Ciaran's Bond: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 3) Read online

  “Hey,” Scott said, leaning forward in his chair. “I made you a promise after Mom and Dad died, remember? I promised I’d protect you and do everything I could to make sure you were happy. I may not be able to protect you in the past, but if this man makes you happy, I can help you get back to him."

  Though she was reassured by Scott’s words, that night she couldn’t sleep. What if she couldn’t travel through time without Kensa? What if she ended up in a different place? A different time? And an even darker thought plagued her. What if it was already too late to save Ciaran, and he’d already been executed?

  A strangled sob erupted from her at the thought, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. She wouldn’t let herself entertain it.

  She finally managed to get a small amount of sleep, crawling out of bed just after dawn to dress in her medieval gown, stowing the dagger securely beneath her sleeve. Scott’s eyes widened when he came to her room to collect her.

  “Well, you certainly look the part, Iz,” he said with a grin.

  They drove to Tairseach in silence, Isabelle having to point out where to stop once she spotted its ruins.

  When they climbed out of the car, Scott gave her the longest embrace he’d ever given her—even longer than the one he’d given her after they lost their parents.

  "Be safe, Izzy," he whispered, when he released her. "I love you."

  "I love you too," she said, blinking back tears. “If I do stay in the past, I’ll find a way to visit you. I promise.”

  “Good. But even if you don’t . . . I just want your happiness. And it sounds like your Highlander makes you happy. Now go. Go rescue the man you love.”

  It was an echo of the words Ciaran had spoken, right before he pushed her back through time. Live yer life. Go. But what she’d realized in that moment was that her life was with Ciaran.

  Isabelle smiled, giving her brother one last look before she turned to enter the village. She could feel Scott’s eyes on her as she made her way to the same spot she’d come to with Kensa.

  She took a deep breath as the wind picked up, and unlike the other two times she’d traveled, when she’d felt uncertainty and fear—this time there was only determination. Determination and love.

  Ciaran, she thought, her heart swelling as she saw the man she loved in her mind’s eye.

  She closed her eyes, allowing the wind to suck her back through the chasm of time.

  Chapter 19

  1390

  Aitharne Castle

  Ciaran wondered if Isabelle and the time he'd spent with her at Gabhran's manor had all been a dream.

  He was back in the same cell he'd languished in weeks before, despair seeping into his bones. He kept seeing Isabelle vanish right before his eyes.

  After she'd disappeared, Tavish’s men had hauled him back to Aitharne Castle. Tavish told Ciaran he’d found him by having his men watch Gabhran's manor in case he returned there.

  “Yet the whole time, ye were hiding out in his manor like a coward. Now tell me,” Tavish had hissed, as soon as a guard threw Ciaran into the cell. “Where is that Sassenach with the strange tongue who lied tae me? She needs tae be punished for her deception.”

  But Ciaran had remained silent, relieved that Isabelle was safe in her own time, free from Tavish's wrath. He thought Tavish would resort to torture to get answers from him, but to Ciaran's relief he'd stopped questioning him about Isabelle after his first day of captivity. Ciaran assumed—hoped—that Tavish was content with his capture. Ciaran was the one he wanted dead.

  Ciaran closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. He didn’t know how long he’d been in this cell. He'd passed the time by thinking of Isabelle. The musical sound of her laughter, the way her blue eyes lit up when she discussed something she was passionate about, the softness of her bare skin against his as he made love to her.

  A wave of grief swept over him. His former goal to avenge Eoin and clear his name had vanished along with Isabelle. Isabelle, who had so briefly shone a light onto the darkness of his life, was no longer with him. She was gone, like his brother, and darkness was the only thing that fed his dispirited soul.

  Now he longed for it to all to be over. He hoped to carry his memories of Isabelle with him into death. Love had been a foreign concept to him; he'd not come close to loving any of the lasses he'd bedded before. But he knew that love described the depths of his feelings for Isabelle. She was the only lass he had ever or would ever love, and she was now lost to him across the expanse of time.

