Today he would return her to Tairseach and they would part ways. She would be off to her own time, a future in which he didn’t exist. He looked down at her sleeping form, a dark resentment crawling through him, resentment of this future that would have his Isabelle. She was too bonnie to stay alone for long; one day a man would claim her heart and body for his own.
He closed his eyes, allowing himself to imagine a different future for them. He imagined her as lady of Aitharne Castle. Spending the days with her reading and discussing the classics she was so fond of. Spending the nights with her body entwined with his.
But it was not to be so. His brother wouldn’t stop until he had Ciaran hanging from a noose. And while that was true, everyone he cared for was in danger.
Isabelle was quiet when she came to and got dressed. He'd thought she would be glad to return to her own time, but her expression was shadowed.
She barely spoke as they shared a brief meal with Gabhran and Donella, and her silence lingered even as they embraced them farewell.
“Stay safe,” Ciaran said, gripping Gabhran’s shoulders, as they stood in front of the manor. “Take yer family and go into hiding if my brother comes back.”
“I ken how tae handle yer brother,” Gabhran replied with a scowl. “Ye think ye’ll be safe with this other clan?”
Ciaran nodded, though he wasn’t certain. He planned to head north, to seek refuge with a small clan who had always been friendly to him. He prayed they would take him in.
Gabhran glanced over at Isabelle, who walked to their horse with Donella. "Are ye sure ye want tae part ways with the lass?"
"I've no choice," Ciaran said, pain splintering his heart at the words. "She's not from these parts, 'tis not her fight. 'Tis best for her tae return tae . . . England."
Gabhran studied him for a long moment, as if he sensed Ciaran's inner turmoil over letting Isabelle go. He finally gave him a nod of farewell, stepping back.
Moments later, the manor disappeared behind them as he and Isabelle rode away. His dread had increased, and he tried not to think of their pending separation, ignoring the grief that tore at his insides.
When they arrived at Tairseach, he surveyed the ruins of the village, an uneasy chill filling him. There was something unsettling about this place.
They dismounted, and he tied his horse to a tree before turning to Isabelle, who quietly took in the ruins.
“How does this work?” he asked, his voice unsteady.
“I’m not sure. It's like I told you before . . . there was this wind. I think—I think the wind pulled me through time somehow. I can hear it now. Can't you?"
Ciaran shook his head, looking around. An eerie stillness permeated the village; he didn't even sense the hint of a breeze.
"Ciaran," Isabelle said suddenly, stepping forward to grip his arm. "I don't want to—”
She stopped at the sound of approaching horses. Ciaran froze, turning to survey the horizon. Panic struck him at the sight of several men riding toward them. While they were too far away to identify, he suspected they were his brother’s men. They must have followed them from a distance.
Ciaran cursed, grabbing Isabelle’s arm.
“There’s not much time. Where did ye stand—before ye were transported here?"
Shaking, Isabelle pointed to the entrance of the castle.
“But Ciaran, if those are Tavish’s men—”
“I ken. ’Tis why ye need tae leave, now.”
Still gripping her arm, he led her to the castle.
“Ciaran, wait. Let me help you. I don't want to go!"
Ciaran ignored her words, pulling her close to place a fervent kiss on her mouth. An array of emotions raced through him during their brief kiss—regret, fear, pain, longing.
He had to force himself to release her and step back.
“Go, Isabelle. 'Tis not safe for ye here. Live yer life. Go.”
Tears streamed down Isabelle's face and she shook her head. But he gently pushed her back.
"Go!" he bit out, his own tears stinging his eyes.
It happened fast. Isabelle's mouth opened, his name on her lips as she was jerked back, as if invisible arms had taken hold of her, and she . . . vanished.
Ciaran watched in horrified astonishment, reeling from her sudden disappearance. He closed his eyes, fighting against the urge to sink to his knees in grief. He regretted not telling her the words he’d wanted to say, words that came from the deepest part of him.
And so he said them now, whispering into the silence, the painful wake of her absence.
“I love ye, Isabelle.”
The sound of approaching horses grew closer, and he heard the men's shouts as they spotted him.
He opened his eyes, taking a breath as he turned to face his brother's men.
Chapter 17
Present Day
Larkin, Scotland
The twenty-first century was a cacophony of noise.
During her initial visit to Larkin, she’d thought it was a quiet little village. But it seemed like with every passing second a loud car roared past or a plane zipped above in the sky, the distant sound of its engine reverberating throughout the streets. Even the inn itself was a hubbub of activity; the voices of various guests echoing throughout the halls, their cell phones chiming with texts and calls.
Isabelle lay in the bed of her guest room; the same guest room she’d checked into weeks ago. She closed her eyes, pulling the pillow over her head. She felt a sudden pang of longing for the relative silence of the fourteenth century; the steady clatter of horse hooves, the whisper of wind through tree branches, the patter of raindrops on the ground.
