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

  “I—I’m content tae live in yer castle, Artair,” she said, lowering her gaze to her plate. “I ken what my duty is.”

  He studied the dullness in her eyes, wondering what had changed the vibrant woman of earlier into this dutiful robot once more. His eyes strayed across the hall to her parents, who watched them with open approval. They seemed kind, and he could tell they loved Caitria deeply, yet they seemed to be the key to her unhappiness.

  He knew he should make no promises for a future he wouldn't share with her, but he wanted to put the light back into her eyes.

  “When ye’re in my household . . . it will be yer needs that I tend tae, not yer parents.”

  He didn’t realize the potential double meaning of his words until Caitria's face flamed hot, her eyes flying to his in scandalized surprise. But that didn’t stop the teasing smile that curved his lips.

  After a stunned beat, she returned his smile.

  “What is it that ye want tae do?" he asked suddenly, giving her a wink. "Right now?”

  "Right now?" she echoed.

  "Right now," he repeated, firm.

  "Well, there's a loch not far from the castle grounds. My brother Tadhg and I used tae play on its shores," she said, with a wistful look in her eyes.

  He got to his feet with a grin.

  “Let us take our leave,” he said, extending his hand.

  Chapter 7

  Caitria wrapped her arms around Artair's waist, warmth spiraling through her at the feel of his body against hers. They had gone to the stables after leaving the hall, ignoring the startled looks of the other guests. They'd awakened a stable boy from his nap to fetch her favorite horse, Kerr.

  Caitria had directed Artair toward the loch. She leaned into Artair as they rode, reveling in not just the feel of him, but the sensation of the night breeze whipping through her hair, and the faint scent of moisture in the air that hinted of coming rain. She often forgot how stifled she felt when confined to the castle, and she intended to revel in these brief moments of freedom.

  Artair slowed Kerr down to a trot as they arrived at Loch Romond. He dismounted and tied Kerr to a nearby tree before helping Caitria down. Tendrils of pleasure fissured through her at his touch, and she had to turn away from his disconcerting draw to walk toward the loch, taking in the beauty of its shimmering waters beneath the moonlight.

  "I loved coming here when I was just a girl. Our parents didnae want us tae swim here, but Tadhg and I convinced our maid tae let us," she said, smiling at the memory. Yet a sudden sharp pang of grief splintered her heart, and she blinked back tears.

  She never let herself dwell too much on thoughts of her late brother, because whenever she did, an overwhelming grief consumed her. Her brother had been the kindest man she knew and possessed the same joviality of their father. He'd encouraged her to step out of the shelter their parents created and explore the world as she wished.

  "When I'm chief of the clan, ye'll be able tae follow yer heart's desire," he'd told her, in all sincerity.

  His sudden death during a hunting accident had shocked and aggrieved their entire clan. Caitria still thought of him every day: the sound of his laughter, the glint in his green eyes whenever they shared a jest.

  Artair was silent, and when she looked up at him, the look he gave her was filled with patience; he was telling her without words to continue. Caitria was the one who usually listened; none of her suitors had ever let her get a word in as they prattled on.

  "Sometimes . . . I wonder what he'd be doing now," she continued. "He would be the heir, and my father would be rid of me."

  "I doonae think he wants tae be rid of ye," Artair said gently. "Yer father loves ye. Ye're fortunate tae have that."

  A wistful look flickered across his expression, and she wondered if he was thinking of his own father. Drostan had told her Artair's father died long ago. She waited, hoping he would say more, but he remained silent, his eyes trained on the glittering waters of the loch.

  Impulsively, she lifted the hem of her gown, slipping off her shoes to move to the edge of the shore, allowing the waters to lap against her bare feet.

  “What do ye do on a daily basis?” Artair asked. “It seems like ye rarely get tae do what ye enjoy.”

  Artair removed his shoes, moving to stand on the edge of the shore next to her.

  “It doesnae matter what I enjoy," she said, stiffening. "I'm the sole heir and I have my duties. I'm tae marry ye and run yer household."

