Ciaran: A Time Travel Romance (Dunskey Castle Book 11) Page 3

  Ice ran through her veins, and she felt paralyzed with fear.

  Eoin put on the reasonable tone he had used when paying for the horses. "Just some farmers taking apples tae market. We wull sell them tae ye, if ye want. ’Twill save us a trip."

  The voice of Neas Cameron boomed out again from ahead. "Farmers? Since when dae farmers develop warrior bodies? Nay, we ken ye return tae the Murray war camp."

  Along with Ellie, Nadia had been kidnapped by this man and his war party the last time she was here. She cowered between the crates, willing Eoin to whip the horses into a lather and mow Neas over. That was stupid, though. The Camerons were doubtless on horseback. What could Eoin do? She wouldn’t complain if he took her back to the future this instant, but she knew he couldn’t do that in front of hostile witnesses.

  Eoin did whip the horses into action. They struggled and struggled to turn the wagon around quickly, but with the narrow path on the steep hill, it was hopeless.

  Other voices echoed out in laughter. The Camerons had them trapped.

  4

  Ciaran could have drawn his own sword. It was right there in its scabbard by his hand, waiting to be drawn. He saw a man coming toward them quickly on horseback. Eoin had his hands full with trying to turn the horses to take the wagon down the hill, and Baltair was on the other side, sword in hand and ready to fend off attackers. But the halberd, the one Eoin had time-traveled to get, lay within reach on the floorboards, corralled from falling off by a hand’s breadth of edging.

  Yes, Eoin said the plain long staff topped by an axe the size of his head was for his druid masters and not for the three of them to use. Eoin spoke of nothing more than he did his druid masters, and this didn’t surprise Ciaran.

  It brought back the memory of the day Ciaran first met his cousin Eoin. Ciaran and Baltair had been at the deathbed of Ciaran’s father and Baltair's uncle, Angus. The two of them hovered there, reciting the Latin prayer a priest had taught them. They didn’t understand the words, but they were sure it was the right thing to do.

  The door to the inn room they had rented for Da’s last day burst open, and Dougal Murray came in with a stranger. "Begging yer pardon, Angus, but this man has just shown up, saying he's yer kin."

  Ciaran and Baltair met eyes. How dare this man intrude on such a private family time?

  But Father held up a feeble hand. "I thank ye, Dougal. Ye did right tae bring him tae me. Leave us. We hae family matters tae discuss."

  Da waited until Dougal had left the room at the inn and closed the door, leaving the four of them leaving the three of them alone with the stranger. "I can see that ye are a MacGregor. Ye hae the look o’ my uncle, and also o’ my grand da. From which time hae ye come?"

  Ciaran met Baltair's eyes again. With their eyes the two of them said to each other:

  “Och, nay, nay. Da has gone daft. Now we hae tae deal with the stranger on top o’ watching him die. How dae ye want tae gae aboot it?”

  “Ye gae right side and I wull gae left, and together we wull manhandle him oot the door. Ready?”

  Meanwhile, the stranger played along with Da's craziness. "My given name is John MacGregor, but I gae by Eoin, John being sae English. I come from the twenty-first century. My father is Peadar Mac Dall—"

  Father brightened a bit. He even tried to sit up in his bed. "I ken who Dall is. The tale o’ his move from Kilchurn Castle under the Campbells intae the future under the druids has lived doon through the centuries. And likewise the tale o’ his son Peadar's move tae the future from servitude in the new world. Ye come from an illustrious branch o’ oor clan. Moreover, we can trace oor ancestry directly back tae Dall, through his son Dombnall."

  This got Ciaran's attention. He'd heard many stories of his great great-great-grandfather Domhnall. How he had to make his way in the world when his father left. How he had been an illustrious warrior, resisting the purge of the MacGregors by the Campbells as long as he was able. How he had married and sent his children into hiding with the Murrays, yet still fought the good fight his own self, ever hopeful of fending off the condemnation of the MacGregor clan.

  How did this Eoin ken the tale? Was it possible he was kin? Ciaran and Baltair both asked each other this with their eyes as they looked back and forth from Da to the stranger.

