"Aye," he said, with an apologetic smile. "I felt guilty for kissing ye. I'm an outlaw, Isabelle. I doonae want tae put ye in any danger."
“And you want to walk with me now?" she challenged.
"Aye," he murmured, taking a step closer to her, and her heart rate skyrocketed. "I find I cannae stay away from ye, lass. I—I watch ye," he admitted, pointing up to a window on the second floor. "Every day that ye walk."
Isabelle stilled. She'd felt eyes on her during her walks; she'd assumed it was the curious servants. But it was Ciaran who'd been watching her. An unexpected ripple of delight filled her at the thought.
"I suppose you can join me," she said, giving him a light smile.
Ciaran's shoulders sank with relief; he must have thought she'd refuse him. They began to walk among the fragrant flowers of the garden, which Donella told her was surprisingly fertile for the Highlands. But Isabelle paid no attention to her surroundings, only aware of Ciaran's presence at her side. She was always only aware of his presence when he was near.
"Is there any progress?" she asked tentatively. "With clearing your name?"
"No," Ciaran said, his eyes darkening. "Not yet. It will take some time, but I confess I'm not the most patient man."
His eyes swept to the flowers that filled gardens.
"This reminds me of the gardens my mother had planted at the castle before she died. My father entrusted me and my brothers to its upkeep." His face shadowed at the mention of his brothers.
"Is this manor anything like your castle?" she asked, hoping she could help take his focus off of Tavish and Eoin.
"No," he said, his expression softening with a look of nostalgia. "My castle isnae on open land. 'Tis surrounded by trees and a wee loch nearby. 'Tis said my ancestors built the castle there for solitude, a closeness tae nature. I've never ken another home. Nor would I want tae."
Pain flared in his eyes, and Isabelle reached out to place a comforting hand on his arm. He stiffened, and she started to remove her hand.
"No, lass," he said, reaching out to keep her hand on his arm. He looked at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I enjoy yer touch more than ye realize."
Isabelle smiled, flushing as he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.
"And ye? What's yer home like?"
She gave him a wary look. "I've told you where I'm from. You don't believe me."
An odd look filled Ciaran’s eyes before he averted his gaze.
"I believe ye have a home," he said quietly.
"Well, I live in a large city," she hedged, as Chicago didn't exist in this time.
"Like Edinburgh? London?"
"Yes," she said, deciding to keep her descriptions vague and avoid mentioning things such as technology, skyscrapers, or cars. "My home—my apartment—is the size of my guest chamber," she continued, thinking of her small apartment in the north side of Chicago.
"The size of a chamber? Yer entire home?" Ciaran asked, looking surprised and mildly horrified.
Isabelle shook her head and chuckled. Ciaran and his friends, as kind as they were, were the aristocratic class of this time. She was speaking to a man who’d grown up in a castle surrounded by servants.
"Not everyone can live in castles or manors," she said with a teasing smile. "I can only afford a 'chamber’. Teachers don't make much where I'm from." When I'm from, she silently added.
"My tutors were some of the best paid men in my clan," Ciaran said, frowning down at her. "But none of them are lasses."
"Where I'm from, there are plenty of 'lass' teachers," Isabelle said, leveling him with a hard stare, as if daring him to challenge her.
But he didn't. Instead, he laughed. Ciaran laughed with his whole body; he threw his head back and his broad shoulders shook. Isabelle couldn’t help but smile at the sight.
"I believe ye, lass. And I believe ye're a good tutor. Ye mentioned a brother. Is he a tutor as well?"
Isabelle stilled, her heart tightening at the thought of her brother. Scott. He must be worried sick about her.
"Yes," she murmured. “He teaches classic literature; it’s something we share a love for. He's the only family member I'm close to. It's just the two of us; our parents died years ago."
"I'm sorry about yer parents," Ciaran murmured. "I think of my own parents often."
Grief flared in his eyes, and Isabelle squeezed his hand as they continued to walk in companionable silence.
