Ciaran's Bond: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 3) Page 8

  "What’s yer favorite of these?" he asked. "These classics?"

  “Many of the Greek ones, especially the myths. The one about Orpheus descending to—”

  "Tae hell. To rescue the woman he loves," he finished for her. At the surprise that flared in her eyes, he gave her a teasing grin. "What? Ye doonae believe a Highlander can read the classics? I told ye my castle had fine tutors. 'Tis one of my favorite tales."

  "Really?" she asked, looking at him with the eagerness of a wee lass, and he chuckled.

  "Aye," he said. "Ye'd have liked Eoin. He also liked reading, telling tales. He . . ." Ciaran trailed off as an image of his brother's kind face filled his mind. He wasn't prepared for the sudden grief that gripped him. He closed his eyes against a sting of tears.

  "Ciaran."

  He opened his eyes. Isabelle had taken his hand, her expression filled with warmth and empathy.

  "Don't fight your grief. Pushing it away only makes it worse. Allow yourself to grieve. It's the only way to move forward."

  He wanted to resist her words, to return to the numbness he'd given into ever since his arrest for Eoin's murder. But Isabelle had already changed something in him . . . she'd splintered the walls he'd erected around his heart.

  "It’s all right," Isabelle murmured. She reached out to pull him close, and Ciaran buried his face in the crook of her neck, his sweet Isabelle, and he wept.

  As the early morning light of dawn filtered into Isabelle's chamber, they awoke at the same time, and Ciaran made love to her again. This time it was less fervent, but all the more passionate, his eyes locked on hers as he moved within her, their intimate movements hushed and unhurried in the silence of first light.

  "Tell me more about him," Isabelle whispered afterward, as they held each other. "Your brother."

  He told her all about Eoin, how he always found the joy in everyday living, how well-liked he was among the clan, how he was able to make even the sternest noble laugh.

  "I tried tae have the same bond with Tavish that I had with Eoin. But he remained cold and closed off—’tis been that way since he was a bairn. I'd no idea he hated me so. I should have ken.”

  "You couldn't have," Isabelle said firmly. "And all that's in the past. What matters now is how you move forward."

  Her words settled in, and a renewed surge of determination flowed through him. If Gabhran’s men weren't finding anything, he would have to try something else. Perhaps even find another clan to ally with him. He couldn’t let Tavish get away with what he’d done.

  Ciaran stilled as the sound of multiple horse hooves splintered the silence.

  He scrambled out of bed. Shock skittered through him when he looked out the window. Several men on horseback approached the manor. As they drew closer, he recognized his brother as one of them.

  Tavish had found him.

  Chapter 15

  Isabelle got out of bed, clutching the sheets around her nude body, her chest growing tight. Ciaran's face had gone white as he stared out the window.

  "What is it?" she whispered.

  "'Tis my brother. And his men," he said grimly, turning to face her.

  "Oh my God," Isabelle gasped. She stood frozen as Ciaran moved to the foot of the bed and scooped his clothing off the floor.

  "Ye're tae stay in this chamber,” he ordered, not looking at her as he got dressed. "If I turn myself in now, they'll have no reason tae come inside the manor."

  Horror flooded Isabelle’s body as she hastily got dressed.

  "Turn yourself in?"

  "Aye. I'll not have ye nor my friends harmed because of my presence here.”

  "No,” Isabelle protested, reaching out to grip his arm. "Tavish will have you hanged if you return."

  "'Tis not yer concern," Ciaran said, gently removing her hand. "Get yerself back to Tairseach—back tae yer own time once I'm gone."

  Panic coursed through Isabelle, and she shook her head. She couldn’t just leave Ciaran to be executed. An overwhelming sense of grief swept over her at the thought.

  She took several deep breaths, willing herself to calm, to think. And then an idea struck her.

  "Ciaran, wait. Please. I have an idea."

  "Isabelle—”

  "Think of Eoin," she interrupted. "Didn't you say you wanted to avenge him? Are you just going to give up?"

  "Tavish is here. There's no time tae plan a—“

  "Please just hear me out. My idea can give you more time."

  His expression remained tense, but he expelled a wary sigh.