  Ciaran drifted off to sleep, coming to off and on, barely touching the gruel the guard shoved into his cell. He didn’t recognize this guard, a stocky man with severe gray eyes who spoke in grunts and barks. He didn’t know what had become of Angus; he could only pray that Tavish hadn't punished him with death for releasing him. Nor was there any sign of Lachaid, whom Ciaran was certain would have visited him by now. Ciaran prayed that he too was safe.

  The guard shook him awake from one of his brief sleeps, one filled with images of his Isabelle. The guard roughly lifted him to his feet, and he realized with a dark relief that this was it, he was finally being marched to his death.

  His legs were weak from his long spell of sitting; he struggled to walk with the guard, who led him out of the dungeons. He noticed that the corridors of the castle seemed quiet; the castle always grew quiet when there was an execution. He never thought it would one day be a witness to his own.

  The guard kept a firm grip on his arm as he led him out to the courtyard. A small crowd was gathered; Ciaran recognized some familiar faces, ranging from castle workers to local villagers.

  Tavish stood on the scaffold he'd had built for this occasion, next to the hangman and a noose. Ciaran searched his brother’s eyes for any regret or guilt, but he only saw burning hatred as the guard led him up the scaffold's steps.

  Ciaran felt nothing but a numb resolve as the hangman stepped forward, placing the noose around his neck. Tavish stepped forward to address the crowd.

  "My brother, your former laird and former chieftain of Clan Aitharne, stands guilty of the murder of my dear brother, Eoin," Tavish announced. “After his cowardly escape, I have returned him to the castle for his punishment—death by hanging."

  The crowd reacted with silence, not the usual jeers or cries that accompanied hangings. Ciaran had been a kind laird to the villagers and castle workers; he could see disbelief and grief in many of their eyes.

  Tavish scowled, looking displeased by the lack of acclamation from his announcement.

  "Today ye are not the favored one, beloved by all," Tavish hissed in a low voice, turning to face Ciaran. "Today ye go tae yer death like a traitor and criminal. The clan and castle will be mine; I will do everything I can tae stamp out your memory."

  If Ciaran could feel anything, he would recoil from the spite in Tavish's eyes, though a part of him wanted to laugh.

  How had he not seen this before? Tavish's hatred stemmed from jealousy. Jealousy that Ciaran was chief and laird, that he was a well-liked leader. It was this jealousy that led him to kill Eoin, leaving all the inherited power to him.

  But Ciaran chose not to react to his brother's words; he wouldn't give him the pleasure of a response. He stared straight ahead, filling his mind with thoughts of Isabelle as the hangman tightened the noose around his neck, and Tavish stepped down from the scaffold.

  Isabelle's warm hand in his as they walked through the gardens of Gabhran's estate. Isabelle's laughter as he told her of his and Gabhran's youthful exploits. Isabelle telling him about the works of a poet not yet born named William Shakespeare, her voice infused with passion as she recited some of his poetry: “When Love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.”

  I love ye, Isabelle, he thought, closing his eyes as the hangman stepped back. Bracing himself for the end.

  The sound of multiple horse hooves and startled shouts forced his eyes open.

  Two dozen men rode into the courtyard, scatte
ring the gathered crowd. Ciaran watched in dazed disbelief, recognizing two of the riders—Gabhran and Lachaid—as they dismounted from their horses, withdrawing their swords to fight off Tavish’s men.

  Amid the chaos, several riders rode toward him, a cloak shielding one of their faces. As the rider drew closer, Ciaran's heart stopped.

  The rider wasn’t a man. It was Isabelle.

  The other men who rode with her leapt from their horses, charging at Tavish and the hangman. Tavish, who had gone still and white with shock, stumbled back as the men charged toward him, calling fearfully for his guards.

  The hangman turned to flee while one of Ciaran's rescuers cut him free from the noose.

  Isabelle remained on her horse, extending her hand.

  "Ciaran!" she shouted. "Come with me! Get on my horse!”

  This isnae real, Ciaran thought in a daze. I've already died, and this is just—

  "Ciaran!" Isabelle shouted again. “We have to leave!"

