“We now have evidence that it was ye who stabbed Eoin during an argument in yer chamber,” Tavish continued, his eyes now gleaming with triumph. He turned to look behind Ciaran. “Ye may enter."
Ciaran tensed as two men entered the hall behind him, approaching the long table. At the sight of them, disbelief swirled through his veins. One man was his trusted steward, Ian. The other was a high-ranking noble he’d thought was his friend, Walrick.
Neither of them met his eyes, keeping their gazes trained on the nobles before them. Anger replaced his grief, and he clenched his fists at his side. What had his brother offered them for their lies?
“These witnesses attest that they saw ye murder Eoin,” Tavish continued. “What say ye tae their accusations?”
Ciaran turned to study Ian and Walrick, the two liars. They returned his look with nothing but coldness. He gritted his teeth. How could they possess such dishonor? He wanted nothing more than to charge at them, to attack them for their lies.
But there was another emotion that filled him, one that surpassed his anger and even his grief.
Guilt. Guilt that he’d not seen the hatred Tavish held for him, hatred that propelled him to murder their brother and set Ciaran up for the deed. Guilt that he’d not protected the gentle and kindhearted Eoin from their brother’s wrath. Ciaran’s focus had been singled-minded, only on his power as chieftain and laird.
Before their father died, he’d asked Ciaran to watch out for his brothers. To protect them. And he’d failed in his most important duty.
“I am guilty,” Ciaran said, his voice so low it was barely above a whisper.
But everyone in the hall heard him. The nobles' eyes widened in surprise. Even Tavish looked taken aback.
After a long moment of stunned silence, Lachaid shot to his feet.
“What the hell are ye doing, Ciaran?” he roared. “Ye didnae do this. Ye—"
“Lachaid, take your seat!" Tavish hissed. "Or I will have ye escorted from the hall."
“I am guilty,” Ciaran repeated, his voice firmer now. “I’ll take whatever punishment ye deem fit.”
“No, Ciaran!” Lachaid shouted. “What are ye—"
“Guards, escort Lachaid from the hall,” Tavish demanded.
Ciaran avoided Lachaid's panicked eyes as two guards escorted him from the hall. When Lachaid was gone, amid a hail of swears and curses, Tavish returned his focus to Ciaran.
“As yer guilt is confirmed, the punishment is death,” Tavish said, a look of dark pleasure crossing his features. “Death by hanging. Yer sentence will be carried out in one day’s time.”
Chapter 3
Present Day
Romarty, Scotland
Isabelle parked her rental car in front of a small cottage and climbed out, surveying it with mild anxiety.
After dropping the bombshell about people disappearing “in time,” Jon had directed her here, to the remote village of Romarty where a woman named Kensa lived. According to Jon, a local told him that she knew much about the mysterious disappearances.
She took a deep breath as she approached the front door, hoping this wasn't a fool's errand. It was early in the morning and she was still jet lagged; she’d not been able to sleep after getting off the phone with Jon.
Please work, she thought as she raised her hand to knock on the front door. Please know something.
Before she could knock, the door swung open, and Isabelle blinked in surprise at the woman who greeted her. Jon had mentioned that Kensa was elderly, but the willowy dark-haired woman who studied her now couldn't be over thirty.
"Hi," Isabelle said, forcing a smile. "I'm Isabelle. I’m looking for a woman named Kensa. There’s . . . something I need to ask her.”
The woman looked at her for several long moments, recognition flaring in her dark eyes. Finally, she stepped back and gestured for her to enter.
"I'm Kensa. Please—come inside."
Isabelle obliged, surprised at her willingness to invite her in despite having no idea who she was or exactly why she was here. Isabelle took in the living room as she entered; it was cluttered and stuffed to the brim with ancient-looking books and old, tattered furniture.
She paused in front of a striking painting which hung on a side wall. A man in full medieval Highland regalia glowered at her from the portrait; he was short and balding with cold eyes. Even though it was only a portrait, a chill filled Isabelle at the sight of him.
