Ciaran's Bond
Highlander Fate Book Three
Stella Knight
Copyright © 2018 by Stella Knight
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Stay in touch!
Pronunciation Guide
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Stay in touch!
A Message from the Author
Niall’s Bride
About the Author
Also by Stella Knight
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Pronunciation Guide
Ciaran - KEE-uran
Lachaid - LACH-ee
Gabhran - GAW-run
Donella - DON-ela
Eoin - YOE-in
Tavish - TAY-vish
Walrick - WAL-rik
Chapter 1
Present Day
Larkin, Scotland
A chill crept through Isabelle as she maneuvered her rental car through the narrow cobblestoned streets of Larkin. The village, nestled in the Scottish Highlands, was the intended destination of her friend Fiona, who went missing months ago.
Was this the last village you saw before you disappeared, Fiona? Isabelle wondered, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. This quaint village hardly seemed like a sight for mysterious disappearances, but she’d recently learned of another missing woman—Kara Forrester, a journalist from New York. She’d vanished a few weeks ago after leaving her inn here in Larkin, the same inn Isabelle was heading to now.
Isabelle expelled a tense breath as she pulled up to the inn, the only one in the village, a brick building that resembled a large cottage. She shut off the ignition and leaned back in her seat, her heart hammering in nervous anticipation.
Since arriving in Scotland a couple of days ago, Isabelle had searched nonstop for Fiona, retracing her friend's steps. She'd flown into Aberdeen, just as Fiona had weeks ago, before driving to Inverness. The innkeepers at the bed-and-breakfast where Fiona had stayed were as unhelpful as they’d been the first time Isabelle came searching. They'd told her the same story: the last time they’d seen Fiona, she'd left the bed-and-breakfast with her sketching materials, and she’d left alone.
After leaving Inverness, Isabelle had driven west, stopping at a few small towns and villages along the way, where she'd shown Fiona’s photo to patrons at inns and pubs. But no one recognized her.
Isabelle looked down at her shoulder bag on the passenger seat. In it she'd stored a letter Fiona had sent her weeks ago, insisting she was fine and urging Isabelle to not look for her. But given that Fiona wrote the letter on ancient-looking parchment with no return address, Isabelle was suspicious. Disappearing the way she had was so out of character for the kind and thoughtful Fiona that Isabelle's worry had only increased. Since it was summer and the high school where she taught was out of session, Isabelle had taken the opportunity to resume her search.
And she’d let herself entertain something she’d previously dismissed. When Fiona first disappeared, Isabelle spoke to an elderly bartender in Inverness who'd told her of a village, Tairseach, where it was rumored that people just . . . disappeared. Isabelle had dismissed this as superstition, but ever since receiving Fiona's mysterious letter, the story had tugged at her mind. She had tried to talk to the bartender again, only to learn that he'd recently passed away.
It'll do you no good to entertain superstitious rumors, Isabelle told herself. She needed to focus on facts to find her friend.
She climbed out of the car, stretching her aching limbs. She'd driven for hours and it had taken a toll on her legs. She turned, surveying the picturesque streets of Larkin. The tiny village was something right out of a postcard, with its winding cobblestoned streets and vintage-style cottages and shops that lined them.
As she took it in, a rush of determination filled her. Maybe there were answers here. Answers she’d missed before.
Isabelle entered the bed-and-breakfast, where a petite middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Sophie greeted her.
"Here are your keys, dear," Sophie said, handing Isabelle a set of keys after checking her in. "Your room is the first door to the right down that corridor."
"Thanks," Isabelle said. She bit her lip as she studied her. Sophie may have already answered questions about Fiona from the police, but it couldn't hurt to ask more. "May I ask you something? Have you seen this woman by any chance?"
Isabelle took out her phone, handing it to Sophie. On the screen was a photo of her and Fiona; it was the last photo they’d taken together outside of a dive bar in Chicago. Isabelle had taken her there to commiserate over Fiona's breakup with her fiancé, Derek. It was there that Isabelle had convinced Fiona to come to Scotland for her honeymoon—solo.
“I’m sorry, dear. I’m afraid I don't recognize her,” Sophie said with an apologetic smile.
Isabelle’s heart sank. But she swiped to another photo, this one of Kara Forrester, the other woman who’d gone missing from Larkin.
“Do you know anything about this woman’s disappearance?” Isabelle asked, hoping she didn’t sound too desperate. “She went missing from your inn a few weeks ago.”
Sophie stiffened, her friendly smile vanishing. She looked at Isabelle with narrowed eyes.
“Are you with the press?” she demanded. “Because I already told the police everything I know.”
