CHAPTER 2

Caitlin landed hard, crashing against something warm—or something warmer than her ice-cold skin. Her head throbbed. Spasms fired in the muscles of her back and legs, clenching and releasing until she felt like she’d been put through a meat grinder.

God, maybe she had.

Groaning, she rolled off whatever she’d fallen onto and prayed for the cramps to ease. She didn’t know where in time she’d been cast, and the thought cleared her mind faster than a bucket of cold water thrown at her face.

Scrambling to her feet, she stumbled, then swayed, hit by a wave of nausea that forced her to her hands and knees. She vomited what remained of the lovely Gala dinner she and Ewen had enjoyed hours earlier, before Bres and his magic had destroyed everything and everyone she cared about.

Wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, Caitlin took stock of her surroundings. Off in the distance, the sun rose behind a mountain range. Grass and dirt cushioned her knees. 

A field? 

Yes, she was standing in an open field with . . .

Bodies? 

Big dead warrior bodies strewn upon the ground like loose trash. She jumped to her feet. Where—or when—had the portal dropped her?

“Doona move.”

At the sound of the deep masculine voice behind her, Caitlin stilled. It couldn’t be. She spun around. “Ewen?” 

Six-foot-three with piercing blue eyes, Ewen MacLean stood with his arms crossed over his massive chest, jet-black hair blowing wildly about his shoulders. There was a gash on his forehead, and on the left side of his tunic, blood seeped through the yellow fabric.

“You’re hurt.” She rushed forward until his icy stare stopped her dead in her tracks. Oh, God. He doesn’t know me. Her heart twisted. She had just left him with a dagger protruding from his chest, bleeding to death in the twenty-first century. But here, whenever here was, he was alive and breathing. That was all that mattered. 

She swallowed and stepped back.

A middle-aged man, slightly taller than Ewen and wearing a long, black robe, approached. Stopping beside Ewen, he glanced at the sky, then at her, then averted his eyes and nudged Ewen to do the same. That was when she remembered she was stark naked and covered in Ewen’s blood.

Her hand flew to her neck. The pendant. It was gone.

And so was the stone.

“Oh no. Oh, no, no, no.” She dropped to her knees, frantically searching the grass for the stone. Her fingers raked through the earth. Bres’s dagger lay on the ground where she had dropped it after crash-landing, but there was no sign of the Tempus Stone.

Or the pendant.

Had it fallen off? 

Ewen had thrust the stone in her hand when he’d thrown her into the portal, but the pendant had been magically sealed around her neck. The amount of force required to rip it off her body would have taken her head with it.

Something else was going on. 

But what? 

She squashed the panic rising. Her grandmother would’ve had both the stone and the pendant in her possession when she traveled from the fifteenth century to the twenty-first. Caitlin wasn’t a physicist, but somehow she didn’t think it would be possible for the stone and pendant to exist in this timeline if the objects were in her grandmother’s possession in 1965 Scotland.

Nausea rolled through her body. Her head felt like it was about to explode. She forced a breath through her clenched teeth to temper the churning in her belly.

The man in the black robe—a monk?—stepped forward. He ignored her naked chest and the blood glistening on her skin and helped her stand, then wrapped a piece of woolen cloth around her shoulders, the fabric falling past her knees.

“Are ye well?” he asked.

She’d lost the pendant, the time stone, and stood naked in a field of dead warriors. No, she wasn’t well.

“Lass?” the monk prompted.

“I’m fine.”

Ewen redirected his stormy stare from the field to her. His biceps bulged against the thick material of his tunic as he assessed her with the same suspicious scowl he’d worn the day he’d fallen out of the sky and into her life.

The memory pulled a smile to her lips, but then her eyes stung with tears burning to be shed. She wrapped the cloak tighter around her body, gripping the front edges of the dark wool together. 

“What’s the date?” She was pretty sure of the answer, but she needed to ask.

“The date?” Ewen repeated.

“Yeah. Is it the year of our Lord fourteen fifty?”

Squinting, Ewen glanced at the monk, his head cocked in the way that was so typical of the man she knew and—

Nope. She couldn’t let her heart go there.

Not yet.

“Is today the twenty-first of October?” The same day the goddess Brigid had sent him forward to her time.

“Aye. It is.”

She had ten days until Samhain, and—

The realization stole her breath. Six. Hundred. Years. She had to be careful. Although the witch trials wouldn’t happen for another century, one misstep and she’d find herself burning on a post or hung upside down in the loch. 

