Ciaran's Bond_A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Stella Knight

  It was Gabhran himself who emerged from the front doors of the manor, and relief filled him at the sight of Gabhran’s full and stout frame, his auburn hair, his kind brown eyes. His wife Donella trailed out after Gabhran, and she gave Ciaran a wide smile.

  But their looks of welcoming faltered when their gazes strayed to Isabelle. Ciaran turned to face her, a look of warning in his eyes. She was not to tell her friends her strange tale. Seeming to understand his meaning, she jerked her head in a nod.

  As he dismounted, helping Isabelle down, Gabhran approached.

  “Ciaran. This is a surprise. What brings ye here?”

  “There’s much I need tae tell ye,” Ciaran said, lowering his voice. Gabhran frowned with concern, as Ciaran continued, “Let us talk inside."

  “Christ,” Gabhran whispered, taking a large swig of ale, handing a second cup to Ciaran, which he took with gratitude.

  They were in his study, Isabelle having gone with Donella to wash up and change into more appropriate clothing. Ciaran had told him everything that happened from the time of his arrest until now.

  “The bastard,” Gabhran continued, shaking his head. “I always knew there was something dark about yer brother, but I never thought . . .”

  Relief swept over Ciaran; he’d feared Gabhran may have thought he was guilty. Gabhran seemed to read his thoughts, giving him a dark scowl.

  “If ye think for a moment I thought ye capable of murdering yer own flesh and blood, I'll take a swing at ye," Gabhran growled. “Ye’ve not a murderous bone in yer body, and the nobles in yer clan are fools for nae seeing what yer brother is doing.”

  “He has witnesses,” Ciaran muttered. “Witnesses I’ve no doubt he bribed.”

  Gabhran swore a violent curse, slamming his ale down onto the table.

  “What can I do tae help?”

  “First, I’ll have ye ken—I’m not staying here. ’Tis only a matter of time before my brother sends his men here, and I’ll not make ye and yer family a target.”

  “I’m not afeared of yer brother; he’s always been afeared of me,” Gabhran returned. “Ye're staying here until we clear yer name and return ye tae yer castle.”

  “Gabhran—”

  “Yer staying here or I’ll report ye tae yer brother myself,” Gabhran said firmly, and Ciaran couldn’t help but smile. He was just as stubborn—and loyal—as Lachaid.

  “Aye,” Ciaran said. “But if I get any hint that my presence has put ye in danger . . ."

  “Do ye have a plan?” Gabhran asked, waving off his words.

  “I need allies. Spies tae go back tae the castle and get evidence of my brother’s treachery. And I need his witnesses to recant their false testimonies.”

  As he spoke the words aloud, Ciaran realized how difficult this would be, and a sudden uncertainty pierced him.

  “But Tavish will be closely watching anyone loyal tae me,” Ciaran continued with frustration, raking his hand through his hair.

  “That’s why ye have me. I’m out of yer brother’s reach. I’m loyal tae ye, and my men are loyal tae ye. They’ll help,” Gabhran said. “I’ll call a meeting with the ones I trust the most.”

  A rush of gratitude filled Ciaran, and he gave his friend a nod of thanks. Like Lachaid, he'd known Gabhran since he was a bairn. He and Lachaid were the only two who'd shown him true friendship or kindness since Tavish had him thrown in the dungeons of his own castle.

  “Now,” Gabhran said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Are ye going tae tell me about the lass ye came here with? Is she a Sassenach? Never heard one who speaks the way she does.”

  “Aye,” Ciaran said. He had his suspicions about Isabelle’s strange accent as well. He recalled her insistent words back in the forest. I’m not from this time. But he pushed away the thought.

  “She was traveling through these parts tae visit family and was separated from her escort. Bandits set upon her, I helped her get away from them.”

  He hoped Gabhran wouldn’t ask more questions about her, but he continued to study Ciaran, cocking his head to the side.

  “She’s quite a bonnie lass,” he said with a sly look.

  “I did what any honorable man would do. I helped her,” Ciaran said shortly. And tasted her. The memory of Isabelle’s soft moan as he kissed her filled his mind, and he looked away from Gabhran's discerning gaze. “I mentioned tae ye earlier that she'll need transport. She wants tae go tae a village by the name of Tairseach. Have ye heard of it?”

