Chapter Twenty

What was it with mornings and the revealing of big plans with this man?

“We discussed this before leaving Dunvegan. I’m the captain of this voyage, and you’re to be staying at the MacKiarans while I’m seeing to my affairs in the village.”

Fiona fisted her shaking hands and surged to her feet, careful of the breakfast fire. While the waterfall wasn’t large, its dull roar filling their cave meant they already had to raise their voices to be heard, making their disagreement seem more heated than it was. “We agreed to stay together and for you to lead for my safety during the trip.”

He nodded as if satisfied he’d made his point. “And for your safety, you’re to be staying with the MacKiarans.”

This was it. Whatever business he had, it would bring him across her ancestor. And she had to be there.

She’d successfully pushed that little fact from her mind during this trip, but the reality had blasted back now, hadn’t it?

“So it’s dangerous?” Figuring out his errand could reveal an approach.

He stood, his height nearly making him skim the cave’s roof. He paced to the waterfall and back. “I’m hoping not. However, the circumstances are unsavory and no place for a woman.”

Unsavory? How did this relate to her ancestor? “Duncan, you’re scaring me.”

He closed the distance between them, his stride long and sure. He took her hands. “I must be meeting with a contact in the village—a tailor named Mr. Hendrie—who will be directing me to the man I am to meet. And it’s that man I’m unsure of.”

“Who is it?” Her heart, God, it was pounding now.

“A William Campbell, of the Auchinbreck Campbells.”

She sucked in her breath and covered her shock by coughing. It had to be the same William Campbell. Sure, the name was common enough, but how common could it be that right when she knew Duncan would be running into her ancestor of the same name that it was a different William Campbell?

No, it had to be the same man.

Which meant she had to go along.

He rubbed her back as she caught her breath, his eyes concerned. “I do not know what to expect from this man.” Then he finished in a harsher tone, “I’ll be doing what needs doing.”

Chills raced up her spine with the sureness and speed of fate being fulfilled. She shivered. “What do you mean?” she asked on a whisper.

He stepped away and crossed his arms, and she missed the feel of his strong hands holding hers. “Some actions are not meant to be discussed to spare your womanly feelings.”

She rolled her eyes. “You mean to kill him, don’t you?”

His eyes widened briefly. “I’ll be knowing why ye care, nighean?”

Oh God. How to explain? “I just… Do you have to kill him? Can we solve the problem another way? There must be another way.”

He frowned at her, arms still crossed.

For minutes he didn’t utter a word. Normally, she was okay with his silences. But this time, not so much.

Finally, he said, “I’m not sure why it’s only occurring to me now.” His voice had a strange flatness which she’d never heard before. “Aye, ye must be making my mind addled. That, and Iain assured me the rumors of you and your sister being Campbell spies were not true. But this all seems rather peculiar, if ye ask me.”

Shit. “I’m not a spy.” Iain and the rest of his clan had believed them spies when they’d first appeared from the future with the last name of Campbell. Of course, Iain had allayed those fears when he learned their secret.

“Then why are ye caring what happens to this man? The world won’t be missing him.”

She pulled in measured breaths while inside…inside, every cell, organ, and bone was bouncing between excitement and nervousness. And now fear. This had to work. She had to convince him. “I…I need you to trust me.”

He spun away, his large shoulders stiff. For some reason those words fell—heavy and wrong—between them.

He whirled back around and pierced her with his penetrating gaze. “Fiona, I’d wish for nothing more than to trust you. However, the clan’s welfare is at stake, making me wary. These are dangerous times, and trust is an indulgence I cannot spare.”

He stepped forward, his body seeming to take up all the space in the cave, his eyes not leaving hers. “So I’ll ask ye again.” His steel-edged voice cut through the humid air and the steady beat of the waterfall behind him. “Why are ye caring about this Campbell’s welfare? Is he kin to ye?”

“I…” Explaining exactly how would reveal—

Her hesitation proved too long, for he said, “So you’re asking me to trust ye, but you yourself will not trust me? It goes both ways, Fiona.”

She looked off to the side and bit her lip.

He gave a frustrated groan and began packing their meager supplies. “I’m dropping ye off at the MacKiarans and taking care of this problem for the clan. It’s that simple.”

He fastened a supply bag to his pony’s saddle and kicked dirt over their fire. His face was taut, his movements controlled, but she could see the hurt he tried to mask.

Trust him. She needed to trust him. If she didn’t… She hastily stuffed her things into her sack, the words choking her throat.

Trust him.