After that first walk, Ciaran joined her on a daily basis, and she looked forward to their walks. Donella and Gabhran seemed pleased by her and Ciaran's growing closeness, often leaving them alone on purpose with knowing smiles.
During their walks, Isabelle learned more about Ciaran and his life before everything turned upside down. His father had entrusted him as laird and chief of his clan after he'd passed, and his duties had consumed his life. The only leisure he’d had time for was hunting trips with his brother Eoin, who often encouraged him to take breaks and live more of his life outside of the constraints of his duties.
As for her own life, Isabelle was hesitant to tell him more about her, given that he didn’t believe she was from the future.
“Ye can tell me,” Ciaran insisted. “I’ll listen without judgment. Ye have my word.”
And so she told him about her job and how much she enjoyed teaching English, details of her relationship with Scott, and how close she and Fiona had been—and how much she missed her. He kept to his word and listened with genuine interest, with no skepticism, and she wondered if he was slowly starting to believe her.
While they walked, he would tuck her hand into the crook of his arm but made no other attempts to touch or kiss her—to her great disappointment.
Yet as much as she desired him, she began to appreciate and crave more things about him than just his stunningly good looks. He had a sizable sense of humor, and did impressions of Gabhran when he was a wild and carefree young man that made her laugh. He had a sense of honor that didn't exist in her own time, and given his grief and guilt over Eoin’s murder, he was deeply loyal to those he loved.
While Isabelle cherished her time with Ciaran, in the back of her mind she reminded herself that this was all temporary. Their time together was brief, a shining momentary suspension of time before she returned to the twenty-first century.
She didn’t allow herself to dwell too much on this, but whenever she did, the grief that seized her signaled that her feelings for Ciaran had grown much deeper than she’d thought.
Chapter 13
Ciaran could no longer deny it to himself. He craved the lass. And not just her body, though images of her curves filled his dreams at night. He craved the sound of her laughter, which reminded him of tinkling bells, her smile, which shone with incandescence and filled him with joy of his own, even the gentle hum of her voice.
And given what Gabhran had told him about Tairseach, he couldn’t believe that the kind and thoughtful lass he was coming to know would tell him such an elaborate lie. But his lingering uncertainty about the notion of a person traveling through time was in constant battle with his tentative belief in her tale. He decided to ignore his inner turmoil, instead choosing to focus on the pleasure of her company.
He continued to receive periodic updates from Gabhran about his men; they were in place at his castle and in contact with Lachaid, but they’d learned nothing of use.
“I ken ’tis hard,” Gabhran told him. “But ’tis best we wait till they uncover something. My men are good. Have faith, Ciaran. They will find something that can help.”
It was hard putting his complete trust into others to help him, but he tried to abide by Gabhran’s words.
And while he could have patience for updates from Gabhran’s men, he could no longer practice patience when it came to his desire for Isabelle.
He thought their daily walks would satisfy him, but it wasn't enough. He desired Isabelle with a ferocity that seized every part of him. He needed more. And he suspected she felt the same,
by the way her eyes sometimes lingered on his lips, or how her gaze trailed up and down his body.
They'd been at the manor for over a fortnight when he asked her to take a walk with him after dinner. He saw the surprise that flared in her lovely eyes when he didn't lead her out to the garden, but to her guest chamber.
"Isabelle," he whispered. “Ye must ken by now that I want ye. But I'll not bring dishonor tae ye if ye doonae feel the same.”
He waited for her response, his heart thundering in his ears. Isabelle lowered her eyes, and he feared she would refuse him. But she stood on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his.
"Please," she murmured. "Dishonor me, Ciaran."
He let out a strangled moan at the seductive invitation in her voice, and swung her up into his arms. Isabelle laughed with surprise and delight as he stepped into her chamber, kicking the door shut behind them. He carried her to the bed as she lowered her hand to the hardness that swelled beneath his kilt, stroking him.
