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

  Mortification filled her, and she ignored her mother’s words, her thoughts turning inward, though treacherous thoughts circled her mind with scandalous images of what her wedding night with Artair would be like. Until last night, she couldn’t imagine it. But now she could picture his lips on hers, trailing down to her throat, even lower, to the swell of her breasts . . .

  “Ah, I see ye’re already thinking of it,” Liusaidh was saying, a look of delight filling her green eyes. “I’m so happy with this match. Ye’ll make a wonderful wife and mother.”

  Caitria’s scandalous thoughts of Artair faded, and the familiar dread returned as she thought of the life that stretched before her—matron of a distant castle, just like her mother, never to see the faraway lands she desired to see. Her newfound desire for her betrothed hadn’t made her longing for travel to disappear.

  “Aye,” Caitria murmured, focusing on her food as Liusaidh thankfully switched topics from her looming wedding night to more details of last night’s feast—the guests who’d arrived, some minor altercation her father had gotten into with a clan noble, and the gossip she’d exchanged with another noble’s wife.

  Caitria was relieved when the meal came to an end, and her mother pecked her on the cheek and sent her on her way. She was still disconcerted from her reaction to Artair last night and needed time to herself.

  When she reached her chamber, she halted in her tracks. Artair stood outside her chamber door, looking devastatingly handsome in a white tunic and a forest-green, belted, plaid kilt; she could see a glimpse of his muscled torso beneath his tunic. The desire that seized her at the sight of him once again took her by surprise, and she swallowed hard.

  “I thought ye’d like tae walk with me around the castle grounds.”

  She stared at him in surprise. Artair had never taken the initiative and requested to walk with her without her father urging him to. When they did take walks, they didn’t speak of anything substantial—just the weather, the meals the castle cooks prepared, the good health of her parents.

  Now he was looking at her with genuine interest—and hopeful anticipation.

  “Ah, yes, my laird—Artair,” she corrected herself.

  He smiled, and her breath caught in her throat. His smile made him even more handsome. Warmth seared her flesh as he reached out to entwine her arm with his, leading her down the corridor and the winding stairs.

  As they made their way out of the castle, she noticed the servants taking them in, some whispering behind their hands. Her mother was right; it seemed as if everyone had noticed the change between them.

  “I look forward tae spending more time with ye. I feel I’ve been remiss in asking more about ye,” he said, his blue eyes probing hers, once they stepped out into the courtyard.

  “Ye’ve been very kind,” Caitria said hastily. “There’s no need tae—”

  “I disagree. A husband should ken all there is tae ken about his bride. So tell me something I doonae ken about ye.”

  The air was brisk, and Artair pulled her in close to his side, his body warming hers. Awareness rippled through her; she trained her gaze resolutely ahead, hoping he didn’t notice how much his closeness affected her.

  “Ye can tell me,” he pressed, at her silence.

  “I—I wish tae travel,” she said, her voice halting and low, as they made their way past the gates and toward the grounds that surrounded the castle. “And . . . not just tae nearby villages, or even cities. I want tae see what the rest of the world looks like. No one in the castle has gone beyond England, even the nobles. There was a wine merchant who visited the castle once, he’d gone as far as the Mediterranean and he told me—" She stopped herself, embarrassed at her sudden outpour of words, her face flaming. “I’m sorry. Mother tells me ’tis not proper tae discuss such things.”

  Artair scowled, and her embarrassment deepened. She should have told him she looked forward to having bairns and maintaining his household—something other noble wives looked forward to.

  He stopped walking and reached for her hand, and even more jolts of awareness prickled her skin at his touch.

  “There’s nothing wrong with discussing yer hopes and dreams with yer future husband. There’s nothing wrong with wanting tae travel. Perhaps—perhaps I can take ye tae some of these distant lands.”

  She blinked with astonishment, hope swelling in her heart. As far as she knew, Artair was perfectly content to live out his days on his land in the north before he took his place as laird of MacGreghor Castle. Not once had he showed any interest in travel—but then again, she’d never discussed her desire to travel with him.