But most of all, she longed for Ciaran. Her heart clenched in her chest as she recalled the look in his eyes as he pushed her through the invisible portal—the longing and regret. The same vortex of wind that sucked her back to the past thrust her back to her own time. After a temporary suspension in darkness, she found herself in modern-day Tairseach. She could tell by the sight of her car and the difference in the trees and bushes that surrounded the village. Still, in her grief and shock she'd stumbled forward, screaming for Ciaran.
She’d almost gone back again, seeking that vortex of wind to get back to him, when a car pulled up to the side of the road, and her brother Scott stumbled out, shouting her name.
Scott had rushed to her, relief shining in his eyes, and pulled her into his arms. Later, he’d told her that the inn put him into contact with Jon after she went missing. He was the one who told her she may be in this area.
“Izzy.”
Scott’s voice pulled Isabelle from the maelstrom of her thoughts, and she turned to face him. He’d returned her to the inn, and she’d been in bed most of the time, silent and shell-shocked. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she’d returned to the present. A day? Two?
Scott entered, his face taut with concern as he sat down next to her. Guilt swirled through her at the shadows beneath his eyes; he’d been deeply worried after she went missing. Scott had questioned her about the medieval gown she was wearing when he found her, but Isabelle hadn’t told him where she’d been; she was too grief-stricken and exhausted to come up with a plausible story.
“You don’t have to tell me what happened now,” he said gently, as she met his eyes. “But I want to help, Iz. Please. I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen you like this. Is there anything I can do?”
Go back to the 1390 and save Ciaran’s life. Bring him back to me. And find Fiona while you're at it, Isabelle said silently, her chest going tight. She met her brother’s eyes, the same light shade of blue as hers. How could she tell him what really happened? Scott meant well, but he’d have her sent to a psych hospital.
“I just want to be left alone,” she whispered.
“Iz—"
“Please,” she said. “I—I just need to rest. And then I’ll to talk to you later, okay?”
Scott hesitated, but he finally got to his feet and left her room
.
Once he'd left, Isabelle sat up, a renewed surge of determination flowing through her. How long was she going to languish here in her grief? If this time travel thing worked in real time, Tavish may have seized Ciaran, but there was a chance he could still be alive. She needed to get back to him.
But first she needed to make sure she did it right. For some reason, she’d ended up in Ciaran’s path the last time she fell through time. She wasn’t certain where she’d end up if she went back on her own now. There was someone who could get her back to the right place—the right time. Kensa.
Had she not been so grief-stricken and shell-shocked, and had her brother not shown up, she would have gone to Kensa’s house and demanded that she get her back to the fourteenth century. And Isabelle would go back, but this time it wasn’t just for Fiona. It was for Ciaran.
The man she loved.
She didn’t realize she loved him until she returned to the present. Once it hit her that she was separated from Ciaran by centuries, her grief had incapacitated her. In the past, she knew she desired him, cared for him—but the depths of her feelings hadn’t been clear until now. Feelings that now propelled her to fight for him.
She slid out of bed. She reached for a pad of stationary to scribble out a note for Scott, informing him that she needed to take a walk. And then, feeling like a prisoner making a jail break, she climbed out her window and scurried away from the inn.
Isabelle slid into her rental car, relieved that Scott had driven it back for her. She made her way to Kensa’s home by memory, and when she arrived, she scrambled out of the car, hurrying to the front door and pounding on it.
No one answered. Frustrated, she moved over to the large front window, peeking in.
And her heart plummeted in her chest. The previously cluttered living room was empty as was the kitchen. The house was completely cleared out.
Tears stung at her eyes, and she stumbled back, pressing her hand to her mouth. Kensa was the one who’d made her time travel in the first place—right? Was she even able to travel back in time on her own? What if Ciaran was forever lost to her? And Fiona?
“Who lives here?”
Isabelle whirled, startled. Scott stood several yards away, leaning against his car, his arms folded across his chest with narrowed eyes.
“I followed you,” he said, at her look of surprise. “Those were some nice moves, climbing out the window. You did the same thing when you were a teenager sneaking out to parties you weren’t allowed to attend.”
Isabelle flushed, swallowing hard as Scott approached her.
“Now’s the time to talk, Izzy. I want to know where you were for all those weeks.”
Scott paced back and forth in her small guest room, his arms folded across his chest. Isabelle sat on the edge of her bed, her knees curled up to her chest, watching him with nervous anticipation.
She’d told him everything that happened from the moment Kensa came with her to Tairseach to the moment she’d returned. Now, she waited for him to tell her she was crazy, or lying, or both.
Scott finally stopped pacing to face her, dropping his hands at his sides, his expression tumultuous.
“I believe you.”
Isabelle stared at him for a moment, uncertain she’d heard him right.
“What?”
“You’d never let me worry about you for weeks unless there was a good reason—and you were wearing what looked to be an authentic medieval gown when I found you. But most importantly, I saw your face when you showed up in that field. Your anguish was real. This guy—this Ciaran—I can tell he means a lot to you.”
“Yes,” she whispered, her throat going dry. “He did. He does. I—I don’t know how to refer to him—in the present or past tense.”
“Present,” Scott said firmly, sitting down next to her.