“I collect old paintings,” Kensa said, following her gaze. “Found this one at an antique sale in Inverness. That portrait is of Artair Brothaig. He was hung in 1392 for betraying several clans and profiting from their conflicts. He was not a nice man." She scowled at the portrait, before waving Isabelle to an overstuffed armchair in the corner. “I’ll probably end up selling it back. Please, sit. Can I get you something? Tea? Water?"
"I'm fine," Isabelle said, looking away from the portrait as she perched on the edge of the chair. “I’m sorry to bother you, I'll make this quick. I came here because—”
"You want to know about the disappearances," Kensa said calmly, taking a seat opposite her.
Isabelle froze, eyeing Kensa with wary suspicion. How did she know?
"You're not the only person who comes here asking about the disappearances," Kensa said with a polite smile, answering the silent question in Isabelle's eyes.
Isabelle swallowed hard, reaching into her purse to take out her phone. She swiped to a photo of Fiona before handing it to her.
"My friend Fiona disappeared in this area a few months ago," Isabelle said. “She sent me a letter out of the blue insisting she was okay and to not look for her. But . . . it’s not like her to do something like that. I’m still worried about her. “
Kensa barely glanced at the photo of Fiona before training her dark gaze on Isabelle for such a long moment that she felt unsettled.
"Then perhaps you should heed her request," Kensa said, handing Isabelle’s phone back.
“Not until I know for sure that she’s safe,” Isabelle said, shaking her head. “If you know anything . . .”
She studied Kensa, hoping that she would give her something—anything. But Kensa's expression remained stoic.
"Sometimes people just disappear,” Kensa murmured.
“No, they don’t,” Isabelle said, trying to keep her tone even. “Look, the person who sent me here, he said something about—something about people disappearing in time. And when I was first searching for her, someone told me about a place called Tairseach—a place where people disappear. I know it sounds crazy, but can it all be linked?”
“Ah, Tairseach," Kensa said, leaning forward in her chair, her gaze intent on Isabelle. "What else do you know about Tairseach?"
“Just that it means portal in Gaelic," Isabelle hedged. “But . . . I can’t find it on a map, and my internet searches bring up nothing about the place.”
“You won’t find it on any map," Kensa said. "In this time, only people with the ability to travel can see it."
Isabelle’s body went rigid. An icy chill spiraled around her heart, and her mouth went dry. Kensa’s face remained serene, as if they were just having a casual chat about the weather.
“What are you talking about?” Isabelle breathed. "Travel? What do you mean—the ability to travel? Travel where?”
“You already know,” Kensa said, giving her a cryptic smile. "You just don't know it yet."
Anger splintered her unease and Isabelle glared at her. She was fed up with the cryptic comments.
“Fiona is like a sister to me. If you know something that can help, I'm asking—” Isabelle took a deep breath, softening her tone. "I'm begging you. Please tell me.”
Kensa remained silent, but Isabelle saw a trace of sympathy in her eyes.
“I don’t know if you’re ready for this,” Kensa murmured. “It’s rare that one of you find me. Usually I’m the one to find you.”
“Please—enough with the vagueness. I don’t know what you’re tal
king about,” Isabelle said, clenching her fists in her lap.
“Tairseach is indeed a portal," Kensa said, after a brief pause. "Long ago, during the time of the Celts, it was the home of druid settlers. It survived the Roman invasion, but one day the settlers just . . . disappeared. Those settlers are my ancestors.”
"Okay,” Isabelle said slowly, wondering what on earth this had to do with Fiona and the modern-day disappearances.
"Ever since then," Kensa continued, “certain people who come to Tairseach also disappear. But they don’t just vanish. They fall through time.”
Isabelle stared at Kensa, but she returned her gaze with absolute sincerity. Isabelle didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. She closed her eyes, her shoulders sinking. Why had she entertained this crazy idea about people disappearing in time? She’d hoped Kensa would have actual information . . . some reasonable explanation as to where Fiona could have gone.
As someone who taught English for a living and loved books, Isabelle had a healthy imagination. But time travel was pushing things a little too far.
“Thank you for talking to me,” Isabelle said, getting to her feet and forcing a smile. "I'll be on my way."