  “I—I’d like that,” she said, unable to stop the delighted grin that spread across her face. He looked pleased, linking her arm with his as they continued to walk.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Where would ye like tae go first?”

  “Paris,” she said immediately. “I’d like tae see the great Cathedral of Notre Dame. And then . . . the walled city of Obidos in Portugal—and York in England.”

  “Sounds like fine places tae travel,” he said, though she now saw conflict in his eyes, and unease simmered within her.

  “Is—is there something bothering ye, Artair?” she asked.

  He stopped, turning to face her, keeping her hand clasped in his, his eyes urgent as they probed hers.

  “As yer betrothed, ’tis my duty tae protect ye. I must ask—has anything happened as of late . . . anything that would cause ye concern for yer safety?”

  For a brief moment, Ferghas’s face, his fury raw, his hold on her arm bruising, flashed before her eyes, but she pushed the image away. Ferghas was a beloved member of the clan; he would never harm her.

  “No,” she said, forcing a smile. “My father keeps me well protected. I’ve always felt safe here.”

  He studied her for a long moment as if trying to ascertain the truth of her words. He reached down to touch the side of her face.

  “I just want tae keep ye safe, Caitria,” he whispered.

  Caitria stilled, the awareness that filled her at his touch expanding into the warm rush of desire. His blue eyes fell to her lips, and a hushed, fraught moment stretched between them before he leaned down, seizing her lips with his.

  Her heart thudded wildly against her chest as his mouth melded with hers. Her mouth opened, almost of its own volition, and he moaned as his tongue explored her mouth.

  He pulled her even closer, and she could feel every inch of his tall, muscular body pressed against hers as his kiss deepened. Her hands reached up, tangling in his hair, hungrily returning his kiss, giving in to the tsunami of pleasure that washed over her. Her entire world was consumed by him, the feel of his strong body against hers, the sweet taste of his kiss.

  When he released her, it took several moments to catch her breath. Other than a chaste kiss on the cheek or the forehead, he'd never truly kissed her before.

  His eyes met hers, filled with a tumult of both desire—and conflict.

  "Caitria—" he began, but stopped himself.

  Instead, he took her hand and escorted her all the way back to her chamber without a word, leaving her reeling—and disconcerted—from the fiery passion of his kiss.

  Chapter 6

  Niall made his way back to his chamber, cursing himself for kissing Caitria. But he couldn't have stopped himself—the attraction that pulled him toward her was a powerful magnet.

  Focus, Niall, he scolded himself. His intention to walk with her had been to see if he could parcel out what—if any—potential danger she might be in. He’d have to force himself to put his scorching desire for her on the back burner. He needed to be friendly toward her—friendly and nothing more—until he could get to the root of what he’d come here for.

  He entered his chamber, closing the door behind him and leaning heavily against it.

  After Caitria left the feast last night, panic had filled him when he'd realized he was on his own. He’d said as little as possible to the guests wh
o’d approached his table to congratulate him, trying to learn as much as he could about Artair. He’d only been able to discern that Artair was a distant relation to a clan in the north; he had his own manor there, and he was set to marry Caitria in six weeks' time. Before he'd left the feast, Drostan, Caitria's father, had told him he'd imbibed too much ale, and their conversation would have to wait, much to Niall's relief.

  The man who’d first approached him on the castle grounds was Latharn, a personal servant of Artair's. Niall had learned from him that the real Artair had been in his chamber before the feast—hence Latharn's surprise at finding "Artair" on the outskirts of the castle grounds. This could only mean that the real Artair had disappeared—to where, he didn't know.

  Latharn had seemed mildly suspicious of Niall, cocking his head to the side and studying him for a long moment after leading him to his chamber.

  "There's something different about ye," he'd said.

  "Just tired from the journey," Niall had said hastily, avoiding the man's eyes.

  "Ye told me ye had plenty of rest earlier," Latharn had replied with a frown.

