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

  “Ye would do the same for me,” Lachaid said gruffly, stepping back. “Now go—before the stable boys return.”

  Ciaran gave Lachaid a nod and turned to ride away from the castle, keeping his head ducked low. He resisted the urge to turn and look back at the turreted stone castle he’d called home his entire life. Instead, he kept his gaze trained on the road ahead.

  Now that he’d escaped, he was officially an outlaw. Anger filled his chest, replacing the lingering guilt and despair he’d felt in his cell. He couldn’t let Tavish get away with this. Eoin’s death would not go unavenged. He would somehow clear his name and return to his castle to confront his brother and make him answer for what he’d done.

  For the first time since his arrest, determination swelled within him. Ciaran kicked the sides of his horse, urging him to go faster. The sooner he found somewhere safe to shelter, the sooner he could make his plan to return.

  Ciaran heeded Lachaid’s advice, riding until he was clear of Aitharne lands. He soon entered the lands of a neighboring clan, Clan McCrosain. They were a friendly clan, allies to Clan Aitharne, but he still needed to stay out of sight. He didn’t want them to bear the responsibility of harboring a fugitive.

  Ciaran guided his horse into a forest that lined the edge of the sprawling green moors, bringing him to a stop when they reached a clearing. He would have to make camp for the night until he determined where to go.

  It had been some time since he'd spent the night outdoors; his hunting trips only took him away from the castle for a few hours at a time. He tied his horse to a tree, and a sense of calm settled over him as he set up camp. He'd spent the past few days in a cramped and dirty cell. It felt good to be outdoors, with its crisp air scented with damp earth and pine. A stream wound through the clearing, and the sound of its trickling water over rocks soothed him.

  Lachaid had included provisions of food in his bag; bread and ale. He tore into the bread though it only partially satisfied the hunger that gnawed at his gut. He'd taken for granted the sumptuous feasts he had in the great hall on a daily basis, with the cooks preparing his favorite meals of sumptuous stews and roasted meats.

  A sudden sadness filled him, not over the everyday comforts of the castle, but over the sense of isolation that settled over him. He loved Aitharne Castle, from its myriad of chambers and winding corridors, to the great hall where he’d enjoyed many a feast. The castle was filled to the brim with workers and servants who’d worked in the castle since before he was a bairn, many of whom were like family to him. Aitharne Castle had been in his family and clan for several generations. But Tavish had desecrated his home with Eoin’s murder.

  He finished his bread, taking a swig of ale. It would do no good to mull over Tavish's treachery. He needed to focus on what he'd do next.

  His thoughts wandered to a close friend of his: Gabhran. He lived not far from these lands with his wife and young daughter. Ciaran was reluctant to put him and his family at risk by hiding out with them, but Gabhran was his closest ally—and he had the resources and men to help him.

  It was beginning to grow dark. Ciaran put aside thoughts of Gabhran as he used his cloak as a makeshift bed, lying down and allowing his heavy fatigue to claim him.

  Ciaran awoke to the sound of a splash and a muffled curse. He was instantly on his feet, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

  In the near distance, he heard more splashing. Gripping his sword, he moved out of the clearing, following the stream south.

  He went still when he arrived at the source of the splashing, astonishment rendering him still.

  A bonnie lass in breeches stood on the banks of the stream, as wet as a drowned rodent, her blue eyes wild with fear.

  Chapter 5

  When the world righted itself around Isabelle, she found herself splashing about in a muddy stream. Startled, she looked around in astonishment. It looked like it was the middle of the night, and she was amid a thick patch of forest. There was no sign of Kensa—or Tairseach—anywhere.

  How was it night? It was barely afternoon when she’d come to Tairseach with Kensa.

  Panic tightened her chest as she recalled Kensa's words, right before she released her arms. You don't belong here either, Isabelle. It's time for you to go.

  Isabelle froze at the sound of someone’s approach; twigs cracked and branches rustled. She stumbled out of the stream, shivering from the chill in the night air . . . and from fear.

