Ciaran's Bond_A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Stella Knight

  “I have nothing tae say tae a murderer," Tavish spat, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. "GUARDS—”

  “What was our brother’s last words?” Ciaran interrupted. Angus had managed to distract Tavish's guards for the time being, but they would soon return. He didn't have much time.

  His words had their intended effect. Tavish blanched, his face going pale.

  Good, Ciaran thought bitterly. I hope ye feel some guilt in that dark heart of yers.

  “What?” Tavish faltered.

  “Ye heard me. When ye killed him, what were his last—"

  “I didnae kill Eoin,” Tavish interrupted, though his eyes were filled with turmoil.

  “Do ye hate me so much?” Ciaran pressed. He needed to keep pushing, to force Tavish from the avalanche of lies he'd buried himself beneath. “Tae murder yer own brother? Do ye not remember what our father said on his deathbed? That us three brothers were all we had. The only family."

  A flare of emotion crossed Tavish's face, and Ciaran thought—hoped—he saw a flicker of guilt.

  “Do ye want yer death tae be painful, brother?" Tavish hissed, his expression once again turning hard. "Keep talking and I'll make certain yer execution is—"

  “'Tis yer jealousy that made ye set aside our father's words,” Ciaran said. He took a breath, forcing himself to continue. He needed to push Tavish to the breaking point. “I’ve always been stronger than ye. A better leader than ye. 'Tis been that way from the start. Even had I not been the firstborn, our father would have preferred me.”

  Tavish stilled, his eyes going wild with rage.

  “Tis not true,” Tavish spat. “Ye’ve had everything handed tae ye. Ye became laird only because ye were firstborn!"

  “But I was even more respected as laird than ye," Ciaran taunted. "How do ye think I got intae the castle? That I've evaded capture for so long? The servants are still loyal tae me—as are yer men. No matter how many ye kill or destroy tae get tae me, it will never change yer inferiority.”

  “A true leader does what is best for his clan!" Tavish roared. "Eoin was weak and ye focused only on yer power. I was the best one tae lead, but always ignored. With ye out of the way, Eoin would have been next in line tae lead. If I hadnae killed him, the clan would've faltered with his leadership. Eoin didnae even fight back. He just pleaded for me tae spare his life. And ye ran away—even confessed tae a murder ye didnae commit instead of fighting back! I'm the best leader for this clan, the best laird of this castle. And I did what it took tae prove it!"

  Hot rage seared Ciaran's chest. He should have felt triumph; this was the confession he'd hoped for. But he could only see Eoin in his mind's eye, pleading with Tavish to spare his life before he was cruelly cut down.

  With a ferocious roar, Ciaran reached for his sword and charged at Tavish, just as the door swung open behind them. Ramsey and several other clan nobles rushed into the chamber, followed by Gabhran, Lachaid, Isabelle and the others.

  But Ciaran had reached his brother, pressing his sword to the center of his chest. Tavish stilled, his eyes flying past him to the other nobles in the room.

  "Ye—ye planned this!" Tavish snarled. "Ye treacherous—”

  "That word—and a great many others—refer tae ye," Ciaran hissed. He lifted the blade of his sword to Tavish's neck. All he had to do was sink the blade into his throat and watch him bleed out.

  “Ciaran!" Lachaid shouted from behind him. "I ken ye want tae, and ye have great reason. But ye doonae need tae kill him. We all heard his confession."

  But Ciaran was unable to move, his blade still pressed to Tavish’s throat. Tavish had gone still now, his eyes trained on Ciaran's. Tavish's words kept circling throughout Ciaran's mind. He pleaded for me tae spare his life. Tavish deserved death for what he'd done.

  “He begged,” Tavish whispered. "The brother ye swore tae protect and loved, he begged me tae spare—”

  “Ciaran!" Gabhran shouted. "He kens he's trapped and wants ye tae kill him. Doonae give him what he wants!"

  “Ciaran.”

  Ciaran froze. It was Isabelle’s voice. He heard her soft footfalls cross the room toward him. Tavish's eyes darkened at the sight of her; he must have recognized her as the lass who'd pretended to be a wayward traveler at Gabhran's manor.