Isabelle smiled, then stiffened as she recalled what he just said.
“You said I showed up in a field. Did you not see Tairseach?”
“No. Just an open field. You did mention only people with the ability to travel can see it.”
Isabelle bit her lip, considering this. Ciaran could see Tairseach. But then she remembered Kensa’s words. In this time, only people with the ability to travel can see it. So Tairseach was visible to everyone in the past, regardless of their time-traveling ability.
“I assume you went to Kensa’s for help with returning to the past?” Scott asked.
“Yes.”
She thought Scott would try to dissuade her and braced herself. Instead, he gave her a small smile.
“I know how single-minded you are, Iz,” he said with a sigh. “And I know that even if I didn’t help you, you’d go back anyway. I have to ask—are you sure about this? And . . . what if you can’t come back?”
Isabelle considered this possibility. She wasn’t certain of the answer to her brother’s questions, but she was certain that she needed to get back to Ciaran. That not seeing him again was untenable.
“Then that’s just a risk I’ll have to take,” she said.
Scott didn’t look surprised. He gave her a smile filled with resolve.
“Then you know what you need to do. Tell me how I can help.”
Chapter 18
Present Day
Inverness and Larkin, Scotland
Over the next two days, Scott became her partner in crime as she prepared to return to the fourteenth century. They were operating under the hope that she could return to the past without Kensa, though they suspected she'd used some sort of magic to help propel Isabelle through time.
Isabelle told him her theories about time travel—that Tairseach was a portal for travelers, and that time in the past occurred at the same pace as time in the present. She’d been gone for a little over a month in the present—and in the past. But that was all they had to go on, and Isabelle could only pray that when she returned, she would return to the same year.
“Are you willing to take the risk of ending up in another time?” Scott asked her grimly.
“Yes,” Isabelle returned after a brief pause. “I just know that I have to try.”
They drove to Inverness, where they found an antique clothing shop that sold her a fourteenth-century gown, as the gown she’d worn when she traveled back through time was now frayed by her journey.
They even went to an antique weapons store, where Scott found an old dagger authentic to the time, telling her she’d need protection.
But Scott’s most important contribution was his friendship with Niall, a Scottish historian with a contact in the rare books section of the library in Inverness. He gave them access to land grant records in the Highlands from the fourteenth century, and a map of the region from the time. Isabelle thought it would be pointless, but Scott insisted it couldn't help to look over the records to see if there was something that could help her.
She reluctantly combed over copies of land records when they returned to the inn. She refused to go past the year 1389, not wanting to accidentally stumble across something that revealed a dark fate for Ciaran. She wouldn't accept anything other than him surviving Tavish’s plot and returning to his castle as laird.
She’d been reviewing the records for nearly two hours—and was on the verge of giving up—when a familiar name caught her eye. She froze, her finger running over the scrawled words. It detailed the ceding of lands by a T of Clan Aitharne to a Walrick of the same clan.
She scrambled to her feet, leaving her room to knock on her brother’s door.
"I think the T stands for Tavish, Ciaran's brother,” she said, showing Scott the record when he let her in. “He’s ceding land to someone. I may not know much about clans and how things worked back then, but—”
"Ceding land is something only lairds or men with property of their own could do," Scott concluded.
“Exactly. Ciaran was laird in 1389, not Tavish. If Tavish was granting land to people when he shouldn’t have—an entire year before he set Ciaran up for murder—this may be pro
of. It shows that Tavish was paying someone off . . . possibly to lie for him,” Isabelle said, her heart hammering. “Scott . . . what if this is what Ciaran needs to clear his name?”
“Then you’ve found your smoking gun,” Scott confirmed.
They determined that Isabelle would attempt to return to the past the next day. Scott suggested they grab dinner at a small restaurant in town, which served “authentic Highland fare” according to the smiling woman who owned it.
They ate in silence over their meal of Scotch broth and shortbread, until Scott set down his fork.
“So. You go back, you successfully rescue Ciaran and find Fiona. Then what? Do you come back?”
Isabelle stilled. She had already experienced life in the fourteenth century and acclimated to it quite well. And the time period could use her teaching skills, given how common illiteracy was. But most importantly, the thought of finding Ciaran—only to leave him again—was incomprehensible.
Scott saw the answer in her eyes and gave her a small nod.
"I already knew your answer. I just had to make sure. If you do stay, I can take care of things for you in Chicago—your apartment and job. You won’t have to worry about that. I can tell you love him, Iz," he said, giving her a sad smile. "I'd have loved a chance to meet the guy who's stolen my little sister's heart."
“I don’t know if he feels the same way,” Isabelle replied, a stab of insecurity piercing her. “He’ll probably be angry with me for returning and insist that I come back to my own time. But I’d never be able to live with myself if I didn’t try.”
“I know,” Scott said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.
"Scottie,” she said, a rush of warmth filling her heart as she used her childhood nickname for her brother. Scott had always been there for her; she'd lucked out by having him as a brother. “Thank you for believing me. And for helping me."
Ciaran's Bond: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate Book 3) Page 9