“No,” Isabelle said fervently. “I’m just looking for my friend. I—I thought maybe there was a link between their disappearances.”
“I wouldn’t know if there was,” Sophie returned. “I’m sorry about your friend, truly. But I don’t know anything. You’d have to go to the police.”
Isabelle swallowed her disappointment, giving her a shaky nod. It would do no good to press Sophie for information she didn’t have. She turned to head to her room.
“Wait.”
Isabelle turned. Sophie’s expression softened; she gestured for her to come back to the counter.
“I'm sorry. We've had nosy reporters and conspiracy theorists bother us ever since Miss Forrester went missing. I can tell you this—Kara only stayed here for a night before she went missing. Didn’t say a word to anyone. A friend of hers, Jon, called and inquired about her after she disappeared. He might be able to tell you more. I can give you his contact info if you’d like.”
“
Thank you,” Isabelle whispered, feeling a rush of something she hadn’t experience since Fiona went missing. Hope.
When Isabelle settled into her room moments later, she leaned back against the door, looking down at the slip of paper where Sophie had written Jon’s contact information. She could only pray that he knew something that could help her.
Tears stung her eyes as she thought of Fiona. She’d taken a liking to her as soon as she began working as an art teacher at the same high school where Isabelle taught English. They’d spent many lunch hours in the teacher’s lounge commiserating over rowdy students, annoying fellow teachers, and their lousy pay. Their relationship soon blossomed from friendly coworkers to best friends as they got to know each other. Though they were different personality wise—Fiona was more shy and reserved, Isabelle bold and outgoing—there was much they had in common. They were passionate about the subjects they taught; Fiona loved art and was a skilled artist in her own right, Isabelle loved classic literature and tried to pass along that passion to her students. They both had little in the way of family—their parents had died long ago, though Isabelle had a brother Scott with whom she was close.
She and Fiona had become each other’s family in a sense, and Scott cared for Fiona as a sister. He’d helped Isabelle with her search for Fiona when she first went missing and regularly contacted the police in Inverness for any updates on Isabelle's behalf.
Guilt pricked at her chest as she thought of Scott; he lived in Edinburgh, where he worked as a professor of classics at the University of Edinburgh. She owed him a phone call. She’d barely been in touch with him since arriving in Scotland; her search for Fiona had consumed most of her time. But she was heading to Edinburgh for an extended visit with him and his wife after her search. She hoped that Fiona would be at her side when she did.
She took out her phone, looking down at the photo of her smiling friend.
“Fiona,” Isabelle whispered to her friend’s photo. “Where the hell are you?”
“Wait—you got a letter too?" Jon asked in disbelief.
It was early the next morning, and Isabelle had arranged an online call with Jon to discuss Kara’s disappearance.
Now, he stared at her from her laptop screen, his eyes wide with astonishment.
“Yes,” Isabelle said, her heart picking up its pace.
“I received something similar from Kara,” Jon said slowly. “It was a letter written on parchment. She wrote that she couldn't tell me where she was, but that she’s happy where she is and to not look for her.”
Isabelle leaned back in her chair, her mind reeling.
“That can’t be a coincidence,” she whispered.
“No,” Jon agreed, “It can’t. But—listen. It hurts she didn’t tell me she was planning to leave for good and chooses not to stay in contact, but I believe her when she says she’s safe.”
“What do you mean?" Isabelle asked, her body tensing. "You don’t want to find her?”
“I do, more than anything. But knowing Kara, she'd kick my ass for tracking her down against her wishes. I don’t blame you for wanting to find your friend, and I'm not suggesting you shouldn't. But I’m going to leave Kara be.”
Isabelle closed her eyes, gritting her teeth in frustration. She’d hoped Jon would join her in the search, especially given the similarities of their friend's disappearances.
“Well, I need to confirm with my own eyes that Fiona is safe,” Isabelle said firmly. “Did Kara say anything to you? Anything . . . weird before she left? Anything that would indicate she didn't intend to come back?"
"Well," Jon said, after a long pause. "We met up for lunch before she flew to Scotland. And she talked about some weird stuff during our meal.”
"Like what?"
"She asked me if I believed in . . . aliens. The supernatural. That there was something her late grandmother wanted her to do, but she wouldn't tell me what it was."
Isabelle went still, her mind immediately going to Tairseach.
"I basically told her to go for it, to do this mysterious thing her grandmother wanted," Jon continued, a look of guilt flickering across his face. "You have no idea how much I regret saying that now. It clearly influenced her decision to leave—forever. But from her letter, wherever she is . . . she’s happy. Look, I wish I could be of more help, Isabelle.”