  "All right, lass. What's yer plan?"

  Moments later, Isabelle stood outside the drawing room, her heart hammering erratically in her chest. Inside, Tavish and two of his men stood opposite Gabhran and Donella, grilling them about Ciaran's whereabouts. She'd only had moments to tell them her plan; to her relief they'd agreed to play along, as desperate to save Ciaran as she was.

  Isabelle took several deep breaths before pushing open the door. It was showtime.

  Gabhran turned, his eyes widening at the sight of her. His acting skills impressed her, as he stood and bellowed, "Isabelle! I told ye tae stay in yer chamber."

  Tavish and his men turned to face her. She tried not to flinch at Tavish's hard gaze. Unlike his brother, he was fair with blond hair and blue eyes, and unlike Ciaran’s natural warmth, there was a frostiness to him she could sense from several feet away.

  "I—I'm sorry," she said, hoping that she looked both startled and bashful. Tavish’s eyes narrowed at the sound of her odd accent. She turned as if to leave, but Tavish crossed the room to her in several large strides.

  "And just who are ye, lass?" he growled.

  "A guest," Gabhran said. "She has nothing tae—”

  "The lass can speak for herself," Tavish interjected, his eyes trained on hers. "I'll only ask once more. Who are ye, lass?"

  She looked at him with fear, which she didn't have to feign. Tavish’s coldness was intimidating.

  "I—I'm from England and was traveling through these parts to visit a cousin. Bandits overtook my coach. I—”

  "The lass has spoken enough," Gabhran interrupted. "Isabelle, leave here now."

  "If ye doonae silence yerself Gabhran, I'll have my men do it for ye," Tavish snapped. "Finish yer story, lass."

  Isabelle swallowed. This next part was a crucial part of her plan; she needed to sell it.

  "A man rescued me when the bandits attacked. Told me his name was Ciaran. He left me here so I could arrange transport and continue on my way, and—”

  "Stop it, Isabelle!" Gabhran shouted. "Keep yer mouth—”

  One of Tavish's men took a menacing step toward Gabhran, and Donella rushed to his side. Isabelle stilled, clenching her hands at her sides. She didn't want to risk Tavish's men hurting Gabhran, but the look in his eyes urged her to continue.

  "Continue, lass," Tavish ordered.

  "Ciaran told us that he didn't want to put his friends in danger, so he was going to stay with a trusted friend in Edinburgh."

  Gabhran and Donella looked at her in horror, and their performance again pleased her. She turned her gaze back to Tavish, the person who needed to buy their performance the most.

  A look of dark pleasure filled his eyes and revulsion roiled through her. How could the handsome and honorable Ciaran be related by blood to this snake? But she kept the expression of frightened confusion on her face.

  "Ye did good, lass," he murmured. "I ken several possible men he’ll seek out in Edinburgh. I doonae ken why Gabhran wants tae protect a murderer and traitor."

  His expression turned lascivious as his eyes trailed down to the curve of her breasts beneath her bodice.

  "Perhaps I can help ye get back tae England on our way to Edinburgh?"

  "That is very kind of you," Isabelle forced herself to say, though disgust filled her at the thought of going anywhere with this man. "But transport has already been arranged for me."

  "If Gabhran wasnae hosting such a bonnie lass and show
ing her hospitality—and if it wouldnae start a clan war—I'd have him hanged for treason and his wife and daughter sent tae a nunnery," he said coldly, shooting Gabhran a glare over his shoulder. "But I must continue the hunt for my treacherous brother. I thank ye for yer honesty, lass."

  He reached out to take her hand, lifting it to his lips for a kiss. Another wave of revulsion roiled through her, but she made herself smile.

  "If only we'd met under different circumstances, lass," he murmured, his eyes darkening with desire.

  "We need tae be on our way, m'laird," one of his men interrupted, to Isabelle's immense relief. "This weather willnae hold. Our horses cannae ride fast if the rain is heavy."

  Tavish nodded, but his gaze lingered on hers. Isabelle swallowed, fearing he'd insist she come with them. But he turned, gesturing for his men to follow him out.

