"Ye wasnae so pleasant yerself," Ciaran returned. His tone was light and teasing, but his expression had tightened.
"I did like yer brother Eoin as soon as I met him,” Gabhran said, his eyes thoughtful. “Kind lad. But Tavish—”
"Doonae say his name," Ciaran spat, gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles turned white. "After what he's done, I never want his name uttered around me again."
Ciaran's words shattered the light mood. Isabelle stilled, taking in Ciaran's fierce expression with surprise.
"Ye're right," Gabhran said, holding his hands up in a gesture of contrition. "After what the bastard did tae ye—murdering yer brother and setting ye up for it—”
"That's enough," Ciaran growled. He shot to his feet and stalked from the room, leaving a strained silence in his wake.
Both Gabhran and Donella exchanged a worried look. Isabelle stared at Ciaran's empty chair, frozen. So that's what Ciaran was hiding. He was an outlaw, and the brother he grieved, whom he called out for in his nightmares—had been murdered. By his own flesh and blood.
Isabelle's heart clenched with both horror and sympathy. She'd only known Ciaran briefly, but the man exuded nothing but kindness and honor. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he was innocent.
Isabelle got to her feet to go after him.
“Lass, perhaps ’tis best tae let him go,” Gabhran said gently.
But Isabelle didn’t heed his words. She left the dining room, spotting Ciaran striding down the long hallway, but she trailed him from a distance as he made his way out the back doors of the manor.
Isabelle followed him outside, finding him standing before the rear gardens, gazing out at the darkening countryside. He didn't turn around when she stepped outside, but he seemed to sense her presence.
"Go back inside, Isabelle," he muttered.
"No," Isabelle said. She stepped forward until she stood next to him, studying his handsome profile in the darkness.
“You didn't have to hide that from me. I may not have known you for long, but I can tell you're not a murderer."
"And why is that?" Ciaran asked, turning to look down at her, his eyes narrowed. He advanced, his eyes darkening, and she instinctively took a step back. "How do ye ken I'm not responsible for my brother's death?"
"Because you loved him. I can tell by the way you spoke of him. How you cried out for him in your nightmare," she said, unfazed by his harsh words. "That wasn't a murderer's guilt—it was grief. I have a brother too. He's my only living family. I’d be devastated if I lost him. I can only imagine what you're going through."
The darkness in Ciaran's eyes vanished, replaced by a look of raw vulnerability.
"Well, now ye ken," he said, looking away from her. "I'm an outlaw. My brother has men looking for me. ’Tis best if ye go yer own way, lass, and keep yer distance from me. I'm a wanted man."
"A wanted man who saved my life," Isabelle returned. "A wanted man who protected me when he didn't have to."
Ciaran hesitated, giving her a smile that was both rueful—and wolfish.
"My intentions werenae altogether honorable, lass," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Even in those strange and dirty clothes, ye were the bonniest lass I'd ever laid eyes upon."
Isabelle's face flamed as his gaze probed hers. He reached out to touch the side of her face, and desire coiled through her at his touch.
"For a moment—just a moment—all my sorrows went away at the sight of ye," he continued, his voice husky. "All I can think of is how much I want another taste of ye."
Isabelle's heart pounded with such ferocity that she could hear it thundering in her ears. Ciaran tilted her face up to his, and she was unable to breathe as he leaned down to seize her lips in a kiss.
Chapter 11
The fiery heat of desire filled Ciaran’s body as he held Isabelle close, probing her mouth with his. She tasted just as sweet as he remembered from their kiss in the cave, and he couldn’t stop the pleasured growl that emitted from his lips at the taste of her.
He released her only when they were breathless, and tilted her head back to nip at the base of her throat. Her skin was even softer there, her natural honeyed scent more potent.
"Ciaran . . .” Isabelle expelled his name with a sigh. The sound of his name on her lips made him harden against his kilt, and he seized her lips once more. This time Isabelle reached up to wind her hands through his hair, pressing his body firmly against her own.