  Ciaran didn't take his eyes off of Tavish as Isabelle pressed her hand to his arm.

  “You're no murderer. You're not Tavish," she whispered. "Think of our future. You won't be able to live your life with a clear conscience if you do this."

  Ciaran swallowed, his eyes burning into Tavish's. She was right. He'd always known, even during his dark days in the dungeon, that he'd never be able to kill his own brother, no matter how much he deserved it. Even Eoin, in his infinite kindness, wouldn't have wanted Ciaran to murder Tavish on his behalf. And wouldn't it be a far better punishment for Tavish to live out his days imprisoned, far from the power he'd always wanted for himself?

  He lowered his sword. Isabelle gently pulled him back from Tavish as Gabhran and Lachaid approached, taking Tavish by both of his arms.

  "Take him to the dungeons," Ciaran said. "And call an emergency meeting with the other nobles."

  Gabhran and Lachaid obliged, leading a pale and shaking Tavish out of the chamber. Isabelle's relief was palpable; she squeezed his hand as his nobles approached.

  Ciaran closed his eyes, taking several shuddering breaths. Rage and despair still simmered within him, but from their ashes, a sliver of hope began to grow, like the seedling of a plant after a fierce storm. He had Isabelle at his side, and he’d returned home.

  Think of our future, Isabelle had said. A bright one was possible; one that Eoin would have wanted for him.

  "My laird," said one of his nobles, a man by the name of Graham, giving him a respectful bow when he opened his eyes. "Ye've been greatly wronged—and missed. We hope tae gain yer forgiveness. Welcome home."

  Chapter 25

  The next few days after the confrontation with Tavish seemed to fly by. Ciaran had Isabelle settled into her own private chamber adjacent to his, telling her he would move her into his own after they were wed. Her chamber was ridiculously large, more than double the size of her own apartment back in Chicago, complete with her own chambermaids. Her maids studied her with open curiosity and marveled at her strange manner of speaking. But they treated her with respect and kindness—she suspected they were just happy to have their laird returned to them, even if he'd returned with a lass who spoke with an odd tongue.

  Ciaran had many matters to attend to after the nobles restored his titles. Tavish and the men he'd conspired with to frame Ciaran, including Walrick, were imprisoned or exiled. Tavish himself was confined to a life of imprisonment in the dungeons of an old crumbling castle that had belonged to an uncle of theirs on distant Aitharne lands.

  After Tavish and his conspirators were dealt with, Ciaran brought Isabelle before the nobles and informed them that they were to wed. Isabelle braced herself, waiting for the barrage of protests, but there were none. Like his servants, the nobles loyal to him seemed so relieved to have him back they would have accepted any woman as his choice of bride.

  "Ye have our congratulations," Ramsey said, giving Isabelle a nod. "Welcome tae Clan Aitharne, Isabelle."

  Joy filled Isabelle's heart at the welcome, at the thought of starting her life with Ciaran.

  But a shadow loomed.

  It was the matter of Fiona and her absolute lack of progress in finding her. As soon as they settled into the castle, she and Ciaran sent several messengers to all corners of the Highlands for any word or rumors of lady Sassenachs with strange tongues such as hers. When a week went by with no word, the shadow turned into a dark cloud, one she knew would persist. How could she ever truly be happy until she was certain of Fiona's safety?

  But her melancholy didn't persist for long. After a fortnight, one of the messengers returned with news. He'd learned that two lairds of a northern clan, Clan Macleay, had married Sas
senach brides. Brides rumored to speak with odd accents.

  “Their names?” Isabelle asked the messenger, her heart thundering.

  And the names he told her nearly caused her to sink to her knees with hope and relief. Fiona . . . and Kara. The other missing woman.

  Isabelle gave the startled messenger a hug before racing to Ciaran's study. He was deep in discussion with Lachaid, but at the sight of Isabelle, he dismissed him.

  "What is it, lass?"