  "The fatigue just settled in on me out of nowhere," Niall had returned, and though Latharn had looked at him with a lingering suspicion, he'd nodded and left him alone.

  Niall had searched through Artair's belongings to see if there was more he could learn about the man he was impersonating, but there was nothing of note—just a few items of clothing and a fine sword that could only belong to a nobleman.

  He'd sat down on the bed, wondering where the actual Artair had disappeared to. Was he somewhere in this time, on the verge of returning to the castle and outing Niall as an imposter? Had they switched places, and Artair was now in the twenty-first century, having taken his place as well?

  He'd again tried to recall any such mention of a relative named Artair Dalaigh who bore a striking resemblance to him, but came up empty. Artair Dalaigh must have been someone who barely made a blip on the family radar.

  His father had never recounted any similar "switching places" scenarios; he was at a loss over what to do. He'd finally determined that if the real Artair showed up, he would just have to hightail it out of there and get back to Tairseach. In the meantime, he could try to figure out if Caitria was truly in danger—and how to protect her—before returning to his own time. And that didn’t include kissing her—or anything of the sort—no matter how lovely she was.

  A knock on his door pulled him from his tumble of thoughts. He opened it to find Latharn standing there with a polite smile.

  “Laird MacGreghor wishes tae see ye,” Latharn said.

  Niall nodded his thanks, though unease swirled through his veins. What if Caitria’s father had somehow gleaned he was an imposter?

  “I heard ye went for a walk with my daughter,” Drostan said, by way of greeting, when Niall entered his study moments later. Drostan's brown eyes were jovial, with no hint of suspicion, and Niall relaxed.

  “Aye,” Niall said, taking the cup of ale Drostan offered him. “I thought we should spend more time together before we're wed.”

  “I’m glad for it,” Drostan said. “I often have tae convince ye tae spend time with my daughter. Though I have tae be honest—I chose ye because ye didnae pursue her the way other suitors did. I doubted ye even desired her—until last night.”

  Niall only offered him a smile. If Artair didn’t desire Caitria, by far the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, he was a fool.

  Drostan made his way over to the window, looking out, and Niall’s gaze fell onto a records' book that lay open on his desk. Niall subtly let his gaze scan the open pages, searching for a year.

  And he spotted it, in the top corner, written in Latin. 1390. His estimation had been correct. His historian’s mind crawled through several facts about this time period. The Stewarts were in the early days of their centuries-long rule over Scotland, with Robert the Third currently sitting on the Scottish throne. He'd thankfully missed the Black Plague—it hit Scotland several decades before, and the next outbreak wouldn't come until the fifteenth century

  But this was still a time of conflict in Scotland—between the clans and between Scotland and England.

  “I love my daughter,” Drostan was saying, and Niall detected an undercurrent of powerful emotion in the older man's voice. “More than life itself. Ye ken about my other son . . . the one who died.”

  “Aye,” Niall made himself say, filing away this factoid to memory. When Drostan turned to face him, his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “I think about him every day. Losing a child is like losing a limb. My Caitria . . . I ken I hold a tight rein on her, but I cannae lose my daughter. And given who I am . . .” He trailed off, a troubled look darting across his expression.

  Niall studied him. A picture was now forming. He thought of Caitria, the clear unhappiness in her eyes at the betrothal feast, the longing in her voice when she discussed her desire to travel. Her parents' overprotectiveness was more than just a product of the time—they were overcompensating for the son they’d lost. No wonder Caitria had seemed so uneasy about even discussing travel. It also explained Caitria’s age—twenty-five or twenty-six—he guessed. Noblewomen of this time were often married off younger. Her parents must have wanted to keep her here as long as possible before marrying her off. And a man like Drostan MacGreghor had no choice but to marry off his only daughter, given the size of the castle and the lands he must own.

  A sudden fear prickled at his chest. What if her parents were onto something? His dreams did point to some danger she was in.

  “I’ll protect her.”

