"Ye're safe now, lass," he murmured.
She blinked, seeming to come back to herself at his words.
"Who—who were those men?"
"Bandits," Ciaran said with a sigh. "I've only encountered bandits once before—on a trip south tae Edinburgh. They roam the countryside, stealing from travelers . . . and sometimes worse. 'Tis why I didnae want ye tae wander off on yer own last night."
"It's really the year 1390, isn't it?" she whispered.
He studied her with concern. The lass didn't seem mad, but she spoke her question in earnest.
"Aye," he said.
"Look,” she said, taking a shaky step toward him. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I'm not from this time. That's why I was dressed in those strange clothes. I'm from the twenty-first century—over six hundred years from now. I have no idea how this works—how I got here."
Ciaran stiffened, looking at her with disbelief and suspicion. A sudden dark thought seized him. She'd come out of nowhere—conveniently arriving yards away from his camp. Was she working for his brother? Was she spying on his behalf?
"Are ye working with Tavish?" he demanded. "Did he send ye?"
"I don't know who Tavish is," she snapped. "I'm telling you the truth. I'm not from this time and I need to get back. Do—do you know where Tairseach is? Is it nearby?"
"I've never heard of the place," Ciaran said, his eyes still narrowed with suspicion.
But . . . her fear and frustration seemed genuine. And Tavish had always dismissed lasses and their intelligence. He would never allow a lass to spy for him.
But while he could believe she wasn't working for Tavish, he certainly didn't believe her wild story.
"Please," Isabelle whispered, desperation filling her eyes. "You don't have to believe me, and I don't blame you for that. But can you at least help me get back to Tairseach? Or—or point me in the right direction?"
He sighed. Even though she was telling him a false tale, his honor wouldn't allow him to let her travel on her own.
"I'm camping here for the night tae make certain those bandits doonae pick up our trail and follow. Then I plan tae go tae the manor of a friend. He may ken of this village ye speak of and can have someone escort ye there."
Isabelle closed her eyes, her shoulders sinking with relief. He surveyed her tense expression, wondering what the lass was truly hiding.
It doesnae matter. He had no time to get involved in her plight, whatever it was. He needed to get to Gabhran's manor and make a plan to clear his name and return home. Gabhran would send this strange lass on her way.
"I'll set up an area in that cave for ye tae sleep," he said. "'Tis not ideal, but 'tis for the best. And the only rations I have for the rest of the day are bread and ale."
"It's fine," she said, smiling. She reached out to touch his arm, and heat careened through him at her touch. "Thank you, Ciaran."
He gave her a quick nod, stepping out of her grasp. A flash of hurt crossed her face at his evasion, one she quickly masked.
"So . . .where are you from?" she asked. "Is your home nearby?"
He stiffened. He was afraid she'd ask probing questions; he had no intention of telling her he was an outlaw. Especially given her own false story.
"I'm just traveling in this area," he said shortly.
He turned to leave before she could ask any more questions, heading into the cave.
The cave was larger than it looked from the outside; there was more than enough room for the both of them. He gathered some fallen branches and sticks by the entrance, carrying them inside.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" Isabelle asked.
“I can handle it, lass,” he said, focused on stacking wood for the fire.
"May—may I ask you something?" she hedged, after a brief silence. "Have you heard of a Fiona, by any chance? Fiona Stewart?"
"There are many Fionas in the Highlands," he said, looking up at her with a puzzled frown. "I ken two Fionas—one a wee lass in her ninth year, the other an elderly cook."
Disappointment flashed across her face.
"Who is she?" he asked.
"My closest friend. She's like a sister," she said, her voice wavering. "It's why I may have been sent here—to this time."
Ciaran’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. The lass was determined to stick to her tale. He quickly got the fire started and stood.
"I'll be in the clearing gathering more firewood," he said, not looking at her as he stepped out of the cave.