  “Your messenger found her," Isabelle whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “He’s found Fiona."

  Macleay Castle was quite a ways north from Aitharne Castle. They sent a letter north alerting the laird to Isabelle's visit. Ciaran insisted on having her travel by carriage and accompanying her.

  "It's not necessary for you to come with me," she said. "I know you have much to tend to with the clan and your—”

  "My mistake before was putting matters of the clan above the people I loved," Ciaran gently interrupted. "This is important tae ye, lass. I'm coming with ye."

  They left just after dawn the morning after sending their letter to Macleay Castle, and Isabelle had to clench her shaking hands in her lap during much of the journey north. Could this Sassenach bride of Eadan Macleay be her Fiona? And what would she do if she wasn't? She pushed away the dark thought, choosing to cling to her hope instead.

  When they arrived at Macleay Castle—a proud gray stone castle with several turreted towers—a servant greeted them in the bustling courtyard and led them into the great hall.

  Isabelle froze when she saw the two people who stood waiting for them. A tall and handsome, dark-haired man stood next to . . . Fiona.

  For a moment Isabelle couldn't breathe, not quite believing that the noble woman who stood before her in an emerald green gown was her Fiona. But the chestnut brown hair and warm brown eyes were the same, eyes that filled with tears at the sight of her.

  "Izzy?" Fiona whispered.

  Isabelle let out a strangled sob, and they both rushed forward, wrapping their arms around each other in a fierce embrace.

  "I'm sorry I made you worry," Fiona said. "It was the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

  Later that day, Isabelle and Fiona walked around the castle grounds, their arms linked. Ciaran and Eadan had left them alone to reconnect, and Fiona had promptly offered to give Isabelle a tour of Macleay Castle, her new home of the past few months. She'd told her everything that happened since she disappeared—arriving in the cellar of Macleay Castle, falling in love with Eadan, helping him deal with the attacks of another clan. She told her about the other traveler she'd met, Kara Forrester, now happily married to Eadan's cousin Ronan; they lived in a manor house not far from the castle.

  When Isabelle told Fiona her own story of traveling through time and meeting Ciaran, she listened intently. She shook her head in amazement when Isabelle spoke of Kensa.

  "She has to be the same woman I saw in Aberdeen. I suspected she was following me."

  “She must have been,” Isabelle agreed. “Right before I arrived here, she told me that neither of us belonged in the present.”

  “She was right,” Fiona said. “This is where I belong."

  Her hand drifted down to her abdomen, and Isabelle's eyes widened.

  "Fiona . . . " she breathed. "Are you . . . ?"

  "I'm pregnant," Fiona confirmed, with a wide smile. "It's early days yet, but I can tell."

  "Oh, Fiona," Isabelle whispered, pulling her close. She'd only briefly seen Fiona and Eadan interact before he'd left them alone, but she could tell they were deeply in love.

  "Eadan was worried at first. He almost insisted I go back to the present to have the baby, but I refused. He's having the best midwives sent from Inverness and Edinburgh to assist with the birth. I'll be in good hands."

  “Congratulations,” Isabelle said, beaming. “I can’t believe I’m going to be an aunt.”

  “You sure are,” Fiona said. “I hope this means you’re staying? Are you and Ciaran . . . "

  "I love him," Isabelle said simply. "When I was back in my time, there was a heaviness in my heart without him. I came back not just to find you . . . but for him.”

  “I knew it,” Fiona said with a grin. “He was looking at you as if you were the only woman in the world. Am I invited to the wedding?”

  “Of course,” Isabelle said, squeezing her hand. “You’d better be there.”

  She and Fiona spent the rest of the day commiserating. Fiona filled her in on details of her daily life at the castle, the time she spent with Eadan, what she did and didn't miss from their own time. Isabelle told Fiona about her future plans here; she had Ciaran’s blessing to teach the children of the castle workers—and in the local village—how to read.

  “I can see making a life here,” she said, eagerness filling her at the thought of teaching again.

  When Isabelle spoke of missing Scott, they discussed the possibility of her attempting to visit him in the future, or at the very least sending him letters as Fiona had done with her.