  At last, the stranger shared a nod with father and then turned to speak to Ciaran and Baltair. "Aye, I wull ken the story o’ yer forefather Domhnall. My uncle was the terror o’ the Rannoch Moor. They called him a cattle thief, but all along he was merely getting back what was rightfully oors. The Campbells used him in his youth as their muscle tae secure the Rannoch, and then in his older years, the verra same men who had fought by his side betrayed him. I ken the tale o’ how his son, my cousin, Gregor MacGregor —named for the namesake o’ oor clan, the Viking king himself —how this Gregor son o' Dombnall fulfilled his father's wish and journeyed with his wife Molly tae Murray territory and proclaimed himself and his children after him for all eternity members o’ the Murray clan."

  Ciaran and Baltair relaxed. Ciaran put a hand on Eoin's shoulder. "There is na way ye could know that withoot ye being kin, sae be welcome in oor camp."

  Da weakly cleared his throat and patted his bed on both sides. "Come. Sit doon with me. Hold my hands and comfort me in my last moments. Whatever Eoin tells ye, believe him. I was gaun'ae tell ye myself, but I hae run oot o’ time. Ye hae the need tae ken afore ye wed."

  It was a tad much, suddenly having another relative and then Da saying Eoin would tell them things he had meant to. But Da was dying. There was no time to waste on pettiness. Ciaran did as he was told, urging Baltair by gesture and expression to do the same.

  Father's hands were cold and clammy. His heart could be felt to beat, but only just. The wound he'd received in the recent battle with the Camerons was taking him. It seeped blood out of his shoulder even as they spoke, but if the closeness was causing Da pain, he didn't mention it, instead clinging to Ciaran's hand for all he was worth.

  It saddened Ciaran, how little strength Da had left, and he caressed his father's hand and arm, letting the tears flow down his face as he gazed in Da's eyes. "I love ye, Da. Save a good place for me up there in Heaven. I dinna care how large my mansion is, just that it be near yer ain."

  This made Da smile, and tears ran down his own face. "There be a curse on the MacGregors, son, nephew. Aye, a curse even greater than the obliteration o’ oor clan name by the Campbells." He looked to their new cousin. "I hae na the breath tae tell it. Ye must dae sae. Make taste, while I am here tae affirm it tae my son and my nephew."

  At first, Ciaran kept his eyes on Da as the stranger spoke, only half listening, instead choosing to give Da his entire attention.

  But Eoin's tale proved oddly compelling.

  “...sae the druid had oor MacGregor ancestor betwixt a rock and a hard place. He could na get away withoot bargaining. Being a gambler with nary a child in his family as yet, he saw nay reason tae refrain from settling his debt with the fate o’ his descendants. I wull save the details for another day and ainly tell ye: the fourth born son o’ everyone in oor family is pledged tae be a servant tae this druid's clan o’ druids. They have us fetch things, and mostly this means we travel through time. As I said tae ye da earlier, I am from the 21st century. I was born there. And my father's Peadar, who was born in the 16th century o’ Dall, before Dall moved tae the 21st century.”

  Ciaran felt lost, and he just stared at the man.

  Caught up in his own tale, Eoin laughed, looking faraway. “'Tis an odd tale. My da moved tae my grand da’s time when they were the same age, sae my grandda is maire like an uncle, and my uncles are maire like cousins—"

  Ciaran had had enough. "Can ye na see my father must die soon? Leave off this foolishness."

  But Da squeezed Ciaran's hand one last time, and the last words Ciaran heard from his da were, "'Tis all true, son."

  Eoin’s druid masters had ordered him to get the halberd, so in a roundabout way
, it was part of the family curse, too.

  But what if it could help? What magic must it possess? Could it get them free of the Camerons’ ambush? If they possessed something that could give them any advantage at all, didn't they owe their clan the courtesy of using it?

  Besides, his curiosity was killing him. He would be relieved just to know what it could do, and then he wouldn't need to wonder anymore. He could go on with his life.

  Ciaran seized the halberd and raised it up just in time to fend off a Cameron on horseback. Rather than cut at the would-be boarder, he used the huge-bladed axe as a poker, and pushed the horseman away.