  Gabhran stilled at the mention of Tairseach, the playful look in his eyes vanishing.

  “Tairseach?” he echoed.

  “Aye,” Ciaran said, studying him closely. “What is it, Gabhran? Have ye heard of it?”

  “’Tis just an abandoned village from what I’ve heard,” Gabhran said. “I doonae ken why she’d want tae go there.”

  Ciaran eyed him. Gabhran was hiding something. And if Tairseach was an abandoned village, why would Isabelle want to go there? But he shook his head; it was none of his concern.

  “I doonae ken. But I told the lass ye may be able tae help. Can ye arrange transport?”

  “I can have a trusted rider escort her north,” Gabhran said. After a pause, his face lit up with a mischievous grin. “Why are ye so eager tae rid yerself of the bonnie lass?"

  “I’ve enough tae handle without a wayward lass on my hands,” Ciaran said, ignoring the odd sense of loss that filled him at the thought of Isabelle's departure. “Now tell me more about these men of yers who’ll help me clear my name."

  Chapter 9

  "Where did ye get such odd clothes?" Donella breathed.

  Isabelle stood in the center of a large guest chamber, her arms wrapped self-consciously around herself. Donella, a pretty brunette with warm brown eyes, stood opposite her, supervising a chambermaid who helped Isabelle get changed.

  Isabelle already had to insist she could wash herself, but Donella practically ordered her to stand still and allow the chambermaid to dress her. The women of this time weren't as shy about nudity as Isabelle had thought; neither of the women seemed to care that Isabelle stood in nothing but her bra and underwear.

  Now, both Donella and the maid studied her lacy bra and underwear as if they were something out of a horror movie. If she weren’t so freaked out by the situation she was in, it would be amusing. Isabelle was tempted to tell Donella she'd bought them at a Victoria's Secret store in Chicago, but resisted the urge.

  After Donella had looked at her strangely given her accent, she'd told Donella the story she'd rehearsed with Ciaran, that she was a wayward traveler from England set upon by bandits. What was one more lie?

  "I made these myself," she said. "I find them comfortable."

  "Aye?" Donella asked, eyeing Isabelle's bra. "I mean no offense, but this looks like something a whore would wear." She gestured to the maid, who approached her with a lightweight underdress.

  "No offense taken," Isabelle said with a polite smile. "It's why I wear it beneath my clothes."

  She stepped out of her bra and underwear and slipped into the underdress, assisted by the maid.

  "Such lovely skin," Donella marveled, and relief filled Isabelle. She'd feared Donella would ask her for details on how to stitch a bra and underwear. "Most lasses around our age have marks from plague or other sickness, even the nobles. Do ye never get sick, lass?"

  Isabelle bit her lip as the maid helped her into a white tunic, and then into a light blue gown. She was in a time before advanced medicine and vaccinations. It was easy to forget things like this about the past. She was no historian, but she could hasten a guess that many people who survived into adulthood would have some visible bout with illness.

  "I've been blessed with good health," Isabelle said hastily.

  "Ye certainly have," Donella said. She took in Isabelle's clothing, giving her a nod of approval and dismissing the maid with a wave of her hand. "There. Now ye look respectable. Have a look at yerself."

  Donella gestured to a mirror
in the far corner of the chamber, and Isabelle went to it, taking in her reflection. The medieval gown, with its long sleeves, delicately cut bodice and comfortable wool fabric suited her. If it weren't for her hair, still damp from the washing she'd given it, which she now wore loose about her shoulders, she would look exactly like a fourteenth-century noble woman.

  Oh my God, Isabelle thought, her heart hammering wildly against her rib cage. I truly am in the past.

  “Thank you,” Isabelle said finally. “For the clothes. They're lovely.”

  “'Tis not a bother,” Donella said. "This will be yer chamber while ye’re here. Ciaran mentioned that ye’ll need transport?"

  Isabelle hesitated. How could she casually mention that she wanted to stay to look for Fiona?

  “If—if you don’t mind, I’d like to stay for a bit. Or—at least as long as Ciaran is here,” she hedged, not knowing how Ciaran would react to this bit of news.