  But Artair's perceptive gaze was unrelenting.

  “I ken ye want tae travel. What else? When’s the last time ye did something for yerself?” he pressed.

  Caitria searched her mind. She couldn't remember. For the past several years she'd spent her days being groomed to become a wife and the lady of a castle.

  "This," she said, and Artair's expression softened with sympathy. He stepped closer to her, and heat darted along her skin.

  “Life doesnae always have tae be about duty,” he said.

  “What about ye?” she challenged, irritation rippling through her. She didn't want his pity. “I ken ye’re marrying me out of a sense of duty.”

  “Aye,” he said, and though she'd known this to be true, a sharp pang of disappointment pierced her at his blunt acknowledgment. “But I also make room in my life for the things that I enjoy.”

  “And what do ye enjoy?” she asked, partially as a challenge, partially out of genuine curiosity—there was much she didn't know about him.

  He hesitated, his expression shuttering.

  “I—ride,” he said finally. “And I read. I read a great deal when I doonae have matters of my lands and manor tae tend tae.”

  He wasn’t looking at her, and she suspected his words weren’t altogether truthful.

  “What else?" she asked.

  "What else?" he echoed, with a puzzled frown.

  "I've told ye my dreams of traveling—what of ye? What do ye dream of?”

  For a moment, he looked stricken, before his expression went carefully blank.

  “Well?” she pressed.

  “I’m—sure ye ken already,” he muttered.

  “Are ye making a jest?” she asked with a laugh of disbelief. “Ye’ve barely spoken a word tae me the few times we’ve met in private, other than tae discuss something general like the coming rains or the health of my family. ’Tis only recently that ye’ve taken an interest in me. There's something different about ye, Artair. What's changed?”

  He paled, and Caitria's heart picked up its pace—there was a reason for the change in him.

  When he spoke, his eyes were still guarded, his words careful.

  “I’ve never thought about my hopes and dreams. I suppose I’ve also spent my life focusing on duty. I’ve just . . . followed in my father’s footsteps.”

  She stepped closer, studying him intently. Though he'd evaded her question, she only saw truth in his eyes.

  “I suppose that’s what we have in common," she said, turning back to face the glittering waters of the loch. "I love my parents . . . 'tis why I do what they ask of me, as stifled as I feel sometimes."

  “Aye,” Artair said, his smile a little sad. “I can understand that. As I said . . . I do envy ye of yer father’s love. I never saw my own father much.”

  Empathy filled her at the look of pained longing on his face, and she reached for his hand.

  “Well . . . ’tis good ye're marrying his daughter. Ye’ll be his son by marriage.”

  Artair’s smile faded, and he looked guarded once more—and torn.

  “Artair, what is it?” she asked. “Is there something ye’re not telling me?”

  He hesitated, reaching out to cup her face. She became increasingly aware of their proximity, and her heart thundered in her chest.

  "I—I just want tae keep ye safe," he whispered, his voice wavering.

  She met his eyes, no longer caring that he'd again evaded her question. She recalled the feel of his lips on hers, and ached for him to ki
ss her again . . .

  He granted her her wish. With a strangled groan he pulled her close, his lips plundering hers. He thoroughly explored her mouth with his, and she met his kiss eagerly, his lips soft yet demanding against hers. His masculine scent infused her nostrils, and she whimpered as she clung to him, her need for him growing as their kiss deepened.

  When he released her, his eyes were a storm of conflict and desire—just as they'd been after their first kiss.

  “Let’s get ye back tae the castle," he said gruffly. "We’ll not want yer father tae worry.”

  Caitria dreamed of Artair that night. The feel of his body against hers, the taste of him, the desire that seared every part of her like fire at his touch. She'd assumed she would have a polite relationship with her husband, dutifully bedding him when it was time to make an heir . . . but now, she knew it would be much more than that. For the first time, she longed for a man's touch . . . the touch of her husband-to-be.