  The man who’d freed him from his noose gave him a gentle shove, and Ciaran stepped off of the scaffold, climbing onto the back of Isabelle’s horse. She kicked the sides of her horse, and they tore out of the courtyard as Tavish’s men continued to fight off Ciaran's rescuers.

  Shock tore through him as they rode, and he tightened his arms around Isabelle’s waist—both to keep himself steady and to reassure himself that she was real. He took in the long, silky, dark strands of her hair, leaning forward to inhale her familiar honeyed scent. Tears stung his eyes; it was her. His Isabelle.

  He tightened his grip on her waist as they continued to ride. Ciaran fought against his weakness and fatigue as they rode, not wanting to fall asleep only to wake back up in that cell, to find that this had all been a glorious dream.

  Isabelle stopped when they reached a crumbling old manor deep in the Highlands, one he didn’t recognize. She dismounted and gently helped him down.

  He swayed on his feet, reaching out to touch her face. She caught his hands in hers and met his eyes, tears glistening in her own.

  “Isabelle,” he breathed. “My Isabelle.”

  He wanted to kiss her, to pull her into his arms and never let her go, but he could no longer fight off his fatigue, and succumbed to the blackness that claimed him.

  Chapter 20

  Ciaran came to in a large chamber. He lay in the center of a bed, with Isabelle sitting at his side. She stroked his hair, placing a cup of water to his lips.

  "Drink," she murmured. "You’re dehydrated."

  He drank, relishing in the feel of the liquid flowing down his throat, his eyes locked on Isabelle's the entire time, his heart leaping with joy. He'd feared he'd awake back in his cell, or that he was already dead.

  But Isabelle was at his side, dressed in a lovely gown of deep lavender, her raven hair hanging loose around her shoulders, her blue eyes filled with concern as she watched him drink.

  "You’re here," he whispered, when he’d drunk his fill, and she set down the cup on the side table. "How?"

  "I couldn't leave you here to die for a crime you didn’t commit. And I still haven’t found Fiona,” Isabelle said. “I had to come back.”

  He shook his head, overwhelmed with disbelief at her bravery, at her daring that bordered on the foolish.

  “How'd ye find me?"

  "I was able to travel back again—on my own. I arrived in Tairseach. I got a map of this area in my time. I got a horse at a nearby village and went right back to Gabhran and Donella's manor—they were still there. I told them I turned back at the border and couldn't bear to leave you behind. They sent for your friend Lachaid when I told them about Tavish capturing you; Lachaid came with about twenty men loyal to you from your clan and Gabhran's. We all planned the rescue. I didn't want to wait until the day you were scheduled to hang, but Lachaid told me it was easiest to rescue you when you were out in the open. I—I was afraid we'd be too late," she whispered, reaching out to touch the side of his face. She expelled a shaky breath, gesturing around at the chamber. “We're at the manor of Lachaid's late uncle. He said Tavish doesn't know about this place—hardly anyone does.”

  Ciaran studied her with admiration. But as joyful as he was to see her, unease spiraled through him.

  “I’m glad tae see ye again. But ’tis dangerous for ye here. ’Tis why I insisted ye return tae yer time. Tavish is determined tae see me hang—and determined tae find ye. Now that ye’ve helped me escape, he—"

  “I’ve traveled back six hundred years through time,” Isabelle interrupted with a scowl. “I’m not letting fear of your spoiled little brother stop me from helping you—and from finding my best friend."

  Ciaran knew he should insist that she go back to her time, but she was looking at him with a fiery determination, as if daring him to challenge her.

  He smiled, reaching for her hand and lifting it to his lips for a kiss. He didn’t want her to go . . . for purely selfish reasons. He wanted her at his side and in his bed—not just for now, but for always, though he knew that was impossible. She didn't belong in this time, and she would one day return to her own.

  “I missed ye, lass,” he murmured, pushing the painful thought away. “I dreamed of ye the entire time I was in my cell.”

  Isabelle’s expression softened.