  She moved to stand next to Gabhran and Donella as they watched Tavish and his men ride away from the manor. It was only when they disappeared into the distance that Isabelle's shoulders sank with relief.

  It worked, she thought in a daze. Her plan had worked, and she’d bought Ciaran time.

  Ciaran entered the room once Tavish and his men were out of sight, and she rushed to him, burying her face in the crook of his neck as he held her close.

  "I'm glad ye're safe," he whispered, stroking her hair. "It took everything in me not tae charge in here when he touched ye."

  She pulled back, looking up at him with horror.

  "You were watching? Ciaran, you were supposed to be hiding in the stables!"

  During her hastily put-together plan, they'd decided that Ciaran would stay out of sight in the stables while they put on their performance. Dread filled her at the thought of what would've happened if Tavish had spotted him.

  "I couldnae risk him hurting any of ye on the account of me," Ciaran said. "I was in the next room over, they didnae see me."

  "Isabelle did well. Yer brother believed her,” Donella said with a smile.

  "Thanks," Isabelle said, returning her smile. "So did the both of you."

  “I cannae stay here," Ciaran interjected, and Isabelle's relief dissipated. "Tavish coming here only proves how dangerous it is for me tae be here.”

  “No, Ciaran," Gabhran protested. “We sent him away.”

  "My brother will discover I'm not in Edinburgh; he'll return here. And when he returns, he'll not show ye any mercy. I need tae get more men on my side before he comes back—and not just for me, but to protect all of ye. May I talk tae Isabelle alone?" he added abruptly, and Isabelle stiffened with dread.

  After Gabhran and Donella obliged and left them alone, Ciaran took her hand, turning her to face him.

  “Ye need tae go on yer way. When Tavish realizes ye lied tae him, that ye're helping me . . . " he trailed off, his face draining of color. "I've seen how he treats lasses who displease him. Ye must get back tae yer time, Isabelle."

  Isabelle stilled, pain spiraling in her chest.

  "But, Fiona—” she began.

  "I assume yer friend would want ye tae be safe," he interrupted. "I can give her name tae people I ken, arrange for word tae get tae ye if she's found. Gabhran and Donella will also keep up the search.”

  “What about you?” Isabelle pressed “Where are you going to go?”

  “There's a high-ranking noble I ken—Artair Brothaig. I doonae ken the man very well, but he was an ally of my father’s once and may help. Gabhran told me he resides not far from Tairseach. I'll take ye tae Tairseach, then seek refuge with him.”

  Uncertainty filled Isabelle's gut, and she opened her mouth to protest. But he placed his thumb over her lip to silence her, regret flaring in his hazel eyes.

  "I wish we'd met a different way, lass," he murmured. It was an echo of his brother's words, but Ciaran's words filled her with painful longing. Not only had they met under the wrong circumstances—they'd met at the wrong time.

  He leaned down to place a brief kiss on her lips before leaving her alone in the drawing room. She stood there for several moments, her eyes closed, pressing her fingers to her lips where he'd kissed her, as if she could sear the memory of his kiss onto them.

  Isabelle kept to her chamber for the rest of the day, declining even to eat with the others. She told herself that Ciaran was right; it was too dangerous for her here and Fiona would want her to be safe. Besides, she now had people who would keep up the search after she was back in the twenty-first century. She just needed to make sure they got a letter to her the way Fiona had if they found her.

  Yet her self talk did nothing to assuage the anguish that filled her over the prospect of her looming separation from Ciaran. And there was something else lingering beneath her sadness, an unease she couldn’t quite understand.

  It wasn’t until she was preparing for bed that the cause of her unease struck her. It was the noble Ciaran mentioned. Artair.

  Isabelle fled from her chamber, racing down the hall to find Ciaran. The entire time she’d been in the fourteenth century, her knowledge of the future had done nothing to help present events.

  Until now.

  Chapter 16

  Ciaran stiffened as Isabelle entered his chamber, a heated awareness rippling through him at the sight of her in her underdress. It clung to her curves, and he ached to pull her into his arms, to carry her to his bed and bury himself inside her.

  And had it not been for his brother’s visit, he would have.