  To her surprise, Donella didn’t look put out by her words. Instead, a look of delight spread across her face.

  "I'd always hoped Ciaran would find a lass that made him happy. I wondered about the two of ye, given the way he was looking at ye when ye arrived, but now I am—"

  "Oh—no," Isabelle interjected, flushing. "It’s not like that. He just rescued me, that's all. The truth is . . . I'm looking for someone. That's why I came here. From—from England," she babbled.

  “Ah,” Donella said, the disappointment in her eyes plain. “Who are ye looking for?”

  “My sister," Isabelle lied. She hoped a missing sister would foster more sympathy than a missing friend. "Her name is Fiona. Fiona Stewart.”

  "What clan?" Donella asked. "Is she a noble? A peasant woman?”

  Frustration filled Isabelle's gut. There was no middle class in this time; you were either a peasant or wealthy. And Isabelle had no idea what Fiona was up to in this time. If she's even in this time, she reminded herself.

  "I'm not sure," Isabelle said. "We've lost touch."

  "I'm sorry tae hear. There are many lasses in the Highlands by the name of Fiona—noble and peasant alike. I’m not certain me and my husband can help ye find her."

  Isabelle’s heart sank. She knew this would likely be the case, but that didn't stop her disappointment.

  How was she supposed to even begin searching for Fiona? Perhaps it was a lost cause after all.

  “But if ye tell me what she looks like, I can have a messenger ride tae the nearby villages and ask around,” Donella said, studying Isabelle's pained face with sympathy.

  “Thank you,” Isabelle said with a sliver of hope. It was still a needle in a haystack approach, but it was a start.

  "Mama!"

  Isabelle turned as a little girl, a miniature version of Donella, flew into the room. Donella's expression filled with love and she knelt down to embrace her.

  "This is my wee bairn, Annis," Donella said, beaming.

  "Nice to meet you, Annis," Isabelle said, smiling at the adorable girl, who gave her a shy smile.

  "I'm going tae take this wee one back tae her chamber. I'll see ye later for supper," Donella said, taking Annis's hand and leaving the room.

  Once she was alone, Isabelle moved to the window, looking out over the vast moors that stretched beyond the manor. For the first time since she'd arrived here, a sense of awe settled over her.

  She was in the year 1390. It was still almost a century until Columbus's discovery of the Americas. As a lover of classic literature, she marveled over the fact that William Shakespeare's birth was still two centuries ahead. Geoffrey Chaucer was still alive in this time. Other events she'd learned about in history class—the Tudors, the French Revolution, the American Civil War—all had yet to come.

  Was Fiona indeed in this time as well? If so, what was she doing? And most importantly—was she safe?

  "Isabelle."

  The rumble of Ciaran’s voice pulled Isabelle from her thoughts, and she turned.

  Ciaran stood in the doorway; her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him. He was also cleaned up, looking breathtakingly handsome in a fresh white tunic and dark green plaid kilt. He entered the chamber, and heat rushed through her as his hazel eyes swept over her from head to toe. She realized this was the first he’d seen her in era-appropriate clothing.

  "Ye look bonnie in a lady’s clothes,” he murmured.

  "Thank you,” Isabelle said, flushing at his appraisal.

  "Donella just told me ye want tae stay as long as I'm here? Tae find yer friend?"

  "I didn't mean to involve you," Isabelle said quickly. “Your friends seem very kind, but I don't think they’d be willing to host a stranger on their own. And I told her Fiona’s my sister,” she added with a guilty flush. “It just seemed more likely they’d help if she was my sister—and if I was with you. I’ll stay out of your way, I promise. I just want to find Fiona."

  Isabelle held her breath as she waited for his response, fearful that he would refuse.

  "'Tis fine," he said, after a brief pause, and her shoulders sank with relief. "But I should remind ye—I’m hoping tae not be here for long."

  Isabelle studied him, wondering why Ciaran was so wary about staying here for long. She suspected he was hiding something from her; she still didn't know what he was doing in the forest when she first stumbled upon him. She hadn't bought his vague “traveling” story. For some reason, his dishonesty hurt. She'd been nothing but honest with him; even if he didn't believe her story.