As he worked, gathering any stray sticks he could find, a memory struck him. The last time he'd built a fire was during a hunting trip with Eoin a few months ago. They'd gone on a hunt in the forests that surrounded Aitharne Castle and had made camp there for the day. The stressors of his duties as laird had taken their toll on Ciaran, and Eoin insisted he needed a break. They'd invited Tavish to come along, but he'd declined.
"I doonae ken why he dislikes me so," Ciaran had said, with a heavy sigh.
“He’s always kept tae himself. He doesnae like anyone,” Eoin had returned, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
Ciaran had fallen silent. Eoin was right, Tavish had always kept to himself and didn’t seem to have close ties to anyone—including his brothers. But Tavish had seemed more remote and isolated than usual, not even coming to suppers in the great hall, taking his meals alone in his chamber.
Just weeks later, Eoin would be dead by Tavish’s hand.
Ciaran paused from his task, closing his eyes as a wave of anger and grief roiled through him.
“I’ll avenge ye, Eoin,” he whispered into the silence.
A twig snapped behind him and he whirled, his hand lowering to the hilt of his sword. But it was Isabelle who stood there, hands up, giving him an apologetic look.
“I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He turned, resuming his task, hating that she’d caught him in a state of vulnerability. Had she heard what he said?
“I just wanted to tell you—the fire in the cave is already dying.”
When he returned to the cave to tend to it, Isabelle knelt down by his side.
"Let me help," she said. Her proximity was unnerving; he could see the curve of her breasts beneath her tunic. "I insist. I hate being useless."
He grudgingly showed her how to use a fire steel to restart the fire, and he had her use torn fabric from his bag as kindling to ignite the flames.
As the fire roared to life, he glanced up, admiring the curve of her long neck and the bright blue of her eyes, illuminated by the flames. For just a moment, he forgot about his ever-present grief and guilt, as something he'd not experienced in a long while coursed through him.
Desire. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself tasting the tender flesh of Isabelle's lips, pressing her body to his as he explored her mouth.
Isabelle stilled as her blue eyes met his, as if aware of his lustful thoughts. He could have sworn he saw her eyes darken with the same molten desire that filled his body.
But he forced his gaze away from hers, getting to his feet.
“I’ll be out gathering more wood,” he said gruffly, turning to leave, though his desire still burned as fierce as the fire that now raged inside the cave.
Chapter 7
Ciaran remained silent for the rest of the day, only giving her one-word replies whenever she asked him a question. Isabelle wondered if she’d imagined that brief, heated moment when his eyes had lingered on her lips, and she thought he might kiss her.
And she’d wanted him to. Badly. She was ashamed of herself for this; she shouldn’t be at all focused on her attraction to the strikingly handsome Scot.
Isabelle took a bite out of the bread that would serve as her supper, looking around at the dark cave. Evening had fallen, and she was alone in the cave, Ciaran was right outside. He’d told her he wanted to keep watch in case any more bandits stumbled upon their camp, but she doubted this was the case. She suspected he was avoiding her.
/> A stab of hurt pricked her at the thought, but she ignored it, turning her thoughts to Kensa. Kensa was responsible for her coming to this time, though she wasn't sure how. At first, she’d thought she should just get back to Tairseach and figure out how to get back from there.
But then she’d thought of Fiona. Kensa had said Fiona didn’t belong in the present—and neither did she. Isabelle could only deduce that Kensa had done the same thing to Fiona that she’d done to Isabelle—and sent her back to the past.
She recalled the letter that Fiona had sent her, scrawled out on parchment that could have definitely come from this time. If Fiona was in 1390, Isabelle was determined to find her. It had already proven to be a dangerous time for a woman here—what would Isabelle have done had those bandits come upon her alone? If Fiona was here, God only knew what had happened to her. If Isabelle could find her, she could get them both back to the present. Somehow.
She glanced back at Ciaran, who sat by the entrance to the cave, his back to her as he drank his ale and nibbled on his bread in silence. Perhaps this friend he was taking her to would know something. Even if there were many Fionas in Scotland, wouldn't her Fiona, a woman with a modern American accent, stand out?