  Her heart leapt into her throat at the sight of a tall and broad-shouldered man emerging from a thick patch of trees.

  “Lass?” he asked. “Are ye all right?"

  “Stay back!” Isabelle shouted, noticing the sword he carried at his side. She tried to remain calm, reassuring herself that at least it wasn't a gun.

  He wore medieval clothing—a dark tunic and a kilt, both stained with dirt. She couldn’t make out much of his face, given that it too was covered in grime, but his eyes were distinct; a hazel color that was an arresting mixture of brown, gray and green.

  “I’m not going tae hurt ye, lass,” he said, holding his hands up and tossing his sword aside. “Where’s yer escort?”

  “Escort?” Isabelle echoed. She could barely understand his thick Scottish brogue, and she was still preoccupied by his medieval clothing.

  “Aye,” he said, his brow furrowing with concern. “A lass shouldnae travel on her own at night without escort. Where's yer horse? Did harm come tae ye or yer escort?”

  Isabelle just stared at him, her throat going dry. And all at once, the memory of Kensa’s words slammed into her.

  I help travelers get to where they need to be. Fiona didn’t belong in this time.

  They don’t just vanish. They fall through time.

  Only those with the ability to travel can see it.

  Isabelle let out a sharp laugh, stumbling back from him. This was a prank. It had to be. An insane, ridiculous prank.

  But the man was looking at her with nothing but utter sincerity. She drew a shaky breath.

  "What—what year is it?”

  “What year is it?” the man echoed, looking even more concerned now. “Lass, are ye certain ye—”

  “Answer the question, please."

  “’Tis the year 1390,” the man said slowly.

  Isabelle closed her eyes, gripping the side of the nearest tree to keep herself upright. It couldn't be 1390. That was impossible. There had to be a reasonable explanation.

  “Can—can you point me to the nearest road?" she whispered.

  “There’s no roads nearby," the man said. "The closest ones ye'll find are muddy and unreliable, difficult tae make out in the dark. But even if ye could, 'tis not safe for ye tae travel on yer own. Is that why ye're dressed in those strange breeches—like a lad?" he asked, his concerned gaze lowering to the dark jeans she wore, now splattered with mud. His eyes then swept up to her soaked and dirty T-shirt, lingering on the swell of her breasts. Her face flamed at his appraisal as he continued, "But 'tis quite obvious ye're a lass—and a bonnie one. At least wait till morning tae be on yer way."

  Isabelle glowered at him before turning and stalking away. Eventually, she’d hear the sounds of cars or a plane—or something that would orient her.

  “Where are ye going, lass?” the man demanded, trailing her.

  “Away from here,” she snapped. “Please stop following me.”

  To her surprise, he immediately fell back. But she only felt a small semblance of relief as she stumbled forward. The forest only seemed to grow thicker the farther she went. Unease shot through her; she'd not noticed any nearby forests when she'd arrived at Tairseach with Kensa.

  And then there was the silence. The eerie silence. There were no distant sounds of cars or planes.

  Isabelle stopped, blinking back tears. How could Kensa be so cruel? Isabelle must have passed out and for whatever reason, Kensa dumped her here in the middle of nowhere.

  But there was another explanation. Isabelle took a breath, allowing
herself to consider the impossible. She'd always told her students when they wrote their creative essays and short stories to always consider the impossible.

  She recalled how Kensa had seemed to make the door close on her own, how she seemed to age in real time. She allowed the possibility to sink in, the possibility that Kensa had somehow made her travel back in time, and that large Scot back there had been telling her the truth, and she was indeed in 1390.

  She heard a rustling behind her and whirled, screaming when she saw the man standing less than twenty feet behind her.

  “I told you not to follow me,” she said, placing a hand over her racing heart.

  “I never agreed tae that. I just wanted tae make sure ye were safe.”

  The man's tone was kind, and she softened. She took him in. Even though she'd just met him, there was something trustworthy about the man. Despite the scary sword he carried, she didn't think he meant her any harm.