  “I missed you too,” she whispered. “I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

  He pulled her close, claiming her mouth with his own. Warmth and desire coiled around him as he tasted her, relishing in the feel of her in his arms once more. His cock swelled as he pulled her closer, unable to quell the need that filled him at her proximity.

  But Isabelle shifted, releasing herself from his kiss with a guilty flush.

  “Ciaran, you’re still weak,” she whispered. “And you’ve not eaten. We should wait until—"

  He silenced her with a kiss, pulling her down next to him. Isabelle whimpered in protest at first, but wrapped her arms around his neck, probing his mouth with the same eagerness with which his mouth probed hers.

  “Right now, I only hunger for ye, my beauty,” he whispered, releasing her mouth from his. He lowered the bodice of her gown, swallowing at the sight of her firm breasts. “I dreamed about every part of yer lovely body while I was imprisoned. Yer ripe breasts . . ."

  He leaned down, seizing her nipple with his mouth and suckling. Isabelle moaned as he nursed on one breast, and then the other.

  “The plane of yer stomach,” he continued, stripping her of her gown before kissing down the expanse of her abdomen.

  Isabelle bit her lip, stifling a moan as he peppered his kisses lower . . . lower still. She cried out as his mouth found her center, and he feasted on her.

  “The taste of honey between yer thighs,” he growled, as he licked and probed her center, until she shuddered her release.

  “Ciaran . . .” she whimpered, when she came back to earth.

  “I’m not finished, lass,” he replied, nipping at the base of her throat as he lifted himself from her center, removing his kilt as he positioned himself above her. “I dreamed of the feel of ye . . . when I buried myself inside ye.”

  Isabelle gasped as he sank himself inside her, her eyes widening as he began to move. He increased the force of his thrusts as pleasure built up within him, his eyes roaming from Isabelle’s flushed face to her bouncing breasts, burying his face in her neck as their mutual pleasure built to a climax, and he shouted her name as he came, spilling himself inside her.

  “But most of all, my beauty,” he whispered, when he had again caught his breath, leaning down to seize her lips with his own. “I missed yer smile. Yer laughter. Ye.”

  Isabelle's expression filled with warmth.

  "I felt like Orpheus when I returned," she murmured. "Returning to the underworld to save you.”

  He smiled, holding her close as he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It wasn't a confession of love, but hearing that Isabelle cared for him was enough to make his heart swell.

>   "Are the Highlands the underworld, lass?" he teased. "Are they that bad compared tae yer time?"

  "You know what I mean," Isabelle said, reaching out to give him a playful swat.

  "I was happy tae have ye rescue me," he said, in all seriousness. "I was bereft of hope till I saw ye again. My Isabelle."

  Isabelle rested her head on his shoulder, and he pulled her even closer, wanting nothing more than to bind her to him. She may not belong in this time, but that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the time he had with her, and he intended to savor every moment.

  Just after first light the next morning, Ciaran stood by the window, gazing out at the grounds of the manor. It was hard to believe that just the day before, he'd been prepared for death. Had longed for it.

  He turned to Isabelle, who lay sleeping in bed. Her dark hair had fallen over her face in the throes of sleep, and the rise and fall of her chest was steady with her breaths. Her return had rejuvenated him; his determination reawakened. Shame filled him at his dark and suicidal thoughts of the day before. Why had he allowed himself to face defeat? Never again. He would confront Tavish and take back his birthright.

  Isabelle stirred, her lovely eyes fluttering open. He crossed the chamber to sit at her side, pulling her into the circle of his arms. He would have to go downstairs to talk to Lachaid and Gabhran about what he planned to do, and to thank them for his rescue. But for now, he wanted to enjoy these few moments alone with his Isabelle.

  “Before you talk to the others, there's something you should know,” Isabelle murmured, looking up at him. "In my time, I found something of note in an archive. It was a record of Tavish granting land to a noble named Walrick last year."

  Ciaran stiffened, releasing her. Walrick had been one of the men to make false statements against him in Eoin’s murder.