  But when she awoke, she recalled his distance, the conflict in his eyes after they kissed. She was to be his bride . . . what was the reason for it? He'd evaded her questions about the changes in him, and she was surprised by how much she wanted him to share himself with her. She'd shared a part of herself with him by confessing her dreams of travel . . . why couldn't he do the same?

  "What has yer thoughts entangled so?" her mother asked the next morning, as they sat in Liusaidh's private chamber, working on their embroidery.

  Caitria swallowed, focusing on poking her needle through the plaid fabric. She'd thought it would irritate her parents that she and Artair had fled during the feast, but instead they'd been pleased.

  She bit her lip, lowering her embroidery and studying her mother. Given that her parents had such favor for her and Artair's relationship, perhaps she could give her advice.

  "He's gotten me tae open up tae him . . . but I cannae get him tae do the same. Was it like this for ye and Father?"

  "Aye," Liusaidh said, smiling at the memory. "But I was the shy, closed off one, yer father the open one."

  "How did he get ye tae open up?"

  "I fell in love with him," Liusaidh said simply, and defeat settled in over her. While Artair now desired her, she knew it was far from love.

  "Caitria, my darling bairn," Liusaidh said with a sigh, setting down her embroidery and reaching out to take her hand. "Artair cares for ye; I can tell by the way he looks at ye. I think love will soon follow."

  Caitria gave her a jerky nod, though she didn't think this was true.

  Her mother studied her, and Caitria knew she wanted to push the matter further, but Caitria didn't want to discuss it anymore.

  “Have the seamstresses finished with my potential dresses for the wedding?” she asked, as a purposeful diversion.

  It was the right thing to say, as her mother eagerly launched into discussing the seamstress's progress, while a wave of conflicting emotions swept over Caitria at the thought of wedding Artair: uncertainty, desire . . . and hope.

  Chapter 8

  If it weren't for Ferghas's cold eyes on Niall, studying his every move, he would have enjoyed going on a fourteenth-century hunt. It was fascinating to see what modern historians had gotten right—and what they’d gotten wrong about such hunts.

  Their party consisted of a couple dozen men, including himself and Latharn—some on horse, some on foot—stalking silently through the forest with their weapons at the ready, searching for the wild boars that roamed the forest. It wasn’t too different from modern-day hunts; the only glaring difference, the lack of guns.

  But he was unable to concentrate on the intricacies of the hunt. Memories of Caitria's lovely body pressed against his and the sweetness of her kiss filled his thoughts.

  And there was the matter of Ferghas. While the other nobles treated him with polite friendliness, Ferghas was brusque and kept asking him probing questions.

  At the start of the hunt, when Niall failed to slay a deer with his arrow, Ferghas's eyes narrowed.

  “I thought ye were a good hunter,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry to the other nobles. “Chieftain MacGreghor has sung yer praises.”

  Niall's mouth went tight. He kept hearing of Artair's hunting prowess, so he tried to avoid killing any boars and focused on engaging in light conversation with the other nobles, making sure to only discuss easy topics such as the fair weather or the demeanor of the beasts who stalked this forest.

  He was relieved that he could at least ride a horse; it was something his father had taught him, insisting that every good historian should be able to master the most common method of transport of the past.

  “I’m just distracted with thoughts of my bride-tae-be,” he said, meeting Ferghas’s gaze with silent challenge. The other nobles chuckled and gave him good-natured grins, while Ferghas's expression darkened.

  "The chief wouldnae like ye speaking of his daughter in such a manner," Ferghas growled, as the rest of their party ventured ahead.

  “Chief MacGreghor is quite happy at the closeness between me and my bride-tae-be. He kens I mean no disrespect,” Niall returned. He thought of the feel of Caitria’s body against his, and a surge of possessiveness flowed through him. “I’ve just learned tae appreciate what’s mine."

  What are you doing, Niall? he cursed himself. After his previous encounter with Ferghas, he'd told himself that he would stay out of the man's way—he couldn't afford to make enemies in this time. But he didn't appreciate the man's obvious jealousy, and there was something about Ferghas that made him uneasy . . . something that made Niall wonder if he was the source of danger toward Caitria. A jealous man could be a dangerous man.