Isabelle sighed, rubbing her temples. It seemed the more questions she asked, the more questions popped up, like a frustrating game of whack-a-mole. Kara asked Jon if he believed in the supernatural before she disappeared. Why? Did she know about Tairseach? Was Tairseach linked to something supernatural? Unease crawled through her as she thought of the rumored disappearances there.
“And . . . there’s one more thing,” Jon hedged.
“What?”
“Before I got Kara’s letter, I did some digging on my own. Made some calls. One of my contacts told me of rumors about a place called Tairseach.”
Isabelle froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Jon met her eyes, giving her a grim nod as he took in her expression.
“I take it you’ve heard of it.”
“Yes,” Isabelle said, licking her dry lips.
“Well, my contact told me there’s one rumor that gets buried among all the tales of disappearances. A pretty big one.”
“And what is that?”
Jon seemed reluctant to continue, leaning back in his chair and raking a hand through his hair.
“Jon,” Isabelle said. “Please.”
“This is crazy and I don’t believe it for a second. But the rumor is . . . that it's not where these people are disappearing," he said, holding her gaze. "It's when."
Chapter 2
1390
Aitharne Castle
Ciaran rested his head against the cold stone wall of the dungeon, closing his eyes. His cell reeked of dirt and piss, and the stench of rot hung in the air. He’d put many men in these dungeons over the years, but as laird of Aitharne Castle and chieftain of Clan Aitharne, he never thought he’d spend time in one.
He opened his eyes, watching as a rat scampered across the dirty cell floor. He focused on the rat’s movements, trying to keep his mind blank, trying not to think of the crime he was imprisoned for. A crime he didn’t commit.
Footsteps approached his cell, and Ciaran forced himself to his feet. He recognized the guard who approached—Angus, a young man whose family he’d helped during the last plague that swept over their region of the Highlands. Angus kept his eyes cast down to the floor, avoiding Ciaran's gaze.
“’Tis all right,” Ciaran said gruffly. He could tell Angus didn't like having to hold his chieftain in the dungeons like a criminal. “Ye're just doing yer duty.”
Angus gave him a jerky nod but kept his gaze on the floor.
"Yer brother and the nobles want tae see ye," Angus said, unlocking his cell door and stepping aside. He reluctantly took hold of Ciaran’s arm and led him down the dank corridor that led out of the dungeons.
“Ye should ken, m’laird,” Angus said, lowering his voice, though they were the only ones in the dungeons. Ciaran stiffened at the title Angus used, the title he'd been formally stripped of the day before. “Yer brother has evidence he means tae use against ye.”
Icy dread coursed through him, but Ciaran kept his features stoic.
“I wouldnae expect no different,” Ciaran muttered.
His brother Tavish was the one who'd had him arrested and imprisoned. He’d always know his brother hated him, but by the time he realized just how deep his brother’s hatred ran, it was too late.
Ciaran tried to keep his calm as Angus led him up the stairs and down the corridor that led to the great hall. As they walked, the servants who milled past them avoided his eyes. Only days ago they’d answered to him as laird; now it was as if he were an imposter in his own castle. Anger spiraled through him, but he kept his expression neutral, even as Angus led him into the great hall.
Inside the hall sat a dozen of the clan nobles. T
he only true friend among them was a tall dark-haired and bearded man, Lachaid, who’d been his close friend since they were both bairns. Lachaid’s dark eyes met his, a look of sorrow flashing across his face. Lachaid had tried in vain to prevent Ciaran’s arrest and imprisonment, but as leader of the clan in Ciaran’s stead, Tavish held the most power and had refused.
Another noble by the name of Ramsey also looked uncertain, barely meeting Ciaran’s eyes. Ciaran had always liked Ramsey, who was an honorable man, but he too had to bow down to Tavish’s orders when it came to Ciaran’s arrest and imprisonment.
Tavish sat in the center of them all, glaring at Ciaran. Though they shared the same blood, he and Tavish looked nothing alike. While Ciaran had dark hair, hazel eyes, and their late father’s towering height, Tavish was fair and stocky, with the blond hair and blue eyes of their late mother, passed down from her Norse ancestors.
Tavish's blue eyes flashed with hatred as Angus brought Ciaran before him and stepped aside.
“Ye have been accused of the murder of our dear brother Eoin, who was second in line to take over for ye as chieftain in the event of yer death,” Tavish said, his voice raised so that all the nobles in the hall could hear.
Ciaran tried not to flinch at the mention of his brother’s name, the brother he had loved, the brother who'd been savagely murdered. Grief, hot and fierce, spread throughout his chest. Ye didnae deserve such a death, brother, he thought. I should’ve been there tae protect ye.
Ciaran's Bond_A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 1