The world around him faded away as he explored Isabelle's mouth. Her hardened nipples grazed his tunic, and he ached to lower her bodice and suckle them into his mouth. He groaned into her mouth at the thought, wanting the barrier of their clothing to fade away, to feel the softness of her bare skin against his, to kiss the plane of her abdomen until he reached the juncture in between her thighs, where he would take his time delving into her sweetness.
His cock strained against his kilt at the images roiling through his mind. He released her mouth, burying his face into the silken softness of her hair. Never had he ached for a lass as he ached for Isabelle; it took everything in his control to not make love to her right there in the garden.
Ciaran forced himself to step back from her, averting his gaze from the picture of loveliness she made—her lips plump from his kisses, her blue eyes infused with desire. He took her hand, and even that simple act filled him with yet another surge of need.
He led her back inside the manor, stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb as they walked, her pulse leaping and fluttering beneath his touch. When they reached her chamber door, he lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.
"Good night, bonnie Isabelle," he murmured.
She met his eyes, and he could see her disappointment which she unsuccessfully tried to hide with a polite smile.
“Good night.”
Isabelle stepped into her chamber, shutting the door behind her. Ciaran closed his eyes. Despite his desire for her, he wouldn’t ensnare her with an outlaw. She was an innocent lass, here in Scotland to find her friend—which he believed, even if he didn’t believe her fanciful story about coming from the future.
He turned and made himself walk away from her chamber before his cock made a different decision for him.
Images of Isabelle dominated his dreams that night. Her dark hair glistening in the moonlight of the garden, her soft lips against his, her generous curves pressed close to his body.
But when those pleasurable images faded, darker ones replaced them, images that had haunted him since Eoin's death. He saw Eoin's still lifeless body, his eyes wide and unseeing, and Ciaran awoke with a strangled gasp.
He looked around, his breath ragged. It was just past first light; early morning sunlight illuminated the chamber. Ciaran leaned back against his pillows, guilt skittering through him. He shouldn't be dreaming of Isabelle, not when he should only be thinking of Eoin and avenging his murder.
He avoided Isabelle's gaze at the morning meal, though he allowed himself a quick glance; not looking at her was like trying to avoid the sun’s rays on a midsummer’s day. Her eyes met his across the long table, and a tumult of longing and desire coursed through him. He had to force himself to look away.
If Gabhran and Donella noticed anything strange about his and Isabelle's behavior, they said nothing, keeping the conversation light, but Gabhran slid perceptive looks between the two of them.
He and Gabhran excused themselves after the meal, and he felt Isabelle's gaze on his retreating back.
Once they were alone in Gabhran's study, Ciaran closed the door behind them.
"I want tae apologize," he said gruffly. "For last night. I didnae mean tae lose my temper. I didnae want Isabelle tae ken I'm an outlaw."
"Ye care for the lass," Gabhran said. It was an observation, not a question.
Ciaran hesitated. He thought of the feel of Isabelle in his arms last night, and in the cave. He desired her in a way he'd never desired anyone, but he told himself he didn't
know Isabelle well enough for his feelings to run deeper.
"She's a bonnie lass," Ciaran replied, averting his gaze from Gabhran’s perceptive one.
"Last night after supper I went to find ye," Gabhran said, not swayed by Ciaran's evasiveness. "I saw ye two in the garden."
Ciaran stilled. From the mischievous glint in Gabhran’s eyes, he must have seen him kissing Isabelle.
"It was not a surprise," Gabhran continued, smiling. "I see the way she looks at ye. And ye at her.”
“I desire Isabelle, aye. But nothing further will happen between us," Ciaran said firmly, though he was just trying to convince himself. “She'll be on her way tae Tairseach after yer messenger completes his search for Fiona."
Gabhran’s expression tightened when he mentioned Tairseach, and Ciaran froze. He studied his friend.
“Gabhran,” he said. “What is it ye ken about Tairseach?”
“Do ye remember my Aunt Ilka?” Gabhran asked, after a brief moment of hesitation.
