Ciaran stiffened as Isabelle entered his chamber, a heated awareness rippling through him at the sight of her in her underdress. It clung to her curves, and he ached to pull her into his arms, to carry her to his bed and bury himself inside her.

And had it not been for his brother’s visit, he would have.

He’d had a taste of her for one night, and he’d have to be satisfied with that. Fear gripped him at the thought of Tavish capturing her, of taking his revenge for helping him. To keep her safe, he’d have to put his longing for her aside.

Ciaran straightened, holding himself rigid as she approached, not letting his gaze slip to the outline of her breasts beneath her dress.

“Ye shouldnae be in here, lass.”

“I know,” she said. “But I needed to warn you about that noble you mentioned, Artair. You can’t trust him.”

“How do ye ken?”

“I’ve heard of him in my time. Remember Kensa, the woman I told you about? She told me about him, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she did. Two years from now, he’ll be hung for betraying several clans—working behind their backs to turn them against each other and profiting from their conflicts. If you go to him, I have no doubt he’ll go to Tavish and turn you in.”

Ciaran went still, considering her words. He didn’t know Artair well, but there were rampant rumors about his mercenary nature. Yet Ciaran had limited options when it came to his choice of allies.

“I thank ye,” he said, expelling a heavy sigh. He’d have to make alternative plans, though it would prove difficult to find men not allied with Clan Aitharne who'd take him in.

“What are you going to do?”

“’Tis not yer concern. Soon,” his voice wavered, but he forced himself to continue, “soon, ye’ll be back in yer own time, far from my troubles.”

Isabelle bit her lip, her lovely eyes filling with tears.

“I doonae want tae send ye away,” he whispered. “But ye understand how dangerous it is for ye here, aye?”

“I do,” Isabelle said. “But I also don’t want anything to happen to you. I . . . I care about you, Ciaran. You don’t deserve this. Any of it.”

“Doonae fret. I’ve other allies in the Highlands. It may be more difficult tae get tae them, but I will.”

He reached down to wipe away a stray tear on her face with his thumb. Isabelle stilled at his touch; he heard her breath catch in her throat as her eyes lifted to his.

Ciaran’s gaze lowered to her mouth, to the curve of her shoulders, to her breasts. He should tell her to return to her chamber. But his body wouldn’t listen. His heart wouldn’t.

He pulled her into the circle of his arms, pressing his lips to hers. The heat that filled him flared to a simmering inferno, and his cock stirred beneath his kilt.

“Ciaran,” Isabelle breathed against his mouth, “if we’re to have one last night together . . . then let’s make it count.”

She stepped back, and his mouth went dry as she lowered her underdress to stand nude before him.

He growled at her challenge, moving forward to again capture her mouth with his. His desire was so great that he didn’t have the patience to get to the bed; he sank to his knees before her, gripping her buttocks and pulling her sweet quim to his mouth.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, her hands going to his hair, pressing him more firmly against her. He continued to lick and probe her center, needing to remember her taste, to sear it into his memory. He didn’t stop until she quaked her release, and he lowered her to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I cannae wait any longer.”

Isabelle gasped as he lifted his tunic and sank his hard length inside her. She wound her arms around his neck, her breath coming out in gasps as he began to thrust. Their eyes locked as he pounded into her, and he leaned down to plunder her mouth with his tongue. It wasn't long before he felt the stirrings of his release tug on him, and he came with a roar, holding her close as her body shook with her own release.

They were both still breathless as he sat up, gently scooping her into his arms. He carried her to the bed, his eyes trailing down the loveliness of her nude body—her full breasts, the flat plane of her abdomen, the gentle swell of her hips—and he hardened once more.

Isabelle’s eyes widened at the sight of his erection, and he gave her a mischievous grin.

“Ye said tae make this night count, my bonnie Isabelle,” he whispered, crawling on top of her, hissing at the feel of her naked flesh against his. “I intend tae make it so."

* * *

Ciaran awoke long before Isabelle the next morning, his dread like a great weight in his heart. After he’d made love to her the second time, they’d spend the night talking, avoiding the subject of their looming separation. Instead, they spoke of the classics he and Isabelle were both fond of, the precociousness of Gabhran and Donella’s daughter, his friendship with Gabhran, which she told him seemed akin to her friendship with Fiona. He’d remained awake after she'd fallen asleep, gazing down at her, wanting to remember every detail of this bonnie time traveler who’d entered his life and filled it with momentary joy.

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.