As if sensing her gaze, Ciaran turned around to face her, training those stunning hazel eyes on her. Embarrassed, Isabelle averted her gaze, but Ciaran stood and entered the cave, taking a seat opposite her.
“I want tae apologize, lass,” he said. "I feel I’ve been tae harsh tae ye. Things havenae been easy for me as of late. I may not believe yer story, but I hope my friend can have ye escorted safely tae Tairseach."
He smiled, and heat spiraled through her. She lowered her gaze, deciding not to mention that she intended to stay here to find Fiona—though she had no idea how.
“Thank you,” she said instead.
“Ye can sleep in here for the night,” he said, clambering to his feet. “I’m going tae sleep out by the entrance tae make certain no one rides by.”
“Won’t it be better if you stay out of sight?” Isabelle asked with a concerned frown. “If those bandits find us—"
“I’m a light sleeper, lass,” he said. “I’d wake before they could even strike.”
He left her alone, and Isabelle tried to make herself comfy on the makeshift bed of Ciaran's cloak, her thoughts straying back to Fiona. How would she find her in the proverbial haystack of the medieval Scottish Highlands? And how could she even be certain Fiona was even in this time?
When Isabelle finally drifted off to sleep, it was with these unanswered questions circling throughout her mind.
Isabelle awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of moans and whimpers. She sat up, alarmed, until she realized they were coming from the cave entrance. Ciaran.
She sat up and hurried toward the entrance. Ciaran lay on his side, his large body shaking as he let out pained moans.
“Please—" Ciaran whimpered. “Eoin—"
Her heart clenched in sympathy. Isabelle knelt down, reaching out to gently shake his shoulder.
Ciaran awoke instantly, sitting up, his hazel eyes wild as he looked around, before his gaze settled on her.
“You were having a nightmare,” she said.
Ciaran closed his eyes, pressing his hands to his temples.
“I—I’m sorry I woke ye, lass,” he muttered.
“It’s all right,” Isabelle said. She bit her lip, studying him. “I know we just met . . . but I'm a good listener. Whose Eoin?”
He flinched, averting his gaze.
“I doonae want tae plague ye with my problems, lass.”
“Well, at least come back inside,” she said, standing and extending her hand. The night air was chilly and pricked at her skin. “It’s much warmer."
He looked like he would protest, but after a moment he took her hand and stood.
Isabelle wasn’t prepared for the surge of fire that filled her at his touch, and she removed her hand from his as he followed her back into the recesses of the cave.
“Eoin was my brother.”
Isabelle turned to face him, startled. He stood by the fire, gazing down at the flames.
“He died,” he continued, his voice wavering. “It—was my fault.”
“How was it your fault?” Isabelle asked, empathy filling her at the guilt and heartbreak on Ciaran’s face.
“He was murdered,” Ciaran whispered. “I should have protected him.”
“No. The person who killed your brother is the one responsible—and only him. Grief is enough to deal with. There’s no need to add guilt to the burden.”
Ciaran gave her a sad smile, lifting his eyes from the fire to meet hers.
“If only it were that simple, lass. Tae let go of the guilt. I fear I cannae.”
“You can try,” she said. “I—I feel guilt over someone I’ve lost as well,” she continued, thinking of Fiona. “But I’m making myself take action and move forward. It’s the only way—the best way—to let the guilt go.”
Ciaran studied her, and awareness and desire sparked beneath her skin as the silence stretched between them. He looked angelically beautiful in the light of the fire, his chiseled features and hazel eyes even more pronounced. His gaze lowered to her lips, and Isabelle’s mouth went dry.
There was no mistaking the raw flare of desire in his eyes as he stepped closer to her, so they were only inches apart. Something different infused the silence now . . . temptation and need. Lust.
Ciaran reached out to touch the side of her face, and the sparks of desire turned into a fiery wave that seized her. He leaned down, pressing his lips to hers, pulling her body flush against his.
