Ronan's Captive Read online

  The lass just looked at him, a stricken look in her eyes. Her gaze flitted past him to the manor and back to him. She swallowed but said nothing.

  “I’m going tae ask ye again, lass,” he said, stepping forward, close enough to inhale her scent—cinnamon and rosemary. He ignored the swell of desire that surged over him, keeping his voice firm. “Who are ye and why are ye intruding on my lands?”

  “My—my name is Kara,” she stammered. “I’m—I’m from the—er—the village. I’m lost.”

  Ronan went still as he studied her. She had the same strange accent as Eadan’s wife Fiona. His suspicion spiked as his gaze raked over her gown. The village was some distance away on foot, and her dress was that of a noble woman’s. Noble women didn’t live in villages—they lived in manor homes or castles. And they certainly didn’t go around unescorted. The lass was lying to him.

  “I’ll ask ye again, lass,” he growled. “Who are ye?”

  “I told you,” she said, her voice firmer now, her chin jutting upward with defiance. “My name is Kara, and I’m from the village. I’m lost. Could—could you point me in the right direction?”

  Ronan’s eyes narrowed. More lies. He stepped forward and took her arm in a gentle but firm grip. She let out a yelp as he dragged her toward the manor, struggling to get out of his grasp.

  “Let me go!” she shouted. “This is—HELP! Let me go!”

  He shot her a look of disbelief as they continued toward the manor.

  “Ye’re trespassing on my property, lass,” he growled. “No one will help ye except me. And I willnae be doing that ’til ye tell me who ye are.”

  He continued to drag her into the manor, past the small group of servants who'd gathered in the entry way, keeping a firm grip on her arm as he led her up the stairs and into a guest chamber at the far end of the hall.

  Only then did he release her, closing the door behind him and leaning against it with his arms crossed.

  Kara stumbled back from him, looking around at the chamber like a frightened deer. Ronan’s anger subsided; she seemed genuinely frightened.

  “I’ll not hurt ye, lass,” he said gently. “I’m Ronan of Clan Macleay, laird of this manor. Now I ask ye only for the truth. Who are ye?”

  “I told you—"

  “The truth.”

  Kara blinked, and her eyes glistened with tears. His heart softened with that sympathy, but he reminded himself of the ill omen he’d received the night before. How could it be mere coincidence that she’d shown up the morning after he received it? He needed to be on guard.

  “All right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’m—I’m here to look for my family.”

  He studied her. He suspected she was still withholding something, but this statement seemed truthful.

  “I—I arrived at a village. Somehow, I made a wrong turn, and I ended up here. I’m—I’m sorry I trespassed on your grounds, but I didn’t know where I was. I just—I just want to be on my way.”

  “Yer family? What are their names?”

  “Suibhne and Orla,” she said. “They’re farmers. They have two young daughters.”

  Ronan searched his mind, but the names were not at all familiar, and he knew dozens of the villagers by name. Her face fell, which confirmed for him she was telling the truth—at least about searching for her family.

  “I’ll need tae confirm yer telling me the truth,” he said. “And then . . . perhaps ye can be on yer way.”

  “Perhaps?” she echoed, stiffening with alarm. “Aye."

  “And until then?” she demanded. “You can’t mean to keep me prisoner here?”

  “As ye were trespassing on my property, ’tis my right,” he growled. “’Till I can confirm what ye say is truth . . . ye’re my captive.”

  Chapter 5

  Ye're my captive.

  The Scot’s words reverberated in her mind as he shut the door behind him, and she heard a lock turn in the door. Kara stumbled back and sank into the bed, pressing her hand to her mouth, her heart hammering.

  This can’t be real. This can’t be real.

  But it was. That ridiculously gorgeous Scot—sporting authentic medieval clothing she recognized thanks to Alice. The servants, also in authentic period clothing. Even this room, with no hint of electrical outlets, just a candle holder on the side table.

  Kara swallowed, leaning forward to press her forehead against her knees. Everything had happened so fast. The sound of her name whispered with the wind. The wind tugging on her body. The world dissolving around her.