  Niall may have been uncertain about what role he played in this time, but he was utterly certain about this. Caitria would come to no harm while he was here. He recalled the hesitation in her eyes when he asked her if she was concerned for her safety. She was hiding something. There was something—or someone—that made her feel unsafe. He’d have to figure out who it was.

  The melancholy in Drostan's eyes vanished, and he stepped forward to clap Niall on the shoulder.

  “I’ve chosen well. I’ll be proud tae call ye son.”

  Again, guilt prickled at him; there was genuine affection in Drostan's eyes. He was grateful for the interruption when a servant poked his head inside the room to announce that Drostan had a visitor.

  Niall started to leave, but Drostan gestured for him to stay, and Niall turned as a tall man with dark hair and eyes entered. The man's eyes strayed to him, and Niall almost flinched from the malice in his eyes, even as he gave him a polite smile.

  “Laird Dalaigh. Laird MacGreghor,” the man said, giving Niall and Drostan respectful nods. “I thought I’d invite ye both on tomorrow’s hunt with myself and some of the other clan nobles.”

  “Ah, ’tis kind of ye tae ask, Ferghas,” Drostan said. “But I have other matters tae tend tae all day tomorrow. But ye should go, Artair. Ye're a fine hunter and the hunting party will benefit from yer presence.”

  A fine hunter? Niall's father had taken him on several hunting trips when he was younger, yet he was terrible at it. Dread coursed through his veins. What if Artair was good at everything he was terrible at?

  But he just nodded his agreement. Improvise.

  When a servant entered to call Drostan away, Niall started to trail after him as well, but Ferghas’s voice stopped him.

  “That was quite the display ye and Caitria put on at the betrothal feast.”

  Niall turned to face Ferghas. Now that Drostan had left the study, the malice in Ferghas's eyes was plain, his lips curled back in a sneer.

  “Ye’ve never looked at her the way ye did last night. I wonder what’s changed,” Ferghas continued, taking a threatening step forward.

  Niall stiffened. It would do him no good to make enemies in this time, but he couldn't stymie a wave of hot anger that swept over him at Ferghas's words.

  “I believe what occurs between me and my betrothed is none of yer concern
,” he bit out.

  Ferghas's eyes darkened as he took another menacing step forward. Though Ferghas was tall, Niall was taller, and he straightened to his full height.

  “I care for Caitria a great deal. If it wasnae for ye, I’d be the one wedding her. I doonae ken what ye’re up tae . . . but there’s something different about ye. And if ye mean my Caitria harm—"

  “She’s not yer Caitria,” Niall snapped, startled by the sudden anger that seized him. “And I repeat—the relationship between me and my betrothed is none of yer concern.”

  “And I’ll have tae remind ye,” Ferghas coldly returned, “I’m one of the most respected members of this clan. Her father trusts me above all—even ye. Ye havenae married the lass yet. Ye’re still an outsider.”

  “An outsider who's wedding the laird’s daughter,” Niall said, taking pleasure in the angry flush that spread across Ferghas's face.

  A charged silence stretched, the threat of violence thick in the air. But Ferghas moved past him to the door, his jaw clenched.

  “I’ll see ye on tomorrow’s hunt.”

  The threat in his tone was undeniable.

  His encounter with Ferghas filled him with an unease that lingered for the rest of the day, even as he tried to learn as much as he could about Artair from Latharn without being too obvious. All he could glean from Latharn was that Artair kept to himself, he didn't have a lot of close friends and seemed content to keep it that way, but he got along well with Drostan and the other clan nobles.

  When Niall sat down next to Caitria for supper in the great hall, his unease dissipated at the sight of her. He didn't know if it was because she was his anchor, the person who had inadvertently drawn him to his time—or if it was just her presence alone. He suspected it was both.

  Her eyes met his as he sat, and a lovely flush spread over her face; he suspected she was recalling their kiss.

  “Tell me more of these lands ye wish tae visit,” he murmured, wanting to put her at ease, after a servant placed a meal of herring and carrots before them.