking, regret coursing through him. It wasn’t regret over making love to her—it was over how he’d made love to her. Caitria deserved worship in a plush bed for hours, not to be taken roughly against a tree.

  But wild cries of pleasure had erupted from her lips as he took her, the desire in her eyes hot and fierce, her legs wound around him in a vise-like grip. His virginal Caitria had become quite the seductress, and he found himself hardening against his kilt at the mere memory of her tempting flesh against his.

  He looked down at her. Right now she looked like a prim Scottish noblewoman, the only hints of their passionate encounter her slightly mussed hair and the puffiness of her lips that he'd thoroughly kissed. A possessive pride and desire seared his chest as he gazed at her; a part of him had wanted to mark her lovely skin, to show everyone that she belonged to him—Niall O'Kean, not Artair Dalaigh.

  But she's not yours. He recalled the strain in her voice when she asked him about his departure. A chasm of grief opened up in his chest at the thought. He missed Caitria when they weren't in the same room, aching for her with a longing that was almost unbearable at times. How would he fare when they were centuries apart?

  When they reached her chamber, he reached out and took her hand without thinking. He leaned forward to give the appearance of offering her a mere peck on the cheek in case a servant walked by, but he placed his lips by her ear.

  “The next time I make love to you, it will be for hours in a bed. You deserve more than a quick rut against a tree.”

  A hot flush crept up Caitria’s throat, but she evenly held his gaze.

  “Perhaps I enjoy a quick rut against a tree.”

  She entered her chamber before he could respond, leaving him looking after her in openmouthed astonishment. She had indeed transformed from the innocent woman whose virginity he’d taken. He swallowed hard, desire once again coiling in his belly. It took everything in his power to not follow her into the chamber, to make love to her again as thoroughly as he’d just promised.

  He forced himself to turn away and make his way back to his chamber. He found Latharn waiting outside his door, urgency in his eyes.

  “I followed Ferghas today—but I lost his trail," Latharn said, when Niall ushered him inside. "He didnae return tae his manor—it seems he left the lands of the clan altogether.”

  Niall stilled. He’d learned from Latharn that Ferghas rarely left the lands of Clan MacGreghor, only venturing to and from the castle and his manor.

  “If ’tis not a danger tae ye, try tae follow him. See if ye can find out where he’s going,” Niall said, his heart hammering. “And Latharn—thank ye for doing this.”

  He’d learned more about Latharn during these past few weeks, gleaning that Artair had hired Latharn when he was in dire need of a post. Latharn was the eldest son of a large family who had a small farm; he sent his earnings home to them—he'd learned that Artair generously sent them more food whenever his family had a bad season. It now made sense to him why Latharn harbored such loyalty to Artair—and why Artair relied upon him. Latharn was a good man.

  “I’m glad tae help,” Latharn said, his expression darkening. “Ye’re not the only one who distrusts Ferghas. No one before ye has dared tae try and gather evidence against him, he’s so beloved by the laird. There are many who say Laird MacGreghor looks at him as a son now that his own son has died.”

  “A son he may have murdered,” Niall bit out. He stilled, considering Latharn’s words. “If the laird loves Ferghas so much, why didnae he marry Caitria off tae him instead?”

  “I doonae ken,” Latharn said, as if considering this question for the first time. “Perhaps deep down, the laird suspects all isnae as it seems when it comes tae Ferghas.”

  After Latharn left, Niall pondered Latharn’s observation. He could only hope that Latharn was right, and deep down, Drostan indeed suspected there was something dark about Ferghas.

  He rubbed his temples. What in bloody hell was Ferghas up to? He was glad that Drostan had agreed to postpone the wedding, but they still only had a couple of weeks. And then he’d have no choice but to go to Drostan with the scant evidence he had against Ferghas.

  And then . . . he’d have to return to his own time.

  He closed his eyes against the wave of pain that swept over him at the thought, and when he opened his eyes again, a strange sight pulled him away from his pained thoughts.

  He moved closer to his window, staring out. A figure stood on the edge of the castle grounds, just outside the gates . . . watching him. Though the man was far away, there was something familiar about his build, and Niall was certain that the stranger was looking right at him.

  He turned to tear out of his chamber. But by the time he reached the front gates, scanning the grounds that surrounded the castle, the man was gone.

  "Laird Dalaigh?" Hendry asked, from behind him. "Is something the—”

  "I saw a man standing out here," Niall said, whirling to face him. "Did you see anyone?"

  In his haste, he forgot to change his accent. Panic sluiced through him, but Hendry only stiffened briefly before moving into action.

  "I'll have the guards search the grounds," Hendry said, moving past him.

  Niall watched him go, anxiety spiraling through him as he looked around, unable to shake the feeling that the man—whoever he was—had been looking for him.

  When he came to the great hall for supper, unease continued to swirl around in his chest. Was the man the same intruder who'd been spotted before? Was Ferghas the cause? If so, to what end?

  He met Ferghas's dark gaze across the hall. Ferghas gave him a twisted smile, raising his cup of ale in a mocking toast.

  Niall glared, sliding his gaze away from him to focus on Caitria. Just being in her presence soothed him, and he found himself watching her every move—the delicate way she took her bites, the sparkle in her eyes as she laughed at some jest made by a noble, and those sly, heated looks she gave him. He felt at home at her side, like he belonged . . . though his true place was centuries in the future.

  When the musicians began to play, he asked her to dance. They moved to the center of the hall, all eyes on them as they moved together. All the guests faded away as they danced, and something more than desire spiked in his chest. Longing. Need. Joy. How was he ever going to leave this woman, this woman who'd become like the air he needed to breathe?

  You have to. Enjoy the time you have with her, he told himself, pulling her into his arms. And he didn't care about the guests watching; he leaned down to kiss her, but a commotion sprang up around them before his lips could meet hers.

  A nobleman, Muir, who’d sat next to him while they ate, was now choking. Muir clutched at his throat, stumbling out of his chair and sinking to the floor.

  Niall released Caitria and darted over to Muir, and attempted to help clear his airway, turning him over to his side, pounding him on hi
s back. But Muir continued to writhe and gasp until his face went dangerously pale . . . and his body stilled.

  Chapter 21

  Caitria watched, stunned and shaken, as Muir died in Niall's arms. She’d known Muir since she was a bairn; he’d gifted her with books about the faraway lands she’d always dreamed of visiting throughout the years. And now he was dead.

  Chaos had erupted around her—some women screamed while other guests were crowding around Muir’s body, letting out cries of horror. Her father stumbled to his feet and ordered everyone out of the hall while several male servants rushed forward to carry away Muir’s body.

  Niall moved back to allow the men to lift Muir’s body, his eyes meeting hers. They seemed to share the same thought, and their eyes both strayed to Ferghas, who stood several feet away. He was looking down at Muir without any surprise at all—instead, he looked disappointed and even bored.

  Oh God, Caitria thought, ice filling her veins. Ferghas had done this—he'd poisoned Muir, and she had no doubt he intended to kill Niall instead. Her eyes darted to the cup of stew Muir had eaten from. Their cups must have been accidentally switched—which had saved Niall and proven fatal for Muir.

  A firm hand gripped her arm, and she dimly realized that Niall was now at her side, his arm around her, guiding her out of the hall. It was only when they were in her chamber that she emerged from her haze of shock, dissolving into tears. Niall held her close, murmuring soothing words as he stroked her hair. When her tears subsided, she backed up, fear coiling around her.

  "This—this was Ferghas’s doing. I ken it," she whispered.

  "I know," Niall gravely agreed.

  "That—that poison was meant for ye," she continued, her heart constricting at the thought.