Men on horses crested the hill behind Ewen, racing toward them. Holding the cloak with her left hand, Caitlin stooped and grabbed the dagger off the ground. She had no clue if these men were allies or enemies, but if the past two weeks were any indication, things were about to escalate, and she wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Her magic was gone, and all she had left to stop a Celtic god from opening a portal to Neridia and killing the people she loved were her wits and her determination.

The world was in serious trouble.

Ewen grabbed her wrist and pulled the knife from her hand. Emotions—anger and suspicion—swept through their connection, swamping her already fragile system with adrenaline. Her magic might be gone but, boy-oh-boy, her psychic abilities were A-Okay.

“Who are you?” He tightened his hold on her wrist.

She craned her neck. He towered over her 5’8 frame. It was so surreal to be standing inches away from him when, only moments ago, he was dying in her arms.

The monk placed a thick hand on Ewen’s shoulder. “You cannot blame the lass for protecting herself, now can you, lad? Look at her closely. See her injuries? This woman has suffered at the hands of another. Will you subject her to more of the same?”

Ewen’s eyes dropped to her neck. And when his gaze fell lower, her cheeks heated.

He released her wrist.

Caitlin ran her fingers through her tangled hair. “Look, I’m not your enemy. I know how crazy this must seem, but I can explain everything.” 

It would take a boatload of objectivity on his part. Was this Ewen even capable of suspending his disbelief? 

The holy man looked over his shoulder. The riders were almost upon them. 

“I would advise ye to make no reference to the nature of her arrival to either Donald or Ian,” the monk said. “Not until you’ve had a chance to speak with her. In private, lad.”

“You would ask that of me knowing what you know? Knowing what I’ve been tasked to do?” Ewen asked.

Caitlin glanced between the men. What was she forgetting? Ewen had told her about his life, but all she could remember at the moment was the cave. The ritual. Bres crushing the bones of Ewen’s hand to steal the stone.

She squeezed her eyes shut to repress the flooding memories.

“Trust in God with all of thine heart,” the monk said. “Lean not unto thine own understanding.”

“Brother Rupert,” Ewen growled, “this is no’ the time for scripture.”

“Ah.” The monk grinned, the edges of his golden eyes settling into deep crinkles that flared out to his temples. “Perhaps now is just the time.”

A rider leaped off his horse and jogged toward them.

Ewen lowered his mouth to Caitlin’s ear, his breath hot against her skin. “Say naught if you value your life.”

She barely heard the words. His familiar scent, fresh and male with a hint of something Ewen, teased her senses. She ground her fingers into the wool to keep from throwing her arms around his neck. To keep from touching him. To keep from feeling the beat of his heart against her palm.

Ewen snapped his head back abruptly, then stepped away from Caitlin and handed Brother Rupert the knife. “I am entrusting her into your care until we are returned to the manor.” The furrowed vee reappeared between those familiar eyes, followed by a stiff do-as-I-say nod that severed any further exchange from either her or the monk.

Fifteenth-century Ewen pivoted on his fifteenth-century heel to join the others, moving across the field with the self-assured gait of a seasoned warrior in complete control of his environment and whatever the universe threw at him.

Caitlin looked away. She wasn’t sure what hurt more. Ewen’s total lack of empathy for her situation, or the fact he had just handed her over to a complete—albeit holy—stranger without a second thought.

“Have faith, lass.” Brother Rupert shielded her from the men dismounting their horses. “Ewen is a good man. He will treat ye fairly.”

“I know.” But it wasn’t Ewen she had to worry about. It was the insurmountable task of locating a weapon to weaken Bres without resources, her team, or a way to get herself back to the twenty-first century.

Brother Rupert examined the jeweled dagger. “’Tis a fine weapon.”

She clasped the golden hilt he offered. It pained her to touch anything belonging to Bres, but she had to be practical, and a weapon was a weapon. “Thank you for this”—she referenced the dagger—“and the cloak.”

“A dead man has no use of his mantle.” 

Caitlin followed Brother Rupert’s line of sight to a man bereft of a cloak lying prone on the ground a few feet away to their right, and her stomach roiled. She was wearing a dead man’s cloak.

Well, that explained the blood.

And the odor.

Brother Rupert shrugged. “It would have been a waste to abandon it upon the field when another had use of its warmth. Forgive me, but you did not strike me as the sort of woman to let a wee drop of blood turn her innards.”