He grabbed the last saddle bag and led his pony to the cave’s exit, the curtain of water from the falls a backdrop. Everything in her tightened—it felt as if that wall of cascading water was a demarcation. If he disappeared through it, he would disappear from her life somehow.

She blurted, “He’s my ancestor.”

Duncan stopped shy of ducking through the gap in the waterfall. He couldn’t have heard her correctly through the now-loud roar of water. Droplets flecked him, cooling his heated skin.

He faced her. “Your ancestor?” he asked in English in case she’d mistakenly used the wrong Gàidhlig word.

“Yes.”

He frowned. “ ’Twas my impression the Campbell and I are of an age. You’re meaning father. But even so…”

She shook her head, looking so small to him then as she stood stiffly by the doused fire, the walls of the cave arching up and over her head. “Oh boy. I have a lot to tell you. Please sit.”

He motioned behind him. “We should be moving on…”

“Do you have a set time you need to meet?”

“Nay, but…”

“Then please?” She shifted her weight from one foot to another and back. “Hear me out?”

Inexplicably, he again felt that sensation of stepping onto unsure ground. He’d learned not to be trusting his senses when his heart was engaged, and, aye, he’d let it come to pass with Fiona.

Mo Chreach. He was in love with her.

He was rocked by this realization, heart beating a fast tempo, but the foundation of his world held. Maybe he could trust his senses. With her. He nodded and settled by the doused fire, setting his saddle bag nearby.

She looked at him from under her lashes and bit her lower lip. “This is going to take some explaining.”

He didn’t like the sound of that.

“So, yeah, Traci and I, we’re not from around here.”

Duncan grunted his impatience. “I know this. You’re from Cornwall.”

“Except we’re not.”

He stiffened. Dread curdled in his belly, for this was a prelude to more, he sensed. Already it smelled of deceit.

“You lied?”

“Well…” Her gaze darted from his and back. “You wanted me to trust you, so here it goes.” She took a deep breath, clasping her fingers together so hard, the knuckles turned white. “Traci and I…we’re not from around here, yes, but we’re also not from this time.”

He cocked his head. If he was supposed to be understanding what she meant with only that statement, she was delusional.

She grinned weakly at him.

Apparently he was supposed to be understanding. “You’ll need to be expounding, nighean.”

“I thought that was too easy.” Her shoulders slumped. “We’re from about three hundred years in the future, and we came to your time by magical means the night we saw you at the inn—”

By all that was holy. More lies?

He jumped to his feet and slashed his hand through the air. “Enough of this, woman. I cannot abide deceit. If ye cannot be truthful as to your true motives toward this Campbell, perhaps it’s well that I’m learning this now.”

He snagged his saddle bag and retraced his steps to the waterfall, humiliation working its insidious path through him.

And he’d thought her different from Margery. Ha. Sure, this new betrayal would be teaching him he was better off alone.

“Please, Duncan, I’m not lying.” Her voice held a plaintive note, echoing in the constricting cavern, buffeting against his back, entreating him to turn around, listen, concede. Concede to lies. Concede to lust.

He could not be ensnared, and if he looked at her, he would be.

A rustling, and then her voice drew closer. “Please. Listen. This was why I didn’t tell you earlier. It’s not something you just confess to anyone and everyone.”

Mortification flared anew, and he swallowed a tight lump. He thought he wasn’t just anyone though. To her at least. Mo Chreach, he was a fool.

He glanced over his shoulder. Her face was creased in worry, her hands still clasped tight.

“What you say, ’tis impossible,” he croaked.

She waved a hand along her body. “Except I’m here as proof.”

“Your presence proves nothing,” he bit out.

She stepped forward, her expression edged with desperation. “I could tell you about the wonders of my time. The advancements…”

Did she think him an idiot to keep persisting with such a ludicrous tale? He waved a hand in the air. “Fruits of your imagination.” As he’d feared, looking at her was a mistake. For his mind, his body, Criosd, his heart, was attuned to her—he still reacted. Even now, he ached to scoop her up and allay her worry, no matter the content of her words.

And that would not do. This woman was dangerous. To his clan. To his sanity. To his heart.

She straightened her shoulders, her voice rising. “Dundee wasn’t supposed to live at the Battle of Killiecrankie.”

His blood turned to ice. “What do ye mean?”

She stepped even closer, threatening his senses. Aye, she was dangerous. He’d thought she looked so small in this cave? Nay. Somehow her presence was pushing at him, demanding notice.

“It’s complicated, because in my timeline, he lives too.”

“I’m not understanding.”