  But those were concerns for another time, and she focused on enjoying her time with Fiona. They remained together until evening fell, and Ciaran fetched her to leave.

  She embraced Fiona for a long time before leaving, and they swore to visit each other as often as possible.

  As their carriage clattered away from the castle, Isabelle twisted in her seat to watch Fiona and Eadan disappear behind them, their arms around each other, their hands lifted in farewell.

  A sense of calm settled over Isabelle. She had located her friend; she was happy, safe, and in love.

  “Are ye happy?” Ciaran asked, when she turned back around.

  “Happier than I ever thought possible.”

  “Good,” he murmured, taking her hand. “Will ye marry me, Isabelle? Will ye be mine for always?”

  Isabelle stared at him with a puzzled smile.

  “I’ve already agreed to be your wife.”

  “It wouldnae have felt right getting wed with the uncertainty of yer friend’s whereabouts looming. Now that ye ken where she is and that she’s happy . . . ye can move forward.”

  Isabelle reached up to touch the side of Ciaran’s handsome face, her heart swelling. Was it possible to love this man even more than she already did?

  “You’re right,” she said, joy coursing through her. “And my answer is yes, Ciaran. I'll be your wife. With an open and clear heart. For the rest of my days.”

  Chapter 26

  Present Day

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Niall awoke with a gasp.

  He'd just had the same dream that plagued him for the past few months. In the dream, a beautiful woman with wavy auburn hair and sparkling green eyes approached him with a wide smile. She wore a high-waisted, long-sleeved, crimson gown, the type of gown worn by noblewomen of the fourteenth century. An inexplicable joy had filled him as she approached, joy that melded with an odd sense of dread.

  Niall expelled a breath, raking his hand through his hair. There were several varieties of this dream. In some, the woman looked morose, in others she looked terrified. And in others, her face was flushed with desire.

  He'd tried to ignore the persistent dreams, chocking them up to an overactive imagination or his lack of romantic partners as of late, but still they came to him.

  He climbed out of bed, padding out of his bedroom to make his way to the kitchen of his spacious penthouse. As he made himself a kettle of tea, he tried to rationalize the recurrence of the dream. He was a historian; a researcher who consulted with museums and libraries over rare books and collections from medieval times. He came from an impressive pedigree of Scottish historians; his father before him had been an acclaimed historian, as had his grandfather.

  Maybe he was having the dreams because of his latest consulting work with the Museum of Scotland over an exhibit about the lives of women in medieval Scotland. Or maybe he was still thinking about his friend Scott, a professor at the Univers
ity of Edinburgh, who recently kept asking him for details about life in the Scottish Highlands in the fourteenth century—and wouldn’t tell him the reason for his sudden interest.

  But deep down he knew that neither of these reasons were the cause. He'd been having the dreams since before the consulting gig with the museum, and since before Scott started bombarding his email address with historical questions. He suspected the dreams were about something else. Something his family had been linked to for years.

  Niall's family had the ability—though he would personally call it a curse—to travel through time. His father had traveled so often that it had taken a toll on his health and killed him in the end. Other family members died trying to alter the course of history, while still others never returned from their travels and simply disappeared.

  But Niall was determined that he would not become one of these wayward travelers, obsessed with the past. He had always been determined to stay fixedly in the present, to carry out his historical research through honest means—unlike his unscrupulous father. He'd never traveled through time, nor had the desire to . . . until the mysterious dreams.

  He suspected the woman from his dreams was real, and that it was no coincidence she wore fourteenth-century clothing.

  Niall poured himself a cup of tea, moving over to his large bay window. It was a bustling Saturday night and people were heading out to the pubs. He watched all the marvels of the twenty-first century—people on their cell phones, cars, and cabs clogging the streets, streetlights; he even spotted a distant plane flying overhead. Despite his profession, he bore no nostalgia for the past. He never understood his father’s—and other family members’—constant need to return to the dangerous and dark past.

  But the recurrent dreams would force his hand, continuing until he sought out the mysterious woman.