Wee? She could punch her fist through the sword hole in the blood-soaked fabric. “You know, appearances can be deceiving. For example, you don’t exactly fit my mental picture of a priest.”

Maybe an aging warrior dressed in a monk’s habit, but a take-a-vow and live in a monastery kind of monk? Eh, she wasn’t buying it.

Brother Rupert snorted, his golden eyes twinkling with amusement. “Perhaps the Lord has secret plans for us both, lass.”

Caitlin wasn’t particularly impressed with the Lord’s plans for her thus far. Lucky for Brother Rupert, the scary-looking band of strangers prevented her from saying as much.

A red-bearded giant, more Viking than Scottish, built like a WWE wrestler with arms the size of tree trunks, approached Ewen.

“That,” the monk said quietly, “would be the laird, Donald MacLean. The three with him are his most trusted advisors.”

Oh, so that was Ewen’s brother. The infamous Donald “The Hunter” MacLean. He certainly lived up to the hype surrounding the ancient Highland chieftains.

Brother Rupert pivoted his body to give her a better view of the men. “The fair-haired lad next to Ewen”—Caitlin tilted her head up to hear the monk speak—“is Ian Cameron, brother to Donald’s wife, Mari. The other two are the brothers Torin and Aengus.”

Caitlin squinted. Ian was the guy who’d jumped from his horse. 

As if sensing her stare, the handsome warrior glanced over Ewen’s shoulder, prompting the other three—no, make that four—heads to turn in her direction.

So much for not drawing attention to herself.

Although ten feet separated her from Ewen and his men, she could feel his disappointment. It radiated from the tight lines of his body. She caught the deepening of his scowl right before he snapped his head back to address something the laird had said.

Meanwhile, Ian’s curiosity melted into a friendly smile he casually released before rejoining the conversation at hand. He reminded her of Luke, Rohan’s right-hand man. The night she’d met him at Rohan’s compound, he’d worn that very grin. A rascal’s smile, her grandmother would say.

It was a smile she’d never see because he’d sacrificed himself against a demented god atop a museum terrace.

For her.

Caitlin shoved aside her grief. Now wasn’t the time to mourn Luke and Janet, or Rohan and Amalia. Nor Fionn and Valoria. Or her parents. She couldn’t gamble what precious time she had feeling sorry for herself. Grief wouldn’t console her when she cried, hand her a tissue, buy her a drink, or tell her it would all be okay.

But vengeance might.

Caitlin shivered under the wool cloak. The air was colder than she remembered.

Or maybe it was shock.

She steeled her gaze to the field where Ewen and his men made quick work of searching the eight bodies sprawled among the wild grass. There was an amiable camaraderie amongst the clansmen, evident in the manner in which they spoke to one another. Here was a troop of men who’d worked together often, and she’d bet each man understood his place in the hierarchy. A well-oiled machine, and from the looks of it, Ewen ranked pretty high on the ladder. Even the laird looked to him for input as they attempted to piece together the motive behind the attack.

Wait . . .

Wait.

In the twenty-first century, a band of axe-wielding bandits had ambushed her Ewen right before Brigid incapacitated the raiders and sent him forward in time. 

Was this that attack?

Because if it were, it meant that two weeks from now, the Camerons would decimate the MacLeans of Ardgour. 

How on earth was she going to warn them about a future event without sounding insane? Or worse. Like a witch?

A body near her moved. The man moaned, and his limbs twitched against the damp earth before settling into stillness.

From several feet away, Donald stopped and swung his head to where the noise originated. He pivoted, wove his way around the corpses sprawled on the ground in lifeless clumps, and headed directly to where she stood with the now quiet Brother Rupert by her side.

“Another survivor?” the laird asked when he reached the unconscious man. Even his voice, a low gravelly growl, inspired fear.

“’Twould seem our dorcha dion skills are faltering.” Ian laughed and slapped Ewen’s back. “Tsk, tsk, old man. Doona lose hope yet. Seek out one of Deirdre’s potions now before you squander what little strength you have left in that infamous sword arm of yours.”

The men snorted with laughter.

Ewen clenched his jaw so hard the muscle popped in his cheek.

Dorcha Dion?

With his dark hair and intense blue eyes, Caitlin thought the nickname fitting. It had a sexy allure. Dark Protector. Yeah, it fit.

She stilled.