  “I’ve been camping out here for the night. If ye want tae make camp here as well, I’ve a cloak for ye tae rest upon. I'll sleep away from ye. Ye'll have nothing tae fear from me," he said gently. "I ken ye want tae leave, but 'tis best not tae travel till first light."

  Isabelle swallowed, taking another look around. He was right. She wasn't going anywhere—no matter what year it was—in this darkness.

  "Thank you," she murmured.

  "I'm called Ciaran," he said. "Ciaran of—” he abruptly stopped himself, and a shadow passed over his face.

  "I'm Isabelle," she said, filling the awkward silence.

  "Isabelle," he said slowly, and something about the way he said her name made a sharp spike of awareness pierce her. "Allow me tae escort ye back tae my camp."

  Isabelle followed him, shaking her head as if to rid herself of the spark of desire she'd felt when he said her name. She'd possibly landed in another time; there was no time to swoon over a mysterious Scot in medieval clothing.

  She took several deep breaths to calm herself as they walked. Her brain still protested the notion of having traveled back through time, but there was nothing she could do until she could at least see her surroundings. And then, God willing, she'd find a road—and a way back to Tairseach. Kensa had some answering to do.

  They reached a clearing, and Ciaran placed down a plaid cloak on the ground by a small fire. He straightened, pointing across the clearing.

  "I'll be over there. If ye need food or drink, there's some in that bag over there. If ye want tae get out of yer muddy clothes, I have a fresh tunic in that bag as well. ’Tis long enough that ye can wear it as a gown."

  Isabelle nodded her thanks as he made his way across the clearing and out of sight. Once he was gone, she reached into his bag, freezing as she pulled out a tunic. This certainly didn't look like a piece of modern clothing. It looked homemade, but by someone who knew how to stitch well, and made of a comfortable wool fabric.

  She shed her dirty clothes and slid on the tunic, settling down onto her makeshift bed. She stared up at the starry night sky, hoping against hope for the sight of a plane or anything that signaled she was still in the twenty-first century. But there were only the multitude of stars and the darkness of the night sky.

  There's a reasonable explanation, Isabelle told herself firmly, closing her eyes. There has to be.

  Isabelle awoke the next morning with a start. She sat up, her body aching from sleeping on the ground. She looked around with a sinking feeling. She'd hoped that it had all been a dream. But she was still in the same clearing, wearing a medieval tunic.

  She got to her feet, crossing the clearing to where Ciaran had disappeared to the night before. He could help her get to the nearest road back to Tairseach. But she didn't find him, and for a moment panic filled her as she wondered if he'd left.

  She heard splashing in the stream, coming from the near distance, and her heart soared with relief.

  Isabelle followed the sound downstream and froze when she found Ciaran.

  Ciaran was cleaning himself off in the stream . . . completely naked. The filth and grime that covered him the night before had hidden a sculpted, muscular body—from a pair of long tapered legs, firm abdominal muscles, broad shoulders, and a rippling back. He was faced away from her, thank God, and didn't seem to notice she was there as he washed himself with his hands.

  Isabelle swallowed, wondering how she should make herself known, but she was unable to speak. Ciaran turned, and the simmering desire that burned within her skyrocketed. The grime and darkness of the night before had concealed not only a stunning body, but a strikingly handsome face. He had a generous mouth, a chiseled jaw dusted with a couple of days’ growth of stubble, and an aristocratic nose. He opened his eyes, and Isabelle had to stifle a gasp. His eyes were even more dazzling in daylight—their grays and greens highlighted in the sun. He was by far the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

  It was only the look of shock in Ciaran's stunning eyes that brought her back to herself. She turned away from him, swallowing hard.

  "I—I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't see you when I awoke, so I came to find you."

  "Tis all right, lass," he said, and she could have sworn she heard a trace of amusement in his voice.

  A long stretch of silence passed, and she hoped—prayed—that he was getting dressed. Soon, she felt his hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him.

  He was even more handsome up close. Those multicolored eyes of his were trained on hers with intense focus. She took a step back, painfully aware of how she must look. Her dark hair was mussed, there were still traces of grime on her skin from the muddy stream, and she must have smelled awful.