“Aye,” Ciaran said, his lips twitching in amusement. Ilka had been an odd woman, mumbling to herself at all times and insisting that he and Gabhran sit on her lap so she could sing to them. He, Gabhran, and other bairns had gone out of their way to avoid her.
“Well, she would go on about Tairseach anytime me and my family went tae visit her. She would insist that people appeared and disappeared at Tairseach all the time, even though it was abandoned by the druids along ago. And she’d often say . . . ” he trailed off, seeming reluctant to continue. “She’d say that these people were coming from and going to other times.”
Ciaran stiffened, astonishment flooding him.
“Other times? As in—past and future?”
“Aye. Given Isabelle’s odd manner of speech, and Donella mentioning that she wore strange underclothes, a part of me has wondered . . . ” Gabhran flushed as he trailed off, a look of embarrassment flashing across his face.
Ciaran’s heart hammered as he stared at Gabhran. Isabelle’s words rang in his mind: I know this is going to sound crazy, but I'm not from this time.
“I ken ’tis nonsense, there’s no need tae look at me like that,” Gabhran grumbled.
“’Tis not strange—we all have our superstitions,” Ciaran forced himself to say, his gut filling with turmoil. Could Isabelle be speaking the truth? Was the lass from the future?
“I ken. Forget I said anything of it. And doonae tell Donella, she would laugh at such foolishness,” Gabhran said.
Before Ciaran could answer, there was a sharp knock at the door, and relief flooded him. He didn't want to dwell on Tairseach and the notion of a person traveling through time.
Gabhran opened the door to reveal three men standing there. He waved them in with a wide smile.
"These are my most loyal men," Gabhran said. “Wylie, Somerled, and Ranulf. They've agreed tae help ye."
"I thank ye," Ciaran said, facing them. "I'll need ye tae return tae Aitharne Castle where ye can pose as stable workers—the stables are always in need of men. Find my friend Lachaid; he'll help ye and can be trusted. Focus on anyone who seems at odds with my brother—they're the ones most likely tae help us. If ye suspect ye're in danger or at risk of being found out, get yerself out of there. Even if ye doonae have the information ye need. I'll not have any man die for me. Understood?"
The men slid their gazes to Gabhran before nodding their agreement.
"Report back tae us after a week," Gabhran added.
When Gabhran's men left the study, Ciaran watched them go with a thundering heart. He hated that there wasn't more he could do. He was usually the one in charge, but now he felt helpless.
"We'll get him," Gabhran said, resting his hand on Ciaran's shoulder. "We'll bring yer brother tae justice. And then ye'll have yer life back."
Chapter 12
The day after their kiss, Isabelle realized that Ciaran seemed determined to pretend she didn't exist—and that the kiss never happened.
At breakfast, he avoided looking at her, though she caught him staring at her with those hypnotic hazel eyes at least twice. He then holed up with Gabhran in his study.
Once they were alone, Donella offered to take her on a tour of the manor and its expansive grounds. Needing a distraction, Isabelle agreed.
As they walked, Donella told Isabelle how she and Gabhran met. She was the daughter of a merchant from Edinburgh who moved to the Highlands to settle in with their clan. Her marriage to Gabhran wasn’t arranged; he’d pursued and married her out of love.
“’Tis a large home for just the three of us and our servants,” Donella said, as she led Isabelle down the main corridor of the manor. “I hope God sees fit I have more bairns to fill it with. Gabhran’s a wonderful father. I never saw my father growing up, but Gabhran takes great pains tae spend time with Annis.”
Donella cocked her head to the side, studying Isabelle.
“Where in England did ye say ye’re from? Ye have quite a strange accent.”
Isabelle’s heart picked up its pace, and she swallowed.
“Just a small village in the south of England. I doubt you’ve heard of it,” she said. “I live with my brother; I miss him a great deal,” she added, deciding to stick as close to the truth as possible. “He knows I’m here searching for Fiona. I don’t know where she is in the Highlands, but I hope to find her.”
Donella’s expression softened with sympathy.
“If our messenger doesnae find her in the village, I can have him search others nearby.”
“Thank you,” Isabelle said with a grateful smile. She liked Donella and hated that she had to lie about her backstory, but it was a necessary evil.