  "'Tis quite the view," he murmured, his words again pulling her from the maelstrom of her thoughts. He was staring past her out the window, and she turned to follow his gaze. “When I was a wee lad, I’d look out the window and see the moors stretching into the horizon. I imagined mounting a horse and seeing if I could ride till I reached where the cliffs met the sea. The lands seemed so grand when I was a bairn.”

  Isabelle smiled, taken by the boyish wonder in his eyes.

  “They are grand,” she agreed.

  "Isabelle," he said, after a brief pause. "I wanted tae apologize again, for kissing ye last night. I shouldnae have—”

  "It's fine," she interrupted, another stab of hurt piercing her. Why did he feel the need to apologize for the best kiss she’d ever had? "There's no need to apologize. Really."

  Ciaran hesitated, his eyes probing hers, and Isabelle had to look away. She was suddenly hyperaware that they were alone in a bed chamber. A brief, scandalous image of Ciaran carrying her to the large bed in the center of the room, tearing off her clothes and kissing every part of her body filled her mind, and her heartbeat picked up its pace.

  When she met Ciaran's eyes again, they had darkened, and she wondered—hoped—that despite his apology, he would kiss her again. But instead, he took a step back from her.

  "I'll see ye for supper," he said, turning to leave the room.

  Isabelle watched him go, the hurt that pierced her earlier flaring into an ache. Why did Ciaran's distance bother her so much? She was here for one reason and one reason only; to find Fiona. She'd just have to focus on keeping the distractingly handsome man out of her thoughts.

  Chapter 10

  "I've ken Ciaran since he was just a lad," Gabhran said. "Got him out of many a scrape."

  Isabelle sat with Ciaran, Gabhran, and Donella in a large ornate dining room over a supper of roasted pork, vegetables, and ale.

  Isabelle didn’t realize how hungry she was until she’d started eating. While the bread she'd eaten with Ciaran in the wilderness had been somewhat filling, it certainly hadn't been tasty, and Isabelle now savored every bite of her meal.

  She set down her spoon, turning to look at Ciaran with a smile. An adorable flush had spread across his cheeks at Gabhran’s words.

  "And I got ye out of many a scrape as well," Ciaran said, taking a swig of his ale. "Donella would've never accepted yer proposal if it wasnae for me."

  "'Tis true," Donella said, laughing. "I'd have never taken such a louse as husband without Ciar
an's kind words.”

  "Ah, ye betray me, wife," Gabhran said, looking at Donella with such love that Isabelle felt a rush of envy. She'd assumed that most if not all marriages in this time were arrangements for reasons of property or politics, but in the brief time she'd been around Gabhran and Donella, she could see how much they genuinely loved each other.

  Isabelle’s own love life was nonexistent. She'd envied her brother Scott's happy marriage to his wife, Jane. They'd been together for as long as Isabelle could remember, and she could see how happy Jane made him. Isabelle's longest relationship had lasted for a year to a fellow teacher; she'd been the one to end it. There had been nothing wrong with Greg—she'd just found their relationship excruciatingly boring. All the brief relationships she'd had since then had simply come and gone, and Isabelle assumed that whomever she ended up settling down with—if she ended up settling down at all—would be a man she was good friends with, and with whom she shared a mild attraction. After all, Scott had once told her that friendships were the basis of every good long-term marriage.

  "But don't you feel a spark for Jane?" Isabelle had asked Scott.

  "Every day," he'd replied with a smile. "There's a quote out there that says love is friendship set on fire. I like to think desire is included in that as well."

  Fire. Her eyes strayed to Ciaran as she thought of their explosive kiss in the cave, of the heat that seared her skin at his mere touch. Ciaran met her gaze, something unreadable lurking in the hazel depths of his eyes.

  "How did you and Ciaran meet?" Isabelle asked Gabhran, tearing her eyes away from Ciaran's and taking a sip of her ale.

  "Our fathers were allies in times of conflict—as well as our clans. At first I didnae like Ciaran. He was single-minded, only focused on the fact that he was the tainistear; heir to the chieftain.”

  "Ye wasnae so pleasant yerself," Ciaran returned. His tone was light and teasing, but his expression had tightened.