  But that wasn't all.

  The man lay still on the ground. And so did the man's horse.

  It was as if two of them were made of rock, they were so still. Were they dead? Ciaran leaned over in the wagon to see them better. No, they were twitching as if they were trying their hardest to get up, but some invisible force was holding them down.

  Ciaran turned the halberd around in his hands, admiring its abilities. What more could it do?

  Laying his hands on Ciaran and Baltair, Eoin uttered an unfamiliar word, "Brothok!"

  Ciaran felt as if he had just hefted a huge stone and thrown it as far as he could. As if he had just run for an hour and only now stopped to catch his breath, Ciaran bent over forward and sagged into the wagon seat. He only looked up because Baltair shouted at him and grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the wagon, which had stopped.

  "Get on!" Baltair was yelling.

  Ciaran shook his head to clear it and assess what was going on. Someone had cut the horses loose from the wagon. Baltair was on one and Eoin on the other. Baltair wanted Ciaran to get on behind him.

  But that wasn't what caught his eye. No, what had Ciaran's attention, what made him stutter, gasp, and take a double and triple takes, was that all the Cameron men and horses lay paralyzed on the ground. It was as if he had poked each one of them with the halberd as well. He looked at it again, full of awe. “It looks sae ordinary. Who would hae—”

  “’Twill last a scant moment!” Eoin yelled. "And ye hae na maire strength tae spare, aye? We must away!" The horse he was on danced around with his own agitation, frothing to turn and run down the hill.

  Baltair's tug on his arm became even more insistent, and Ciaran followed it, getting on horseback behind the man and settling in. Ciaran’s sword hung to his right, so he held the halberd in his left, resting it against his kilt.

  Eoin rode over and held out his hand.

  But Ciaran wasn't going to give it up. Och, nay. This thing was amazing. He held it close. If Eoin tried to pull it away, then he would pull Ciaran right off the horse, and Ciaran had some ideas what he might do then. Oh, he wouldn't paralyze his cousin. Not in front of all these Camerons, he wouldn’t. But he might paralyze Eoin's hand, just to give the man an idea what it felt like to be helpless. His bigger cousin could do with a taste of his own medicine. He stared Eoin down, defying him to try and take the magic weapon.

  Sighing and glancing toward where the Camerons were beginning to recover, Eoin turned his horse and took off down the hill.

  Baltair kicked their horse into action as well, and just in time.

  Because the Cameron men were getting up. The wagon was between them and Ciaran, but he got the impression that, had they tarried only seconds longer, they would've been captive. Or worse.

  While Baltair coaxed the horse into keeping up a dead run down the hill, Ciaran turned to reassure himself it would take the Camerons too long to go around the wagon to follow them.

  Ciaran's breath caught in his throat.

  Nadia was in the wagon!

  She was peeking out from under a blanket between two of the apple crates. She must've been there the whole time. Why had she kept quiet? Why hadn’t she told him she was there?

  Her eyes met his. She looked so afraid and yet so hopeful, it made his heart hurt.

  "Baltair! Turn this horse aroond! Dae it nae, this verra instant!"

  Baltair kicked the horse into faster motion forward.

  5

  Nadia cowered under her blanket between the apple crates in the front of the wagon’s bed, silently cheering Ciaran on. She knew he wouldn't use that amazing halberd against his cousin, but she almost wished he would when she realized he wasn't going to get free in time to save her. Not right now, he wasn’t.

  But he would rescue her. She let this hope keep her from despair while the Camerons cooed over all the fruit and admired the strong wagon itself, hitching two of their riding horses to it. She itched to scramble out of the wagon and run, but the pass was too narrow for her to get away without them seeing her.

  Two men she knew from her last trip here a few days ago climbed up onto the seat to ride. Now it was more important than ever she remain hidden. She would look for her chance, and then she would sneak away from them. Ciaran would be watching the trail for any signs of her once he was able to, so she would stay near it and watch for him as well. She just had to make sure no one saw her, for they would certainly recognize her.

  The Cameron warriors each took a handful of apples, stuffing extras in their shirts and making appreciative noises as they bit into them and licked the juice off their fingers.