"I ken 'tis none of my concern, but ye and Ciaran seem tae be keeping yer distance from each other," Donella said. "I find it odd, given how much he looks at ye when he thinks ye doonae notice."
Isabelle flushed, trying to keep her expression neutral.
"Ciaran and I are just . . . acquaintances. I'm grateful to him for his rescue and escort, but that's all there is to our relationship," Isabelle said, not able to look Donella in the eye. An acquaintance I've kissed. An acquaintance I'm wildly attracted to.
"Then I'll not meddle," Donella said, though Isabelle could tell by her discerning look she didn't believe her. "But I will say he seems taken with ye, and I've never seen Ciaran taken with anyone."
In spite of herself, hope filled Isabelle at Donella's words. But when they sat down to supper with Gabhran and Ciaran, Ciaran still avoided looking at her. She had to force a polite smile as she engaged in light chatter with Donella and Gabhran.
When she retired to her chamber, she leaned back against the door, an ache gnawing at her over Ciaran's avoidance. She reached up to touch her lips, closing her eyes. Had it only been last night that they'd shared such a passionate, soul-shattering kiss? She'd barely been able to walk straight after it. If he kisses like that, a voice whispered, what would his lovemaking be like?
The images came to her unbidden. Ciaran's muscled body lowering her to the bed, his lips on every part of her body, the long hard length of him sinking into her. Moisture crept between her thighs, and Isabelle swallowed, forcing the erotic images from her mind.
What the hell was wrong with her? She had traveled back six hundred years in time not to salivate over a hunky Scot, but to find her best friend.
Donella and Gabhran had kept to their word, sending a messenger to the nearest village to inquire about a Fiona Stewart, a lass with a strange accent about her age, but so far there had been no word.
But what else could she expect? In the present, an internet search could find just about anyone. Finding Fiona in this time was indeed like searching for a needle in a haystack. All she could do for now was rely on Gabhran and Donella's messenger for news, and push aside the fear that she'd never find Fiona, that she'd have to return to her own time with a lingering question mark over Fiona’s fate.
You will find her, she assured herself, as she undressed and sl
ipped into bed. But to her shame, it wasn't Fiona she thought of as she drifted off to sleep. It was Ciaran.
A routine of sorts developed over the next couple of days. Isabelle would share a morning meal with Donella. Sometimes Gabhran and Ciaran would join them, with Ciaran continuing his habit of not looking at her, before they would retire to their study, where Donella told her they were working together with Gabhran’s men to find ways of clearing his name.
Isabelle and Donella would then spend the morning with Gabhran and Donella's daughter Annis. At eight years old, she was more precocious than the jaded teenaged students Isabelle taught in the twenty-first century. Isabelle would sit with Annis as Donella taught her embroidery or told Annis stories before they shared a midday meal. Isabelle would then take long walks around the gardens before having supper with them.
Gabhran and Donella’s messenger kept returning with no news of Fiona, and Isabelle’s hopes of finding her friend began to decrease. There would be no use remaining here if she made no progress in finding her.
Isabelle was mulling over this one afternoon as she strolled through the back gardens. For some reason, a part of her resisted leaving quite yet, and her thoughts strayed to Ciaran. Surely she wasn’t lingering here because of him?
She yelped when she almost collided with a broad muscular torso. She looked up, startled. It was Ciaran.
At this proximity, she'd forgotten the physical effect he had on her. As his hazel eyes probed hers, her throat went dry and her pulse fluttered wildly beneath her skin, as rapid as a hummingbird’s wings. It didn’t help that he looked particularly gorgeous today, in a dark tunic and green belted plaid kilt, his dark hair ruffled, as if he’d run his hands through it many times. Her gaze dropped to his sensual lips, recalling the feel of them pressed to hers, and a surge of lust flowed through her.
"May I join ye, lass?" he asked, his voice husky. "On yer walk?"
"But—you've been avoiding me," she blurted, her eyes widening with surprise.
Ciaran's Bond: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 3) Page 6