“A time-traveling expert visited my sister and told her that in other, alternate worlds, Dundee dies. But that in our timeline, the one you and I share, he lives. That our appearance at the battle saved him.”

His hand flew to his healed shoulder.

She tracked his movement. “Exactly. Traci’s bullet, aimed at Iain’s attacker, went wide and spooked Dundee’s horse. It reared, taking Dundee out of the path of a different bullet meant for him. That bullet”—she pointed at him—“hit you in the shoulder.”

He’d been so caught up in the tale, he forgot what was at the heart of it. He shook his head. “This is proving nothing but that your mind is fertile.”

“How about this? I bet when you arrive in Drumnadrochit, you’ll find out that a siege of Urquhart castle is underway.”

He grew very, very still. “How are ye knowing this?”

Her chin lifted, her gaze steady. “Because I’m telling you, I was born three hundred and some odd years from now, and I already know what’s going to happen. Because it’s part of my history!”

His mind jerked from that.

She continued, “And I know there’s a siege when you confront William Campbell. Because in my family, we have a legend about this confrontation. And in it, I save my ancestor.” She crossed her arms, hugged herself tight, and added in a small but forceful voice, “From you.”

From you.

The words seemed to echo in accusation in the chilled air of the cavern.

He stepped back as if slapped.

Her eyes filled with tears. “That’s the real reason I panicked the night I first met you. I saw your scar, put it with your name, and I knew. Knew who you were and who you’d try to kill.”

No.

As if his mind wished to avoid the larger context, it latched again on a smaller detail. He touched his shoulder, rubbing the scar through the wool and linen of his clothes. “What is my scar having to do with this tale?”

“The legend says that a mighty MacCowan warrior with a curved scar above a Celtic knot on his chest would attack my ancestor, William Campbell.”

He was liking the mighty part, but again, his mind reeled.

She stepped into the space he’d just vacated. “So you see, you can’t kill him. And I was thinking…that…well, since it’s how the legend needs to play out, you could pretend to attack him, show that you mean harm, but give me time to step in and save him.” Her voice was thick with unshed tears, and it took everything in him not to comfort her. But what she asked…

She wanted him to be saving this scoundrel?

The very one threatening the credibility and reputation of his beloved clan?

His stunned silence gave her courage to forge ahead apparently, her words tumbling over each other in her excitement. “So, yeah, you can…can look menacing, attack, but just hold him off. I’ll run up and block one of your blows, yell at him to run, and—” She swallowed. Opened her mouth, her eyes growing wider, closed her mouth again.

Excitement. She was feeling excitement, while he…while he hurt.

“And? He’ll just run away at your urging?”

She nodded, eyes bright, but a flash of worry crossed her gaze and flitted away just as quickly.

He whirled around and marched through the gap into the late morning sun, his spine and neck tight, his movements jerky. He tugged on his mount’s reins. Everything out here looked much the same as yesterday—the placid, sparkling pool still glinted silver in the sun, the moss-covered rocks still hugged the shore.

But everything was so very different now.

The setting was a lie. As well as what they’d shared here. He clamped his jaw tight.

He’d trusted her by telling her his plans. He needn’t have, but he had. And now she told him outrageous falsehoods?

The urge to inform her of the true nature of this relative—he believed that much—nearly barreled out of his throat, fueled by his pain to inflict some on her.

Her voice followed him. “You don’t believe me?”

“No.” He stepped down the rock-strewn path to the wider bank along the river, the reins of his pony held tight in his sweaty palm.

“You’re upset that I kept this from you.”

She was relentless, he’d give her that. “That would mean I believed you.”

“I’m telling you the truth, Duncan.” A clatter of rocks, then his arm was pulled back. His skin crawled at her touch, and he shook her off, accidentally unbalancing her on the slippery rocks. He lurched forward and steadied her.

And snatched his hands away.

What she asked him to believe, let alone what she wanted him to do, was too much to absorb. He could not defy Gavin’s order, nor put his clan at risk. Not even for her. Iain’s clan was the only true home he’d ever had.

He stared, her eyes growing wider and glassier with tears.

His heart lurched forward as if jumping to her aid. He stepped forward, hands rising to lend her comfort—

Mo Chreach.

He jerked back.

The woman had him bewitched. Even now, despite her outrageous claims, he was tempted. So very tempted to pull her to him, to ease her distress.

Dangerous, that temptation. For clearly she impaired his judgment.

Her eyes searched his. She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Ask Iain if you don’t believe me.”

He went very, very still. “What did ye say?” he whispered.

Hope flared in her eyes. “Iain knows. Traci told him and showed him proof…which I don’t have right now.”