  "Wagon up front," said their leader. "The rest o’ us wull gae behind and watch, lest aught fall oot."

  Great. Well, she would just have to watch for her chance. She knew she would get one. She had to.

  After a few hours, the Camerons’ destination became apparent to Nadia as she peeked out from under the blanket. They were headed toward a large masculine home, made of fir planks. Standing guard on an isthmus between two lochs, it looked like a huge modern lake cabin, all made of wood and boxy shaped.

  But she wasn't mistaken about what it really was: a fortress. There weren’t any balconies for looking out over the lochs at breakfast, like a cabin would have. There weren’t even any windows in the outside walls. It was big enough for a few hundred warriors, if they slept in bunks.

  She knew the party she was with didn't stay at this house. They were a roaming war party much like the one Eoin, Ciaran, and Baltair belonged to, but Cameron rather than Murray.

  Now that she had arrived here, she revised her plan. Now, she was counting on being able to stay in this house without being recognized by anyone who stayed there. Until Ciaran came to get her.

  The Cameron warriors drove the wagon into a stableyard surrounded by the house. Sentries outside the gate had seen them coming with food and alerted a well-dressed older woman who must be the cook, because she came out rubbing her hands together and salivating at the apples, shouting out orders for so-and-so to carry them in and space to be made in her larder.

  The warriors all clapped each other on the back and made their way inside, leaving the wagon in the stableyard, which was surrounded on all sides by the house and well secured.

  Boys came out of the house toward the wagon now, and Nadia was shaking, she was so afraid. How was she going to hide her face when they removed the apple crates from the wagon? How was she going to get into the house, and once she did, how would she escape molestation.? Her jeans and tank top were hardly considered proper for a woman in this time.

  An older boy, not quite a man but certainly trying to be one, solved her problem for her. Before he picked up one of the rough-edged crates of apples, he took off his long blousy poet-style shirt, and rather than let it fall in the dirt, he tucked it inside the wagon for safekeeping. Making manly noises, he lifted a crate and carried it toward the kitchen.

  Nadia looked toward Heaven. "Thank ye." Not wasting one second in using God's provision, she hastily crawled forward under the blanket, snatched the shirt, and pulled it on over her tank top. Inspiration struck, and as she got up in the wagon as if she'd crawled up here to get a better look at all that needed to be carried, she wrapped one edge of the blanket around her waist and tied it into the semblance of a long skirt. There. Her jeans were hidden. Feeling very p
leased with herself for keeping her hair long and natural, she crawled out of the wagon, turned and grabbed an apple crate, and followed the shirtless boy into the kitchen.

  He went downstairs into the cellar, where it was thankfully dark, so the boy hopefully wouldn't recognize his shirt. She found the stack he was making down there and added to it, then followed him upstairs, but veered left when he veered right to go out and get another load of apples.

  Judging by their mannerisms and dress, the women in the kitchen were all Cameron clan members, so it wouldn't do to hang about there. But she took hope from the way they treated the boy who had carried in the apples. He clearly wasn’t clan, but rather a captive servant they didn’t know well. And he hadn’t been beaten. He was well fed and wore shoes. If they had one of these, then they likely had more. She looked for the next room down the hall, praying it would contain servants.

  Fortune smiled on her, because the next room she entered was empty of people altogether, and wonder of wonders, it was full of ropes hung with drying laundry. She didn't need to wonder why they hung it indoors here in drizzly Scotland.

  As quickly as she could, Nadia felt the laundry around her, looking for something threadbare. The women who commanded the other women were all clan, but those who did the more menial tasks? They were likely strangers to everyone but each other, captives like that boy.

  The mostly dry, but very old and tattered, dress with the matching linen shirt Nadia found did much to relieve her anxiety. It did not look well cared for in recent times, clearly a castaway that was now worn by the servants. Hopefully, the servants shared clothing, and no one would call her out for wearing this.

  She had hung up the plaid blanket to look like it was drying with the rest of the laundry —and was on her way to give the boy his shirt back— when one of the Cameron women from the kitchen entered, clearly someone’s wife, as she was six months pregnant.