  When the world righted itself again, she’d found herself on the outskirts of this manor. She’d barely had time to orient herself when that tall, muscular, golden-eyed Highlander stalked toward her, demanding to know who she was in that heavy Scottish brogue she’d struggled to understand. And now . . . she was his prisoner. The captive of a living, breathing medieval Scot.

  Kara sat up, taking a breath. There had to be some logical explanation. She looked around, searching for any sign of the date. Hurrying over to a side table, she pulled open a drawer, finding a prayer book. She flipped it open searching for a date. And though it was in Latin, she understood the year, written in stark lettering on the parchment.

  1390.

  “Holy shit,” Kara whispered, as the room spun around her. “Oh my God.”

  Alice was right. Somehow . . . she’d been pulled back through time.

  She took a seat on the bed when her legs began to wobble, trying to connect her haphazard thoughts. Evidence that she was in the past—the authentic clothing of the Scots. Ronan’s accent, different from modern Scottish English. As Ronan dragged her into the manor, she’d looked around, seeing no hint of paved roads or cars. But then again, she’d been distracted by Ronan’s beauty. She’d never met a man she would call “beautiful” before, but Ronan fit the bill. Strong, chiseled features, wavy chestnut hair, golden eyes. His body was all lean muscle, and he moved with the grace of a panther.

  Kara pushed away her lustful thoughts, shaking her head. The man was holding her prisoner, for crying out loud.

  She stood, moving over to the window. In the courtyard below, a man mounted a horse and rode away. In the near distance, a carriage made its way down a winding dirt road. She continued to scan the surroundings, praying she'd see a car, a plane, anything that would indicate she was still in the twenty-first century. But all evidence indicated that she was indeed in the past. Over six hundred years in the past.

  An avalanche of questions filled her mind. How did this all work? Why did she arrive at this manor? Did the whisper of her name on the wind have something to do with it? Had it been that wind that sucked her back through time? How did Alice know Kara could time travel? How did she know where to send her?

  And another, more prominent question—why hadn’t Alice told her sooner? Why did she wait until after her death to deliver such a bombshell?

  Because you wouldn’t have believed her, a phantom voice whispered. She had to admit this was true; Kara would have seriously considered placing Alice in a hospital if she’d told her such a tale when she was alive. Besides, Kara was so consumed with her job during her grandmother’s last years, she wouldn’t have entertained such a story by coming to Scotland anyway.

  Pushing aside her guilt, Kara forced her thoughts back to the present. She had two choices here—figure out how to get back to her own time, which would mean figuring out how to get back to that abandoned village. She could only assume that the means through which she’d traveled was there; maybe it was some type of portal.

  Or. She could do what Alice sent her here to do. And for Alice to want her to travel through time, it must be a damn important cause.

  Suibhne and Orla. Those were the names of her ancestors Alice had provided in her letter. Surnames weren’t common in this time, especially among peasants and farmers. She only knew that they were in their late twenties at the time of their deaths, and they had two young daughters.

  She thought of
Suibhne and Orla, along with the others who’d died in this time, and a surge of turbulent emotions filled her. How could she not save innocent lives if she had the opportunity to do so? And there was the investigator in her that wanted to solve the mystery of what happened.

  A sense of resolve settled over her. She needed to accept that she'd somehow traveled through time. If she could honor her grandmother’s dying wish and save lives . . . she would do it.

  But first, she needed to convince Ronan that she was trustworthy.

  Ronan returned to her chamber a couple of hours later with a young chambermaid. Kara had used the time to come up with what she hoped was a good enough story to convince him he could trust her.

  She took him in, swallowing. He trained his beautiful eyes on her face with wary caution.

  “Ye can leave the tray on the table, Aislin,” he told the chambermaid, still studying Kara.

  Aislin obliged, casting Kara one last curious look before leaving them alone.

  Her throat went dry as he approached, and she took a breath to calm herself. This would be a lot easier if he weren’t so distractingly gorgeous.