  A celebratory whoop from one of the nobles interrupted their tense face-off, and Niall clenched his jaw, stepping away from Ferghas to approach a friendly noble by the name of Muir, congratulating him on his successful kill.

  He forced his focus away from Ferghas, trying to learn what he could from the other nobles without being too obvious. It was a close-knit group, with the nobles sharing inside jokes and good-natured laughter among themselves. Their camaraderie was easy to join, and he had to actively suppress his guilt over his deception, reminding himself that he was doing this for Caitria's sake.

  They all seemed to like Artair, and none of them seemed suspicious of him, though a couple of men joked that he was less taciturn than usual. It was only Ferghas who trained dark, suspicious eyes on him.

  Niall ignored Ferghas as their party fell silent; they'd approached a large clearing, where several boars roamed.

  The men spread out. Niall, remembering that Artair was a seasoned hunter, followed suit, trailed by Latharn, until they were alone on the edge of the clearing.

  The sudden buzz of an arrow careening through the air toward him made Niall whirl in surprise.

  “My laird!” Latharn shouted, shoving him out of the way, and Niall stumbled back in astonishment as an arrow narrowly missed him, burrowing itself in the flesh of Latharn’s shoulder instead.

  Niall raced to Latharn’s side, kneeling down as Latharn sank to the ground, crying out in pain as he clutched his shoulder. Panicked, Niall tore away the fabric of his tunic. His shoulder was bleeding, but luckily it looked like the arrow had just grazed his flesh.

  He looked up to find Ferghas standing a few yards away, his eyes venomous as he lowered his bow and arrow. A chill coursed through Niall; this was no accident.

  “Latharn!” Ferghas said, schooling his features into a look of concern as he approached. “I cannae believe I did that—I was aiming for one of the boars. Are ye all right?”

  “He’s just been shot by yer arrow,” Niall snapped, tearing off a strip of fabric from his tunic and wrapping it around Latharn’s shoulder. “He’s not all right.”

  “’Tis just a flesh wound,” Latharn said, though his face was pale with pain.

  “Let’s get ye back tae the castle healer,” Ferghas said, moving forward to help haul him up along with Niall, as the other nobles g
athered around with looks of growing concern.

  As they led Latharn out of the forest, Niall met Ferghas’s eyes. Ferghas’s eyes met his, filled with malevolence, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Ferghas had been aiming for him, and he doubted he'd just wanted to graze his shoulder. He’d indeed made an enemy in the fourteenth-century—and had likely found the person who was a danger to Caitria.

  “What is this, my laird?” Latharn asked with a frown.

  “A . . . concoction I picked up while traveling,” Niall said, handing him one of the pills of penicillin he’d brought with him. “It’ll help yer wound heal faster.”

  He’d come to Latharn’s small chamber after the castle healer had tended to him, intent on giving him the penicillin he’d brought. Though the healer had done a good job tending to Latharn’s wound, Niall knew how common—and dangerous—infections were in this time.

  Latharn hesitated, eyeing the tablet suspiciously for a long moment. Pills wouldn’t be invented until the nineteenth century, so he knew it must look odd to Latharn.

  “I got it from a doctor in Edinburgh; he’s treated many a wound like yers,” Niall lied, giving him an encouraging smile.

  Latharn still looked reluctant, but took it, and Niall had to direct him how to swallow it down.

  “When did ye go tae Edinburgh? Ye’ve not left these lands in some time,” Latharn asked, after he’d swallowed the pill.

  Niall hesitated. He needed to be careful with what he said; it was too easy to contradict the movements of the true Artair.

  "It was some time ago," he said dismissively. “I cannae thank ye enough, Latharn,” he continued, with genuine sincerity. Latharn had saved his life.

  “’Twas nothing ye wouldnae have done for me, my laird,” Latharn said, with a look of intense loyalty. Niall studied him, wondering what Artair had done to inspire such loyalty. “And ’twas an accident. Ferghas visited me, he was most aggrieved by what happened.”