  He’d had a taste of her for one night, and he’d have to be satisfied with that. Fear gripped him at the thought of Tavish capturing her, of taking his revenge for helping him. To keep her safe, he’d have to put his longing for her aside.

  Ciaran straightened, holding himself rigid as she approached, not letting his gaze slip to the outline of her breasts beneath her dress.

  “Ye shouldnae be in here, lass.”

  “I know,” she said. “But I needed to warn you about that noble you mentioned, Artair. You can’t trust him.”

  “How do ye ken?”

  “I’ve heard of him in my time. Remember Kensa, the woman I told you about? She told me about him, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she did. Two years from now, he’ll be hung for betraying several clans—working behind their backs to turn them against each other and profiting from their conflicts. If you go to him, I have no doubt he’ll go to Tavish and turn you in.”

  Ciaran went still, considering her words. He didn’t know Artair well, but there were rampant rumors about his mercenary nature. Yet Ciaran had limited options when it came to his choice of allies.

  “I thank ye,” he said, expelling a heavy sigh. He’d have to make alternative plans, though it would prove difficult to find men not allied with Clan Aitharne who'd take him in.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “’Tis not yer concern. Soon,” his voice wavered, but he forced himself to continue, “soon, ye’ll be back in yer own time, far from my troubles.”

  Isabelle bit her lip, her lovely eyes filling with tears.

  “I doonae want tae send ye away,” he whispered. “But ye understand how dangerous it is for ye here, aye?”

  “I do,” Isabelle said. “But I also don’t want anything to happen to you. I . . . I care about you, Ciaran. You don’t deserve this. Any of it.”

  “Doonae fret. I’ve other allies in the Highlands. It may be more difficult tae get tae them, but I will.”

  He reached down to wipe away a stray tear on her face with his thumb. Isabelle stilled at his touch; he heard her breath catch in her throat as her eyes lifted to his.

  Ciaran’s gaze lowered to her mouth, to the curve of her shoulders, to her breasts. He should tell her to return to her chamber. But his body wouldn’t listen. His heart wouldn’t.

  He pulled her into the circle of his arms, pressing his lips to hers. The heat that filled him flared to a simmering inferno, and his cock stirred beneath his kilt.

  “Ciaran,” Isabelle breathed against his mouth, “if
we’re to have one last night together . . . then let’s make it count.”

  She stepped back, and his mouth went dry as she lowered her underdress to stand nude before him.

  He growled at her challenge, moving forward to again capture her mouth with his. His desire was so great that he didn’t have the patience to get to the bed; he sank to his knees before her, gripping her buttocks and pulling her sweet quim to his mouth.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped, her hands going to his hair, pressing him more firmly against her. He continued to lick and probe her center, needing to remember her taste, to sear it into his memory. He didn’t stop until she quaked her release, and he lowered her to the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I cannae wait any longer.”

  Isabelle gasped as he lifted his tunic and sank his hard length inside her. She wound her arms around his neck, her breath coming out in gasps as he began to thrust. Their eyes locked as he pounded into her, and he leaned down to plunder her mouth with his tongue. It wasn't long before he felt the stirrings of his release tug on him, and he came with a roar, holding her close as her body shook with her own release.

  They were both still breathless as he sat up, gently scooping her into his arms. He carried her to the bed, his eyes trailing down the loveliness of her nude body—her full breasts, the flat plane of her abdomen, the gentle swell of her hips—and he hardened once more.

  Isabelle’s eyes widened at the sight of his erection, and he gave her a mischievous grin.

  “Ye said tae make this night count, my bonnie Isabelle,” he whispered, crawling on top of her, hissing at the feel of her naked flesh against his. “I intend tae make it so."

  Ciaran awoke long before Isabelle the next morning, his dread like a great weight in his heart. After he’d made love to her the second time, they’d spend the night talking, avoiding the subject of their looming separation. Instead, they spoke of the classics he and Isabelle were both fond of, the precociousness of Gabhran and Donella’s daughter, his friendship with Gabhran, which she told him seemed akin to her friendship with Fiona. He’d remained awake after she'd fallen asleep, gazing down at her, wanting to remember every detail of this bonnie time traveler who’d entered his life and filled it with momentary joy.