"Christ, lass," he moaned, lowering her to the bed and stripping her of her clothing with such roughness he feared he would tear her fine gown. But there was no quelling the desire that rushed through him with the force of a raging river. He could no longer contain himself around her.
Isabelle helped him undress, her breathing ragged as she stripped him of his tunic and kilt.
“Ciaran,” she whispered, pressing her hands to his muscular abdomen, leaning forward to place kisses along the expanse of his torso. The feel of her lips against his skin filled him with an ache, and he groaned, capturing her hands with his and lowering her back to the bed.
"No, lass," he said gently, surveying the lovely curves of her body before leaning down to capture her lips with his own. "'I need tae touch ye first.”
He kissed her slowly, leisurely, until she was whimpering beneath him, before dragging his lips down to the flesh of her throat, where he nibbled at the soft skin there. He continued to pepper kisses down to her breasts, looking up to meet her eyes as he captured one nipple in his mouth, suckling at it until she threw her head back and moaned.
He seized her other nipple with his mouth, kneading the free breast with his hand, relishing in the feel of it in his hand as he suckled.
Isabelle’s body quivered when he released her breasts from his hands and mouth. He kissed down her abdomen to the tops of her thighs where he wedged her legs open with his broad shoulders.
He looked up as her blue eyes locked with his, hazy with desire. He kept his eyes trained on hers as he kissed the inside of her left thigh, then her right, before clamping his mouth onto her sweet center.
"Oh, God," Isabelle cried as he tasted her, his tongue delving into her sweetness. She began to writhe, and he reached up to grip her breasts as he continued to feast, moaning out his pleasure at the taste of her on his tongue.
He could have feasted on her forever, but his own hardness was becoming painful, and he reached down to stroke himself as Isabelle's release claimed her. She cried out as her orgasm tore through her, spilling her delectable juices into his mouth. He continued to lick her sweetness as her quivering slowed and came to a stop before reluctantly lifting his head.
"Ciaran," she said on a moan, her eyes closed. “Please . . .”
"I ken, lass," he whispered, lifting himself above her, taking in the beauty of her nude form. "Look at me," he ordered, with a sudden possessiveness that surprised him. He needed her to know exactly who was claiming her, who was giving her pleasure.
She opened her eyes, training them on him, and the heady desire in them was so stark that he let out a pleasured groan as he sank his cock into her.
Isabelle gasped, throwing her head back in ecstasy. Ciaran held himself still, allowing her to adjust to his size, but it was difficult—she felt like heaven clenched around him, and he wanted nothing more than to thrust her beautiful body into the bed with the force of his desire.
Finally, he began to move, slow and steady, letting out a groan between clenched teeth. Isabelle whimpered, wrapping her legs around him to pull him deeper inside her. He lost control then, increasing the force of his thrusts until he was pounding her into the bed. He suckled at her throat as they moved together, then her lips, then her breasts, unable to keep himself from tasting her as he claimed her in the most intimate way.
He didn't know how long they moved together, the bed shaking beneath them as he thrust into her, but soon sweat soaked their heated bodies, and he could feel the force of his release start to spiral deep within his belly. But he wanted to wait; he could tell from Isabelle's moans and trembling form that she was close to another release. So he held back, gritting his teeth with effort as he continued to pound her into the bed.
"Come for me, Isabelle," he whispered. "Come for me, my beauty."
"Ciaran," she gasped. "Oh, God—Ciaran!"
She reached up to grip his shoulders as her release claimed her, her body trembling beneath him, her breath coming in shuddering gasps. Ciaran could no longer hold his own release at bay. He reached down to hold her body close to his as his orgasm claimed him, and he came with a ragged cry, burying his face in her neck as he spilled his cum inside her.
They remained locked together for several moments, their ragged breathing the only sound in the room, until he reluctantly disengaged himself from Isabelle's body. But he continued to hold her close, reaching out to stroke the damp strands of her hair back from her face.
"I cannae get enough of ye, lass," he whispered. "Do ye have any notion of how desirable ye are?"