  "Sorry," she said again, stupidly. She noticed with annoyance that he was only half dressed; he wore a belted plaid kilt, and his glistening muscled abdomen was way too close to her body. She took another step back. "Ah—are you going to put a shirt on?"

  He moved past her and shrugged into a tunic he'd strewn over a log. Isabelle expelled a small sigh of relief. At least now she could concentrate.

  "Now that it's light," Isabelle said, “can you direct me—or help me find—a road? If I could just—"

  "Quiet," Ciaran interrupted, moving to stand in front of her.

  Isabelle stilled, startled at his sudden state of alarm.

  And then she heard it too. Footsteps approaching them through the trees.

  Two men stepped out, their hands on the hilt of their swords, their eyes gleaming with dark intent.

  Chapter 6

  A surge of protectiveness filled Ciaran’s chest as the two men approached. By the rough look of them—dirty tunics and torn breeches, bloodshot eyes from the effect of too much drink—he suspected they were bandits. He didn’t like the way they were looking at Isabelle, with lasciviousness in their eyes. He moved in front of her to shield her from their gazes.

  "If ye leave now, no harm will come tae ye," he said, his hand lowering to the hilt of his sword, relieved that he'd had the sense to place it in its sheath on his belt when he'd dressed.

  The men just laughed, taking another menacing step toward them.

  "Will ye?" asked the larger of the two, a bearded blond who had the look of a Norseman. "How about we enjoy that lass of yers while ye watch?"

  Isabelle let out a terrified whimper behind him, and rage tore through him. Ciaran took out his sword and charged toward the men with a snarl.

  They took out their swords as well, and his weapon clashed with each of theirs. He kicked at the Norseman’s knees, sending him sprawling to the ground. He turned his attention to the other man, backing him up to the edge of the clearing as their swords continued to duel. The man let out a ferocious growl and charged toward Ciaran, his sword outstretched, but Ciaran was ready, striking him in the head with the hilt of his sword. The bandit slumped to the ground, still and unconscious.

  Ciaran turned to deal with the other bandit, but to his surprise he saw that he lay unconscious at Isabelle's feet. She shakily held the man's sword, he
r eyes wild with panic.

  "He—he came at me," she whispered. "I panicked and grabbed his sword. I just—swung at him."

  "Ye did good, lass," he said, giving her an impressed nod. "But we must leave. They'll not stay down long."

  She didn't protest, her face still tight with shock as he gathered his things and helped her up onto his horse. After slinging his bag of supplies onto the back of the horse, he climbed on behind her.

  Ciaran wrapped his arms around her to get to the reins, a surge of heat coursing through him at the feel of her body against his. He had to force himself to concentrate as he kicked the sides of the horse to gallop out of the clearing. But he remained aware of Isabelle's body against his as they rode out of the forest and onto one of the many green moors that dotted the Highlands.

  He veered left when he spotted another patch of forest up ahead, tucked away next to an expanse of rolling hills. From his previous hunting trips, he knew that where there were hills there were caves—perfect hiding spots.

  He tugged on the reins, slowing the horse's pace to a trot as they entered the forest. They soon reached a clearing, only steps away from the entrance of a small cave.

  Ciaran dismounted, helping Isabelle down before tying the horse to a tree. She remained silent and pale, her arms wrapped around her body. The encounter with the bandits had clearly shaken her.

  "Isabelle," he said gently.

  She raised her lovely blue eyes to meet his, and he swallowed. He'd been able to tell she was bonnie when he first saw her last night, wet from the stream and illuminated by moonlight, but the darkness had concealed the true strength of her beauty.

  Her hair was as dark as a raven's wings, falling in a straight curtain down past her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of the sky at midday; clear and blue. Her features were delicate and feminine—a heart-shaped face, sensual lips, high cheekbones. And beneath the baggy tunic she wore, he could make out the full curve of her breasts, the sensual flare of her hips. Desire shot through his body with the force of an arrow, and he had to take a breath to quell it.