How the hell did she know that? She didn’t understand Gaelic, and except for the few phrases she’d learned from her Scottish grandmother, Caitlin didn’t speak Gaelic.

Brother Rupert put his hand on her shoulders. “Sit. You’ve gone pale.”

She angled her body toward the monk so the others wouldn’t see her panic. “You’re speaking Gaelic.”

Brother Rupert frowned. “As are you.”

Her knees wobbled, and for a second, the ground rose before her face.

Brother Rupert steadied her. “Easy, lass.”

Great. Now she had everyone’s attention centered on her and the monk.

“Come.” Brother Rupert gently claimed her elbow. “The clan’s healer lives in the village, but the laird’s wife is quite skilled in healing. She’ll remedy what ails ye.”

At that precise moment, the laird cocked his head, then folded his arms across his chest in an uncanny imitation of his younger brother, Ewen, who stood at Donald’s right shoulder in the exact position, breathing fire from the dark and stormy orbs she’d found alluring two seconds earlier.

This was bad. If Donald interrogated her, she’d be toast. She couldn’t lie to save her life.

“Take her to Mari,” Ewen ordered the monk.

“Are you sure-footed?” Brother Rupert asked. “It is but a short walk to the manor.”

Donald frowned, a vee forming between his brows. The man’s eye color was identical to Ewen’s, and despite the stark differences in their coloring, Donald’s red hair and fair skin to Ewen’s jet-black hair and olive skin tone, there was no denying these two were related. Even the suspicious scowl deepening the creases of his forehead mirrored her favorite Highlander’s as they both continued to stare at her.

No way could she lie to either of them. They’d see right through her. She’d have to escape Ardgour and find transport to the Cowal Peninsula to locate her ancestors, the MacEwens of Otter, before anyone caught wind of her abilities. She had a feeling the key to destroying Bres was hidden somewhere inside Castle MacEwen. 

But first, she’d have to convince two distrustful Highlanders that their clan was in imminent danger.

“Perhaps horseback would be best,” Brother Rupert added when she failed to respond.

“No,” Caitlin shook her head. “I’m well enough to walk.”

Oh. My. God. I am speaking Gaelic.

How was that even possible? It made no sense.

The binding spell?

The ritual was the only explanation that held merit. The blood spell bound Caitlin to Fionn, Valoria, and Ewen. It had allowed her to draw on their magic during her fight with Bres. Not that it made a difference. Bres had squashed her magic without breaking a sweat.

The bond also gave Caitlin access to their memories. She’d learned the time spell through Valoria’s knowledge as Guardian of the Book of Creation, and it was Valoria’s psychic abilities that had enabled them to communicate telepathically.

Were Fionn and his wife living in this time?

Although Fionn had been stripped of his powers, he was still a god.

And immortal. 

He’d be hunting Bres. But what of Valoria?

Caitlin didn’t know if Valoria was a goddess or a human with a really long life span. Valoria hadn’t opened that part of herself to Caitlin. But she knew Valoria’s mother was the original Guardian entrusted by the gods over a millennium or more to protect the Book of Creation.

That had to mean something. 

Caitlin glanced over her shoulder to the forest surrounding the field, to the mountain range rising beyond. 

“Valoria?”

The bond pulsed deep in her gut. 

But how long would it last? It was supposed to be a temporary measure.

She shoved the worry aside and focused on the positive. If she could feel the bond, then that meant Fionn and Valoria were alive.

And Ewen was here.

Expanding her senses, Caitlin searched the link for a sign of her friend’s presence. 

“Valoria. Can you hear me?”

No answer.

She bit her lip.

“It matters not at the moment where or whence she came.”

She?

Ewen’s voice snapped her back to the present. “The lass did not aid these men in the ambush as Rupert can attest.”

“Is that so?” Donald asked.

Ewen shot her a warning glare to keep her mouth shut.

Caitlin suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, nodding her head obediently. She had no problem playing the helpless victim if it meant getting off this field alive.

“Aye,” Brother Rupert chimed in. “Your brother speaks true. I crested over the hill and witnessed the attack myself. With your permission”—he bowed his head—“I will accompany her to the keep to attend to her injuries.”

“Very well.” Donald turned to the two dark-haired men standing on either side of Ian, the brothers Torin and Aengus. “Escort the monk and our guest to the manor. I want her isolated. For her protection, of course,” he drawled, eyeing Caitlin before gesturing to the body at his foot. “And this one”—he kicked the unconscious man’s boot—“will spend a few glorious days in our best cell until we’ve determined who masterminded this wee gathering.”