“Ah,” Kensa said, shaking her head. “Since you came to me, I thought it was your time to . . ." she sighed, trailing off.
“My time to what?”
“Never mind. Go on your way. But I would trust your friend’s letter. She’s right where she belongs. It will do you no good to keep looking for her.”
“Is there more you’re not telling me?” Isabelle demanded. “Kensa . . . please.”
“I’ve told you all you need to know. You’re not ready. You choose not to listen.”
Isabelle gritted her teeth. What if this was her last feasible chance of finding Fiona? She sat back down, forcing herself to calm down.
“You said the people who disappear at Tairseach . . . they fall through time," she said. She couldn't believe she was considering this, but she was desperate. "To what time? The Victorian era? Roman times? And how do you know they're going through time?”
Kensa didn’t answer, getting to her feet and walking to the door. She turned, giving Isabelle a sad smile.
"You can leave now, Isabelle.”
“I’m willing to hear you out,” Isabelle said, her desperation rising. “Can you tell me more?”
“You’re not ready. Please leave.”
The door abruptly flew open, and Isabelle gasped. Kensa hadn't made a move to open the door; it wasn’t a windy day.
“Did—did you do that?” Isabelle whispered.
“You can leave my home now."
“Please,” Isabelle said, getting to her feet. "I—I’m sorry for my skepticism earlier. I can accept there’s something going on here that I can’t yet understand. I am ready. Please . . . tell me more.”
The door slowly drifted shut. Isabelle sucked in her breath, certain that Kensa had done it.
Kensa approached her, and Isabelle noticed something she’d missed before. There were now strands of gray in Kensa's hair and well-defined crow’s feet around her eyes. While she’d looked thirty when Isabelle first came to her door, she now looked to be in her mid-forties. It was as if she’d aged fifteen years in the past fifteen minutes.
Isabelle’s pulse fluttered wildly at the base of her throat as she realized that something was going on here. Something beyond her grasp . . . something otherworldly. She needed to set her skepticism aside.
“Very well,” Kensa said. “But . . . it’s better if I show you.”
Moments later, Isabelle and Kensa pulled over to the side of the road, stepping out of her rental car. They'd driven for only twenty minutes with Kensa riding shotgun. She’d directed Isabelle where to go but refused to tell her exactly where they were going.
As Isabelle got out of the car, she took in their destination. They'd arrived at an abandoned village filled with old crumbling buildings and the ruins of a castle on its outskirts. Isabelle surveyed it, tension filling her.
"Is this it?" Isabelle asked. "Tairseach?"
Kensa gazed at it with quiet reverence, and when she turned back to face her, Isabelle stifled a gasp. Kensa now looked to be in her late sixties; her hair was mostly gray, her face peppered with wrinkles. Isabelle took her in with dazed astonishment, shaking her head.
“What’s happening?” Isabelle demanded. “Who are you?”
“Someone who wants to help,” Kensa said simply. She reached up to touch her hair, expelling a sigh. “A side effect from my abilities, I’m afraid. Come, Isabelle. This is what you were looking for. And yes, this is Tairseach.”
Isabelle had a million questions, but forced herself to follow Kensa toward the ruins. She looked around at the medieval ghost town, suppressing a shudder. Was this where Fiona had disappeared? Kara Forrester? So many others?
“Is—is Fiona nearby?" Isabelle asked, a sudden unease gripping her.
Kensa didn't respond, continuing to make her way through the village until she reached the entrance to the castle. Isabelle followed, rubbing her arms for warmth as the light breeze around them suddenly picked up.
Kensa remained silent and still, gazing at the ruins of the castle. The wind gradually increased around them, whipping Isabelle's dark hair around, and she had to struggle to hold herself upright.
"What did you want me to see?!” Isabelle shouted over the force of the growing wind.
“I am a stuireadh,” Kensa’s voice was low, but Isabelle could hear her clearly, even over the roar of wind. “I help travelers get to where they need to be. Fiona didn’t belong in this time.”