Isabelle flushed in response, giving him a shy smile.
"I've wanted you ever since I saw you washing in that stream," she confessed.
"Aye?" he asked with a grin. "Well, I was thinking of ye as I washed, all dirty and frightened in those man’s clothes ye were wearing. Had ye come a moment later, ye may have seen me stroking myself."
Isabelle's eyes widened in surprise, and her flush deepened.
"I've wanted ye since I first saw ye, Isabelle," he continued. "I was so entangled in my troubles . . . and then ye came intae my life. Now ye're all I can think about. All I desire.”
Isabelle leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips. But her smile faded as she studied him.
"What?"
"You want me . . . even though you think I'm lying to you? About being from the future?"
"I doonae think ye're lying tae me,” he said, after a brief pause. “But ye must understand . . . 'tis hard to believe. I doonae ken how ’tis possible."
"Neither do I," Isabelle said, shaking her head with frustration. "But it is, because I'm here."
He studied her desperate and imploring expression, recalling the strange clothes she wore when he first met her, her odd manner of speech. Her asking him what year it was when they'd first met. The truth in her words when she spoke about her life before she’d stumbled across him in that forest. And Gabhran’s story about Tairseach, which had lingered in the back of his mind.
She wasn’t like any lass he’d ever met. As impossible as it was . . . it made sense that she was from another time.
Perhaps he’d known deep down she was telling the truth. Perhaps he’d held onto his denial because he knew that if she was from another time . . . she would one day return to it.
“I believe ye, lass,” he murmured, though his heart tightened at the realization that she didn’t belong here.
Chapter 14
The look of relief that crossed her expression was so stark that Ciaran felt guilty for not believing her sooner.
"You believe me?" she whispered. "Really?"
"Aye," he confirmed. "I doonae understand it . . . but I believe ye."
He told her about Gabhran's tale of Tairseach, and his initial suspicion of Isabelle. She sat up at this, her eyes going wide.
"He has no idea how right he is," she murmured. "I've caught him studying me a couple of times . . . now I know why."
"I trust Gabhran with my life," he said gravely. "But 'tis best we ke
ep this tae ourselves. Many in the Highlands are superstitious, and a Sassenach rumored tae come from the future will encourage whispers of witchcraft."
Isabelle paled and swallowed hard.
"All right," she said. "Let's keep this to ourselves."
"How did it happen?" he asked, wanting to change the subject, to wipe that look of fear from her expression. "When ye traveled through time?"
Ciaran listened intently as Isabelle told him of a woman named Kensa who took her to Tairseach, the tug of wind that yanked her backward, and Kensa's cryptic words about her not belonging in her own time.
"Have you ever fallen down from a great height?" Isabelle asked.
"I fell from my horse once," he said. "Broke my leg."
"Imagine falling from the height of . . . fifty horses," Isabelle said. "Only at a rapid speed and surrounded by darkness. That's how it felt. And when I came to, I was in that muddy stream. I think . . . I think Fiona may have also traveled through time, that Kensa did the same thing to her."
"Ye will find yer friend," Ciaran assured her, taking in the look of worry on her face. "It may take time, but I can tell how determined ye are.”
"I hope so," Isabelle whispered.
After a brief pause, Ciaran reached out to stroke the silken strands of her hair. She leaned in to his touch, resting her head on his chest.
"What is this future like?" Ciaran asked, continuing to stroke her hair.
Isabelle told him of buildings as high as mountains, carriages powered by things called engines and not horses, small objects called phones that worked like letters, connecting people across great distances. She told him about social changes; women attending university and holding jobs of their own like she did.
He found this all strange and fascinating, but he wanted to know more about her in this future.
“Ye told me ye taught English? At this school of high?" he asked.
"High school," Isabelle corrected, her lips twitching in a smile. “And, yes. But many young people in my time aren't very interested in old books and classics. Every once in awhile, I'll get a student who’s as excited about classics as I am."
Ciaran's Bond: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 3) Page 7