Ewen handed Ian a piece of shrubbery. “‘Twould appear our facilitator left a clue. ’Tis crowberry. I found it attached to the man’s léine.”

“Wait.” Brother Rupert signaled a halt to the movement of the two burly clansmen about to claim each of Caitlin’s elbows. “Just a moment, lads.” The grizzly monk took two agile steps to join the three men standing in a half circle around the unconscious survivor. “The practice of adhering plant badges to a warrior’s léine ceased decades ago, mayhap centuries.”

“Aye,” the laird said. “I know of no clan maintaining the old custom.”

“That’s not exactly true.” Ian lifted the thin blade to his nose. “A few of the septs affiliated with Lochaber preserve the tradition.” He looked to Ewen. “It was pinned on, you say?”

“Above the left breast,” Ewen answered.

Ian’s expression grew serious. He flicked the shrub to the ground and scanned several bodies sprawled on the field. He strolled to the body of a man lying face down in the dirt, a leather-like jacket covering his massive torso. Ian rolled the corpse over with his boot and crouched, opening the sleeveless coat to examine the lining.

Ewen squatted beside him.

The red-haired Donald and Brother Rupert loomed at their backs.

Caitlin craned her neck for a better look. What did the inside of a vest have to do with the crowberry or the attack?

“Well,” Donald barked. “Are we dealing with the Camerons?”

Ian’s expression darkened further. “Aye.”

Caitlin swallowed her relief. The men had figured out the Camerons’ involvement without her meddling.

Ewen didn’t look convinced. “Are you certain?”

“I am. This is my cousin’s work.” He pointed to an embellishment at the bottom of the lapel near the waist. “And ye know the crowberry is native to this region. Together, the two point north to Ben Nevis.”

“Miscreants!” Donald spun, his face red, eyes promising bloody murder.

“Hold on, brother.” Ewen grabbed Donald’s arm and pulled the hulking giant back. “Think for a moment. What motive would the Camerons have to attack us now when they’ve moved to establish peace between our clans?”

Donald narrowed his eyes. His hands pumped into fists at his side. “Speak your mind, Ewen, and speak it quickly, for I’m of a mind to tear apart the first Cameron I see who isn’t related by blood to my wife”—he swung his fiery gaze to Ian—“or her brother.”

Ewen released his brother’s arm. “This reeks of chicanery. I did no’ recognize a single face on that field. Did you, Ian?”

Ian glanced to the field and frowned. “Nay.”

“These men fought with the stink of desperation in their eyes. I would stake my life these are no’ Cameron’s men, nor did he thrust mercenaries upon us. There is much afoot, but what, I canna tell you.”

Ewen, no. Don’t fall for it. Don’t second-guess the evidence.

“Send their severed heads to Alan,” Donald bellowed. “Tell him if it’s war he wants, it’s war he’ll get.” 

“Brother—”

An ear-splitting roar silenced Ewen’s argument. 

Everyone spun toward the sound. 

A flash of light lit across the forest floor. And when fire broke through the tree line, only to vanish at the edge of the field, Caitlin gripped her dagger.

Ewen and his clansmen bolted, running straight for the light flashing between the trees. Before she could follow, someone grabbed her from behind.

“Let me go.” She struggled against the iron grip on her body.

“Stay still, woman,” the man growled.

Caitlin didn’t know which of the brothers had his arm around her waist, but she stomped his foot with the heel of her own. 

When that didn’t work, she elbowed him in the gut with all she had.

The man oomphed. His grip loosened slightly, but not enough to allow her to twist out of his hold.

She firmed her grip on the hilt of the dagger. She didn’t want to have to stab him, but she knew what was in that forest, and she wasn’t about to let Ewen die a second time.

Replicating the same move she used two weeks ago in the warehouse to free herself from Gary, MacInnes’s vilest henchman, Caitlin whipped her head back. Her skull slammed into something hard.

Ouch.

The minute the man’s arm relaxed, she dropped to the ground and broke free of his hold. She sprang to her feet and ran for the forest with a doozy of a headache knotting at the base of her neck. 

The headbutt had to have hurt him more than it had hurt her, but she had no time to feel sorry for Aengus or Torin or whoever the poor sap might have been. There was magic in the forest.

And where there was magic, there were gods.