A growing panic filled Isabelle, and she stumbled back. The wind was violent now, and she didn’t know how much longer she could hold herself upright.
But the wind seemed to have no effect on Kensa at all. She gave Isabelle a look of utter calm.
She’s crazy, Isabelle thought with horror, taking another faltering step back.
“What did you do?!” Isabelle shouted. “What did you do to Fiona?”
Kensa stepped toward her, gripping her arms. The smile she gave Isabelle wasn’t cruel, or sinister. It was filled with genuine warmth.
“I sent her to where she truly belongs. You don't belong here either, Isabelle. It's time for you to go."
Kensa released her, and Isabelle lost control of her body. She screamed as the wind sucked her backward, lifting her off her feet, and her entire world went black.
Chapter 4
1390
Aitharne Castle
Ciaran sat huddled in the corner of his cell, his head buried in his hands, the memory of Tavish's hate-filled eyes filling his thoughts. He didn’t regret confessing his guilt; it was true. While he’d not killed his brother by his own hand, he was guilty of not protecting him. He had failed his family. And for that he deserved his punishment.
“Ye damned fool.”
He looked up. Lachaid stood by the door to his cell with a fierce scowl, clutching a sack at his side. Ciaran turned away from him, closing his eyes.
“Leave me be, Lachaid.”
“If ye think I’m going tae let ye die and leave that murderous brother of yers in charge, ye’re a fool.”
Ciaran flinched at Lachaid's words. Though he knew it was true, it pained him to think of Tavish as a murderer.
He turned back around, startled, at the clinking sound of a key unlocking the cell door. Lachaid swung open the door, pocketing the key.
“What are ye doing?” Ciaran demanded, stumbling to his feet. He braced himself for Angus to enter the cell at any moment, his sword drawn.
“I’m freeing ye,” Lachaid said calmly, his thick eyebrows raised. “There’s a horse and a bag of supplies waiting by the stables for ye, but we doonae have much time.”
“No,” Ciaran said swiftly. “I'll nae have ye hang on account of me.”
“Yer guard Angus respects ye. He agreed tae look the other way, tae make it look like an outsider rescued ye. He kens ye didna
e kill yer brother. Now if ye doonae leave this cell, I’ll go tell the nobles I helped ye kill Eoin.”
“Lachaid—"
“I speak the truth, Ciaran,” Lachaid said, holding his gaze.
Ciaran studied his friend; he knew he was serious. As the son of a clan noble, Lachaid and Ciaran had grown up together; he was as close to him as any brother. Lachaid was fiercely loyal—and he never backed down from his word.
"Ye're a stubborn bastard,” Ciaran muttered, though he gave him a grudging smile as he stepped out of the cell.
"As are ye," Lachaid said. He reached into his sack, taking out a cloak. "Put this on. Keep yer head low."
Ciaran obliged, placing the cloak around his head and body, following Lachaid out of the dungeons. His heart thundered in his chest as they moved, expecting them to be caught at any moment, but he kept his gaze trained on the ground.
There were a few servants milling around the corridor as they emerged from the dungeons and into the castle, but no one looked their way. Ciaran held his breath until they were clear of the castle and had reached the rear of the stables. There, a horse was waiting for him, a sheathed sword and a bag of supplies slung over its flank.
“Get off of Aitharne lands," Lachaid said, as Ciaran took off his cloak and mounted the horse. “The nobles in power are mostly loyal tae yer brother, but there are a few on yer side. Try tae get messages tae me if ye can; I have some trusted messengers in the castle. I’m going tae do everything I can tae clear yer name while ye’re gone. Doonae come back unless ye have an army riding with ye. Tavish is determined tae see ye hang.”
Ciaran looked down at Lachaid, gripping the reins of the horse, a surge of emotion coursing through him. He wanted to thank his friend, to express his gratitude for standing by him when so many others had turned their backs, but no words came.
Lachaid knew him well and seemed to understand the words he couldn’t say.
“Ye would do the same for me,” Lachaid said gruffly, stepping back. “Now go—before the stable boys return.”
Ciaran's Bond_A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 2