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."