  “No one in the village recalled a lass who looks like ye,” he said, his eyes narrowed.

  “I—I’m sorry I wasn’t truthful with you before. I was startled and frightened. My—my grandmother recently died,” she said, her voice wavering. There was no need for her to put on an act about that, genuine grief shaped her tone, and tears stung her eyes. A fierce longing for Alice’s presence filled her; her grandmother would know exactly what to do in this situation.

  Ronan’s eyes softened, though his body remained rigid.

  “My apologies for your loss,” he murmured.

  “There was a branch of our family she was close to, but she lost touch with them over the years," she continued. "Before she died, she asked me to find them. When we last heard from them, they were just settling into the village here. It was her dying request, one I intend to honor. I did get lost; I was trying to find my way to the village. I only had enough coin for the coach I hired to drop me off here; the driver refused to take me any farther and told me the village was just up the road.”

  She held his gaze, hoping that he gleaned the partial truth in her words. But his expression remained guarded.

  “Where are yer things? Ye traveled all this way from England with just the clothes on yer back?”

  Think, Kara.

  “Our coach was robbed by bandits on the road outside of Edinburgh,” she returned, trying to look appropriately shaken. Bandits were a common danger travelers had to deal with in this time.

  Ronan’s mouth tightened, but his face remained unreadable; she couldn’t tell if he believed her or not.

  "And what were ye planning to do in the village?”

  “Inquire about my family at the church.”

  "If they're not at the village?"

  "Then I'll return home,” she said, though she had no idea how.

  “Home. Where is that, lass?”

  “England,” she lied. English sounded much different in this time, but it was the best she could come up with under the circumstances.

  He studied her for a disconcertingly long moment before speaking again.

  “All right,” he said, and relief coursed through her. “But instead of staying in the village . . . ye can make yer inquiries from here. There’s plenty of room for ye. Ye can stay as my guest.”

  “But—”

  “We’ve just had a . . . disagreement with another clan, and there may still be traitors among the clan. I believe some of what ye say, lass, but yer hiding something. I’ll not take any chances.”

  Kara glared at him. Damn him for being so perceptive. She’d gotten as close to the truth as she dared. There was no way she could tell him she was from a different time. Alice had told her that witch hunting and the belief in witches was very much a thing in the fourteenth century. If she was going to save her family, she needed to stay alive.

  She but her lip, looking around at the spacious chamber. It wasn’t like he was keeping her in a dungeon. Staying in a sprawling manor a hundred times the size of her Brooklyn apartment wouldn’t be so terrible. It had to be better than making her way into the village and asking around on her own, especially with the difference in accents and language.

  Still, unease filled her at the thought of staying here. Ronan was gorgeous, but he was a stranger. And she didn’t believe for one second that she was just a “guest.” He didn’t trust her.

  A small part of her briefly considered escaping, finding her way back to that village through which she’d arrived and traveling back to her own time.

  But memories of Alice flowed through her mind. Her gentle smile the last time she’d seen her. Her heartfelt letter. I want you to solve this mystery and save the lives of our distant ancestors—and the countless others who died needlessly.

  She would do this for Alice. Even if she had to deal with an irritatingly handsome and distrustful Highlander to do so.

  “Fine,” she said. “But as soon as I find my family I’ll be on my way.”

  “Perhaps,” Ronan said silkily, suspicion lingering in his eyes as he moved closer, until he stood only inches away. Kara tried to keep her expression neutral, but awareness coursed through her at his close proximity.

  “I’m not here to do anyone harm,” she said, “I just want to honor my grandmother’s wishes.”

  “It would be simpler for ye tae just tell me the truth, lass."

  “I—am,” she whispered.

  His amber eyes seared hot on her face, and her awareness spiraled into desire, seizing her by the throat. She was close enough to fully appreciate his masculine beauty—those bright fiery eyes, sensually full lips, the hint of stubble that lined his jaw. His eyes dropped to her lips, and the silence between them shifted, becoming charged with heat. He was so close now, close enough to . . .