His tongue explored her mouth, and Isabelle let out a moan as his hand lowered to her nape, holding her close to him. He tasted of the bitter ale he’d just consumed, but to Isabelle it might as well have been a sweet nectar. She could feel every inch of him pressed close to her—the broad expanse of his muscular torso, and the growing evidence of his arousal.
But all too quickly it was over. Ciaran released her with abrupt swiftness, stepping back.
“I—I shouldnae have done that,” he muttered, turning away from her. “I’m sorry, lass.”
And before she could protest, still breathless from his kiss, he was gone.
Chapter 8
“We’ll need tae be on our way,” Ciaran said, not looking at Isabelle as he addressed her. “And ye'll need tae come up with another story besides being from six centuries ahead. My friends are kind, but ye’ll only make them suspicious with a tale like that.”
It was early the next morning, just after first light, and he'd entered the cave to speak to Isabelle. He'd barely been able to sleep after kissing her, the memory of her warm curves pressed against his body, and her soft lips opening to his, haunting his mind.
But guilt filled him over his lustful thoughts. He had no right to desire, to pleasure, while his innocent brother rotted in the ground and his murderer roamed free.
The thought hardened his resolve, and he finally looked at Isabelle. She looked even lovelier than she had the night before in the soft firelight of the cave; the loose tunic she wore had slipped, revealing the seductive curve of her shoulders. Damn me, he thought with frustration. The lass gets bonnier by the day.
“Fine. Even though I am telling the truth,” Isabelle said with a stubborn jut of her lovely chin. “I'll just say that I was traveling through the Highlands and then set upon by bandits. You rescued me. That part is true.”
“Good,” he said, though he gritted his teeth at her stubborn insistence of her false tale. “I'm certain Gabhran will be happy tae help ye arrange transport tae this village ye speak of.”
“Your friends—are they familiar with surrounding villages? Do they know other clans?" Isabelle asked suddenly. At his questioning look, she continued, "I'm hoping that they've maybe heard word of my friend Fiona."
“Aye. But doonae wear much on their kindness," Ciaran cautioned, giving her a wary look. "'
Tis enough that I’m showing my face on their property.”
“Why?” Isabelle asked with a puzzled frown. “I thought you were their friend.”
Ciaran stilled; he’d said too much. She didn’t know he was an outlaw, a former laird and chieftain accused of murdering his brother. A sudden tightness gripped his chest. How would she look at him if she knew? Would she be disgusted by the knowledge that she'd allowed an outlaw to kiss her?
“I just doonae wish tae hindrance them. I'm arriving unannounced," he said shortly. "We need tae leave," he added, before she could question him further.
To his relief she didn't press him, and moments later they were riding out of the forest and back toward the countryside. As they rode, he had to force himself to concentrate on the landscape ahead, to distract himself from the feel of her body against his and her natural sweet scent that filled his nostrils. She was too much of a temptation; once she was on her way, he'd have his bearings again.
Gabhran's manor was located in the western Highlands, and they rode for some time to get there. Whenever he spotted a lone horse or carriage on a distant road, he slowed down the pace of his horse to avoid any interception. He could tell that this drew Isabelle’s curiosity every time he did this, as she cast curious glances over her shoulder at him.
"I'm not certain if they're bandits," he said by explanation, after the third time he'd slowed down the pace of his horse. She gave him a nod, but by the lingering look she gave him, he knew she remained suspicious.
Frustration coursed through him; he hated having to live like this. He'd only known life as a respectable man, as a well-liked laird and chief of his clan. But until he cleared his name, this was how his life would have to be.
It was midday when they reached Gabhran's lands; his stone manor loomed in the distance like a comforting beacon, and Ciaran’s tension ebbed away. But his calm was short-lived; his brother knew Gabhran was a close and loyal friend to Ciaran. How did he know his brother hadn’t already sent men here?
He surveyed the grounds around the manor, looking for any hint of Tavish or his men as they approached the courtyard. But no one looked menacing or suspicious; the few servants who milled about the grounds only cast him and Isabelle looks of mild curiosity.
Ciaran's Bond_A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 4
