Ciaran wondered if Isabelle and the time he'd spent with her at Gabhran's manor had all been a dream.

He was back in the same cell he'd languished in weeks before, despair seeping into his bones. He kept seeing Isabelle vanish right before his eyes.

After she'd disappeared, Tavish’s men had hauled him back to Aitharne Castle. Tavish told Ciaran he’d found him by having his men watch Gabhran's manor in case he returned there.

“Yet the whole time, ye were hiding out in his manor like a coward. Now tell me,” Tavish had hissed, as soon as a guard threw Ciaran into the cell. “Where is that Sassenach with the strange tongue who lied tae me? She needs tae be punished for her deception.”

But Ciaran had remained silent, relieved that Isabelle was safe in her own time, free from Tavish's wrath. He thought Tavish would resort to torture to get answers from him, but to Ciaran's relief he'd stopped questioning him about Isabelle after his first day of captivity. Ciaran assumed—hoped—that Tavish was content with his capture. Ciaran was the one he wanted dead.

Ciaran closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. He didn’t know how long he’d been in this cell. He'd passed the time by thinking of Isabelle. The musical sound of her laughter, the way her blue eyes lit up when she discussed something she was passionate about, the softness of her bare skin against his as he made love to her.

A wave of grief swept over him. His former goal to avenge Eoin and clear his name had vanished along with Isabelle. Isabelle, who had so briefly shone a light onto the darkness of his life, was no longer with him. She was gone, like his brother, and darkness was the only thing that fed his dispirited soul.

Now he longed for it to all to be over. He hoped to carry his memories of Isabelle with him into death. Love had been a foreign concept to him; he'd not come close to loving any of the lasses he'd bedded before. But he knew that love described the depths of his feelings for Isabelle. She was the only lass he had ever or would ever love, and she was now lost to him across the expanse of time.

Ciaran drifted off to sleep, coming to off and on, barely touching the gruel the guard shoved into his cell. He didn’t recognize this guard, a stocky man with severe gray eyes who spoke in grunts and barks. He didn’t know what had become of Angus; he could only pray that Tavish hadn't punished him with death for releasing him. Nor was there any sign of Lachaid, whom Ciaran was certain would have visited him by now. Ciaran prayed that he too was safe.

The guard shook him awake from one of his brief sleeps, one filled with images of his Isabelle. The guard roughly lifted him to his feet, and he realized with a dark relief that this was it, he was finally being marched to his death.

His legs were weak from his long spell of sitting; he struggled to walk with the guard, who led him out of the dungeons. He noticed that the corridors of the castle seemed quiet; the castle always grew quiet when there was an execution. He never thought it would one day be a witness to his own.

The guard kept a firm grip on his arm as he led him out to the courtyard. A small crowd was gathered; Ciaran recognized some familiar faces, ranging from castle workers to local villagers.

Tavish stood on the scaffold he'd had built for this occasion, next to the hangman and a noose. Ciaran searched his brother’s eyes for any regret or guilt, but he only saw burning hatred as the guard led him up the scaffold's steps.

Ciaran felt nothing but a numb resolve as the hangman stepped forward, placing the noose around his neck. Tavish stepped forward to address the crowd.

"My brother, your former laird and former chieftain of Clan Aitharne, stands guilty of the murder of my dear brother, Eoin," Tavish announced. “After his cowardly escape, I have returned him to the castle for his punishment—death by hanging."

The crowd reacted with silence, not the usual jeers or cries that accompanied hangings. Ciaran had been a kind laird to the villagers and castle workers; he could see disbelief and grief in many of their eyes.

Tavish scowled, looking displeased by the lack of acclamation from his announcement.

"Today ye are not the favored one, beloved by all," Tavish hissed in a low voice, turning to face Ciaran. "Today ye go tae yer death like a traitor and criminal. The clan and castle will be mine; I will do everything I can tae stamp out your memory."

If Ciaran could feel anything, he would recoil from the spite in Tavish's eyes, though a part of him wanted to laugh.

How had he not seen this before? Tavish's hatred stemmed from jealousy. Jealousy that Ciaran was chief and laird, that he was a well-liked leader. It was this jealousy that led him to kill Eoin, leaving all the inherited power to him.

But Ciaran chose not to react to his brother's words; he wouldn't give him the pleasure of a response. He stared straight ahead, filling his mind with thoughts of Isabelle as the hangman tightened the noose around his neck, and Tavish stepped down from the scaffold.

Isabelle's warm hand in his as they walked through the gardens of Gabhran's estate. Isabelle's laughter as he told her of his and Gabhran's youthful exploits. Isabelle telling him about the works of a poet not yet born named William Shakespeare, her voice infused with passion as she recited some of his poetry: “When Love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.”

I love ye, Isabelle, he thought, closing his eyes as the hangman stepped back. Bracing himself for the end.

The sound of multiple horse hooves and startled shouts forced his eyes open.

Two dozen men rode into the courtyard, scattering the gathered crowd. Ciaran watched in dazed disbelief, recognizing two of the riders—Gabhran and Lachaid—as they dismounted from their horses, withdrawing their swords to fight off Tavish’s men.

Amid the chaos, several riders rode toward him, a cloak shielding one of their faces. As the rider drew closer, Ciaran's heart stopped.

The rider wasn’t a man. It was Isabelle.

The other men who rode with her leapt from their horses, charging at Tavish and the hangman. Tavish, who had gone still and white with shock, stumbled back as the men charged toward him, calling fearfully for his guards.

The hangman turned to flee while one of Ciaran's rescuers cut him free from the noose.

Isabelle remained on her horse, extending her hand.

"Ciaran!" she shouted. "Come with me! Get on my horse!”

This isnae real, Ciaran thought in a daze. I've already died, and this is just—

"Ciaran!" Isabelle shouted again. “We have to leave!"

The man who’d freed him from his noose gave him a gentle shove, and Ciaran stepped off of the scaffold, climbing onto the back of Isabelle’s horse. She kicked the sides of her horse, and they tore out of the courtyard as Tavish’s men continued to fight off Ciaran's rescuers.

Shock tore through him as they rode, and he tightened his arms around Isabelle’s waist—both to keep himself steady and to reassure himself that she was real. He took in the long, silky, dark strands of her hair, leaning forward to inhale her familiar honeyed scent. Tears stung his eyes; it was her. His Isabelle.

He tightened his grip on her waist as they continued to ride. Ciaran fought against his weakness and fatigue as they rode, not wanting to fall asleep only to wake back up in that cell, to find that this had all been a glorious dream.

Isabelle stopped when they reached a crumbling old manor deep in the Highlands, one he didn’t recognize. She dismounted and gently helped him down.

He swayed on his feet, reaching out to touch her face. She caught his hands in hers and met his eyes, tears glistening in her own.

“Isabelle,” he breathed. “My Isabelle.”

He wanted to kiss her, to pull her into his arms and never let her go, but he could no longer fight off his fatigue, and succumbed to the blackness that claimed him.