Duncan knew a strange sensation at that moment—an eerie quiet within. An absence of feeling. An absence of emotion as her words hit him. And penetrated.

Iain believed?

There was no one he trusted more than Iain.

Others had mistakenly believed Iain had no substance, but Duncan had always seen his frivolous demeanor for what it was—a shield. Behind that shield lay a man with sound judgment and fierce loyalty to those he loved. Only recently, when Traci had entered into his life, had Iain shown these qualities to the world.

Iain would not jeopardize the safety of his clan.

Iain would not lightly accept such a notion. Not without proof. And that meant—

She spoke the truth.

Holy Mother.

Chills chased across his skin as the implications burrowed inside and exploded that quiet within. Memories surfaced and collided with the new context—her strange mannerisms and the knowledge that Iain believed giving new interpretations to his interactions with Traci—all of it combined to shift the ground. He plunged through the very foundation of everything he thought he knew, thought he trusted, and fell straight into murky waters as cold as those of Loch Ness in the dead fast of winter.

She was from…she was from the future. What did that even mean? How was it possible? He swayed and looked on her with confusion tinged with awe.

Which she must have seen, because relief and triumph flickered across her face.

And seeing that relief, that triumph, illumined the murky waters with a flash of understanding—she’d tagged along on this trip for the ancestor. Not for him.

She’d used him. Used his feelings for her own agenda. Just like Margery.

Rage, unlike anything he’d ever experienced, spiked through him. And then shame and betrayal.

He was a fool. A dyed-in-the-wool fool, apparently. Because always he allowed himself to be taken in by a woman’s lies. Taken in by someone he thought he loved.

That knowledge shut him down, the murky waters closing in on him again, allowing nothing else to penetrate. He strode away for his pony, who’d wandered up the path and was nibbling at grass while Duncan’s whole world fell apart.

Her voice cut through the still air. “You’re not exactly Mr. Tell-All. You didn’t tell me you were the father of Margery’s baby.”

He whirled around, his eyes narrowed. “Who told you that?”

“So it’s true?”

He sliced a hand through the air. She diverted the course of their discussion. One of Margery’s favorite weapons. “This has no relevance to the present. To what’s happening now. Do not distract me.”

Couldn’t she see he couldn’t breathe?

Since they’d acknowledged their marriage, he’d opened up to her more and more each day. Shared more of himself with her than he ever had with anyone. Shared to the point where her presence was as natural as the air he breathed, and, like air, to have that snatched away…

She scrambled over the rocks and tugged on his forearm. “But it does have relevance. Don’t you see?” She tugged again, and he pulled his arm free. “You had your reasons for keeping it from me. I had my own for keeping my origins a secret until now.”

“Two completely different situations.” He bit out each word, the sharp edges of the consonants like a weapon and a shield. To replace the weak openness he’d felt of late, he reached for the dispassionate mantle he’d cultivated in his youth—the only way he’d survived the cold aloofness of his mother.

Hurt and fire blazed in her eyes. “They’re the same, Duncan. You kept the fact that you had a child from me for a reason best known to you. I kept my own secret because, well, I was scared how you’d react. Is that why you kept your secret too?”

Unbelievable. “Scared how I’d react? Or is it scared that you’d be losing your ability to lead me around by your finger? You manipulated me. I wasn’t manipulating you, Fiona.”

She raised both fists and brought them down with force, as if hitting an invisible table. “I wasn’t trying to manipulate you.”

He crossed his arms. “You knew I was to be meeting with this ancestor of yours, aye?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. “You manipulated me into taking you along because of this ancestor. I don’t manipulate. That’s the difference, Fiona. I thought—” He caught himself from making more of an idiot of himself, but he couldn’t help finish the thought in his mind. I thought you accompanied me because you loved me. Because you wanted to be with me.

Mo Chreach. He was allowing himself to be distracted. He pulled in a sharp breath and mustered all of his strength and coldness. “I cannot forgive you for this. Just as I couldn’t forgive M—” Again, he stopped himself.

“Forgive who?” she whispered.

His lips tightened into a thin line. This was exactly why he’d stopped himself—otherwise, he’d give her more ammunition with which to confound. “It matters not.”

“Forgive who, Duncan?” She reached forward, then dropped her hand.

He needed to be getting away from her. Her touch. Her temptation. “We’re leaving.” He dropped those words, heavy and final, into the space between them. He was done with being manipulated.

“But we can’t work things out if you shut down,” she said, her tone plaintive, desperate.

But he deflected her and her words with an ease which surprised him. “There’s nothing to work out.”