  “There’s a meal for ye,” Ronan said abruptly, stepping back and turning away from her. He gestured toward the tray the chambermaid had placed on the table. The charged moment dissipated; Kara had to take a second to collect herself, drawing in a ragged breath.

  “I’ll have a chambermaid bring ye more clothes.”

  And then he was gone, leaving her with a gnawing, unquenched desire.

  Chapter 6

  Ronan gritted his teeth with frustration as he walked away from Kara’s chamber. He couldn’t believe he’d nearly kissed a lass he didn’t trust. But that generous mouth and startling green eyes of hers had drawn him in, and it took everything in him to turn away from her. He needed to bed a lass to rid himself of this searing lust—and soon.

  A sudden image of Kara in his bed, her blond hair splayed around her like a halo, naked, moaning as he stroked her heated center, filled his mind.

  He shut out the image from his thoughts. He’d have to stay away from the tempting lass—at least until he determined her true identity.

  His thoughts strayed to Fiona, Eadan’s bride. It seemed too much of a coincidence that two lasses with similar accents would show up on Macleay lands within weeks of each other. While there was no doubt in his mind that Fiona was trustworthy, as she’d helped them defeat Dughall and his men, he wasn’t so sure about Kara. What was she hiding?

  As soon as he entered his study, he sent for Beathan.

  “Who is the lass?” Beathan asked, his eyes sparkling with interest. “She’s bonnier than the one I saw before. Does she need an escort somewhere?”

  He didn’t like the lustful gleam in his steward’s eyes, and he got to his feet, towering over him.

  “No. The lass will be staying here. She’s . . . a friend,” he said carefully. “I’ll not have her spoken of with disrespect,” he continued, his voice coming out harsher than he intended.

  “I’m sorry, m’laird,” Beathan said, his round face coloring with contrition. “I meant no disrespect.”

  A sliver of guilt filled Ronan; Beathan had meant no harm. It made no
sense that he felt such possessiveness over a lass he’d just met.

  “I ken ye didnae,” Ronan said, with a conciliatory nod. “But I have a task for ye. I need ye tae send a messenger tae the village and inquire about her family. She’s searching for them.”

  Beathan obliged, leaving him alone. Ronan looked down at his table where he’d left the ill omen. Did Kara have something to do with this? Had she been the one to send it—and was she working with some new enemy?

  He sat down, leaning back in his chair. The lass was hiding something, but something told him she wasn’t here for a nefarious purpose. She was telling the truth about looking for her family and her grandmother. Instinct told him that whoever sent the ill omen was someone else. Someone dangerous.

  He searched his mind, trying to recall any other clan or family that Clan Macleay had come into conflict with. As far as he knew, Clan Macleay had good relations with other nearby clans.

  But Ronan hadn’t paid much attention to such matters. Such conflicts had been all Eadan’s concern, and before that, his uncle's. A sudden desire for his cousin's presence shot through him. Eadan was a born leader. He’d know how to handle this—and how to handle Kara’s arrival.

  When Fiona had arrived out of nowhere, Eadan promptly had her pose as his bride—and fallen in love with her during the whole charade. Ronan had no intention of doing something similar with Kara. Unlike Eadan, he wasn’t trying to get out of a deceitful betrothal. But he was determined to keep her at his manor until he found out who she was. Eadan and Fiona would return in a few weeks’ time. Given the similarity of their accents, perhaps Kara was from the same village as Fiona, and Fiona could find out who she truly was.

  Eadan and Fiona are also hiding something, a voice in his mind reminded him. He’d suspected there was more to Fiona’s backstory, but when he’d pressed Eadan, he evaded the question. What was Eadan hiding for Fiona? And was it linked to whatever Kara concealed?

  Ronan got to his feet, heading out of the study. There was no use for him pondering matters he had no answers to. He needed to focus on the identity of the sender of the ill omen—not on whatever Kara was hiding. He'd have to deal with that later.