Eadan sat in stunned silence, trying to comprehend what Fiona had just told him.

She'd told him she was from the twenty-first century, and she’d arrived through some sort of portal in the ruins of a castle in the village of Tairseach. She used strange terms to describe the time she was from—cars, technology, airplanes—words that barely penetrated his stunned haze.

Now, her beautiful eyes were locked on his, a silent plea in their depths. Eadan had to look away from her. Christ, he thought. Is the lass mad?

Though he should have been concerned, a sense of betrayal flowed through him. If she wasn’t mad, she was a manipulator. Could she be one of Dughall’s spies after all?

“You don’t believe me.”

He forced his gaze back to Fiona. Her eyes had filled with tears, splintering his heart. He got to his feet, tugging on his clothes with shaking hands.

“Of course you don’t,” she continued, her voice wavering. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t believe me either.”

He turned to face her, trying to form words, but he needed to determine which Fiona was—mad or manipulative. She was the picture of loveliness, looking at him with utter sincerity in her eyes, clutching the bedcovers to her luscious breasts.

He forced himself to look away from her, clenching his fists at his side, his heart hardening. This was why he didn’t have relationships; he never should have allowed himself to care for her.

“Eadan?”

“I’ll arrange transport for wherever ye want tae go,” he said tightly, still not looking at her. Mad or manipulator, he still wanted to keep her safe, fool that he was. And if she was indeed a spy, it was best he sent her off sooner rather than later.

“Eadan—wait—” her voice choked on a sob as he strode to the door. He faltered, his hand on the doorknob. She’s already made you weak, a phantom voice whispered. Still, he lingered, waiting for her to continue. “I—can tell you something. Something that will make you believe me.” She took a breath. "King Robert. He's ill, isn't he?"

"Aye," Eadan said, confused. Why was she bringing up King Robert? "But he's expected tae get well, and—”

"He won't get well, Eadan. Tomorrow’s the nineteenth of April. He will die, and his son will take the throne as King Robert III. I went to a history museum before I—arrived here."

"Museum?" he echoed blankly.

"It's like a library. It keeps historical records. They're common in my time," she said. "That's where I learned this." She paused, studying his tight expression. “It—it’s important to me that you believe me.”

Eadan studied her, a chill coiling around him. She was lucky he was not a superstitious man, and that he wasn’t particularly fond of the king, who hadn’t come to his clan’s aid when they’d needed him in years past. It was dangerous to speak of the death of the king.

But there was something in her eyes, a keen desperation that made him hesitate. He told himself he was a fool for believing her, for falling into what could be a trap. But there was a part of him that wanted—needed—to believe her. Because, God help him, his feelings for her went beyond desire. He’d never cared for another woman the way he cared for her. And he suspected he never would.

He tried to keep his voice rough as he said, “I’m putting a guard on this door ’til I can confirm yer story. Ye're not tae leave.”

Fiona paled, but she nodded. And Eadan forced himself to leave the room.

* * *

When he met with several trusted men of his clan in his private study, he kept the discussion centered on his suspicions about Dughall and his connection to his Naoghas’s disappearance. But Eadan could barely concentrate, his thoughts still consumed by Fiona and her mad story. Ronan noticed his preoccupation, giving him long looks.

After he’d given his men their orders to look into the disappearance, Ronan lingered behind. Eadan considered telling him of Fiona’s story, but decided against it. He’d think Eadan was mad for even considering it.

“Ye all right, Eadan?” Ronan asked.

“Aye,” Eadan lied. “I just want tae get this business with Dughall taken care of.”

Ronan kept his gaze trained on him, as if detecting his cousin wasn’t being truthful, before leaving him be.

It was difficult to stay away from Fiona for the rest of the day, but he needed to keep his distance until he could confirm her story.

To his irritation, Magaidh came to the hall for supper. She sat at his side, giving him a demure smile, but he could see the hatred that glinted in her eyes. Eadan clenched his teeth; he’d hoped that Dughall would keep her away from the castle.

“Where is yer wife?” Magaidh asked with feigned innocence, her eyes sweeping the hall.

“She’s not well,” he said tightly. He wanted to confront her about her lies to her father about Fiona’s visit but held his tongue. There was no use getting her riled up, not when he was secretly investigating her father. Soon, God willing, the pretense of their betrothal would be over.

“Forgive my jealousy,” she said, lowering her gaze. He could tell she was trying to appear contrite. “’Tis hard for me. There’s a lass living in the castle that ye care for.”

This time, when she looked at him, her eyes were almost sincere, but Eadan knew better.

“She’ll be gone soon.” It was difficult to say the words, and a spiral of pain filled him as he spoke them. Even though she may be mad, or a spy, he didn’t want to send her away.

He managed to get through the rest of the meal, forcing himself to make small talk with Magaidh, though tension danced beneath every line of conversation. He couldn't help but compare the two: Fiona was generous and kind, Magaidh cool and manipulative. Fiona had a natural beauty that was only enhanced by her wide, open smiles, while Magaidh's beauty was severe, her smiles tight, and full of cunning. He recalled the genuine awe in Fiona's eyes as she'd taken in the landscape outside the castle; he'd never seen Magaidh look at anything that way. But there was no contest between Magaidh and Fiona—not even close. He'd never felt the slightest need and desire for Magaidh, nor any other woman, the way he felt for Fiona.

Warmth and desire swept over him as he recalled the way she'd whimpered and moaned beneath him as he made love to her. He clenched his fists at his sides, expelling a breath.

Ye need tae stay away from the lass, he told himself. Until ye ken she's being truthful.

But he didn't heed his own directive. After he excused himself from the table before the customary drinking began, he headed to Fiona’s chamber, unable to stop himself. One of his men, Osgar, stood outside her door, and gave him a look of surprise as he approached.

“Ye can take yer leave,” he told Osgar.

Fiona sat at a table in the center of her chamber, painting on a piece of parchment. She looked up when he entered, and his chest tightened when he saw the look of wariness in her eyes. Her eyes usually lit up whenever he entered the room.

“Did—did Una send yer meals in?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes,” Fiona said, standing. The corners of her mouth twitched in a smile. “She gave me too much food, actually.”

Eadan couldn’t help but smile. Una had taken a liking to Fiona, he could tell. His smile faded as he approached, taking her by the arms and searching her eyes.

“Are ye lying tae me, lass?” He knew he was weak for asking, but he didn’t want to believe Fiona was capable of such deceit.

“I wish I was,” Fiona whispered. “But you’ll see. Tomorrow, the king will die. Confirm the news however you can.”

He searched her eyes, but he only saw sincerity there.

Eadan stayed with her that night, just holding her in his arms as she drifted off to sleep. He’d told himself he would stay way until he confirmed her story, but it was as if some force kept drawing him to her. His eyes swept over her lovely features, and his heart clenched. What have ye done tae me, lass?