A surge of protectiveness filled Ciaran’s chest as the two men approached. By the rough look of them—dirty tunics and torn breeches, bloodshot eyes from the effect of too much drink—he suspected they were bandits. He didn’t like the way they were looking at Isabelle, with lasciviousness in their eyes. He moved in front of her to shield her from their gazes.

"If ye leave now, no harm will come tae ye," he said, his hand lowering to the hilt of his sword, relieved that he'd had the sense to place it in its sheath on his belt when he'd dressed.

The men just laughed, taking another menacing step toward them.

"Will ye?" asked the larger of the two, a bearded blond who had the look of a Norseman. "How about we enjoy that lass of yers while ye watch?"

Isabelle let out a terrified whimper behind him, and rage tore through him. Ciaran took out his sword and charged toward the men with a snarl.

They took out their swords as well, and his weapon clashed with each of theirs. He kicked at the Norseman’s knees, sending him sprawling to the ground. He turned his attention to the other man, backing him up to the edge of the clearing as their swords continued to duel. The man let out a ferocious growl and charged toward Ciaran, his sword outstretched, but Ciaran was ready, striking him in the head with the hilt of his sword. The bandit slumped to the ground, still and unconscious.

Ciaran turned to deal with the other bandit, but to his surprise he saw that he lay unconscious at Isabelle's feet. She shakily held the man's sword, her eyes wild with panic.

"He—he came at me," she whispered. "I panicked and grabbed his sword. I just—swung at him."

"Ye did good, lass," he said, giving her an impressed nod. "But we must leave. They'll not stay down long."

She didn't protest, her face still tight with shock as he gathered his things and helped her up onto his horse. After slinging his bag of supplies onto the back of the horse, he climbed on behind her.

Ciaran wrapped his arms around her to get to the reins, a surge of heat coursing through him at the feel of her body against his. He had to force himself to concentrate as he kicked the sides of the horse to gallop out of the clearing. But he remained aware of Isabelle's body against his as they rode out of the forest and onto one of the many green moors that dotted the Highlands.

He veered left when he spotted another patch of forest up ahead, tucked away next to an expanse of rolling hills. From his previous hunting trips, he knew that where there were hills there were caves—perfect hiding spots.

He tugged on the reins, slowing the horse's pace to a trot as they entered the forest. They soon reached a clearing, only steps away from the entrance of a small cave.

Ciaran dismounted, helping Isabelle down before tying the horse to a tree. She remained silent and pale, her arms wrapped around her body. The encounter with the bandits had clearly shaken her.

"Isabelle," he said gently.

She raised her lovely blue eyes to meet his, and he swallowed. He'd been able to tell she was bonnie when he first saw her last night, wet from the stream and illuminated by moonlight, but the darkness had concealed the true strength of her beauty.

Her hair was as dark as a raven's wings, falling in a straight curtain down past her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of the sky at midday; clear and blue. Her features were delicate and feminine—a heart-shaped face, sensual lips, high cheekbones. And beneath the baggy tunic she wore, he could make out the full curve of her breasts, the sensual flare of her hips. Desire shot through his body with the force of an arrow, and he had to take a breath to quell it.

"Ye're safe now, lass," he murmured.

She blinked, seeming to come back to herself at his words.

"Who—who were those men?"

"Bandits," Ciaran said with a sigh. "I've only encountered bandits once before—on a trip south tae Edinburgh. They roam the countryside, stealing from travelers . . . and sometimes worse. 'Tis why I didnae want ye tae wander off on yer own last night."

"It's really the year 1390, isn't it?" she whispered.

He studied her with concern. The lass didn't seem mad, but she spoke her question in earnest.

"Aye," he said.

"Look,” she said, taking a shaky step toward him. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I'm not from this time. That's why I was dressed in those strange clothes. I'm from the twenty-first century—over six hundred years from now. I have no idea how this works—how I got here."

Ciaran stiffened, looking at her with disbelief and suspicion. A sudden dark thought seized him. She'd come out of nowhere—conveniently arriving yards away from his camp. Was she working for his brother? Was she spying on his behalf?

"Are ye working with Tavish?" he demanded. "Did he send ye?"

"I don't know who Tavish is," she snapped. "I'm telling you the truth. I'm not from this time and I need to get back. Do—do you know where Tairseach is? Is it nearby?"

"I've never heard of the place," Ciaran said, his eyes still narrowed with suspicion.

But . . . her fear and frustration seemed genuine. And Tavish had always dismissed lasses and their intelligence. He would never allow a lass to spy for him.

But while he could believe she wasn't working for Tavish, he certainly didn't believe her wild story.

"Please," Isabelle whispered, desperation filling her eyes. "You don't have to believe me, and I don't blame you for that. But can you at least help me get back to Tairseach? Or—or point me in the right direction?"

He sighed. Even though she was telling him a false tale, his honor wouldn't allow him to let her travel on her own.

"I'm camping here for the night tae make certain those bandits doonae pick up our trail and follow. Then I plan tae go tae the manor of a friend. He may ken of this village ye speak of and can have someone escort ye there."

Isabelle closed her eyes, her shoulders sinking with relief. He surveyed her tense expression, wondering what the lass was truly hiding.

It doesnae matter. He had no time to get involved in her plight, whatever it was. He needed to get to Gabhran's manor and make a plan to clear his name and return home. Gabhran would send this strange lass on her way.

"I'll set up an area in that cave for ye tae sleep," he said. "'Tis not ideal, but 'tis for the best. And the only rations I have for the rest of the day are bread and ale."

"It's fine," she said, smiling. She reached out to touch his arm, and heat careened through him at her touch. "Thank you, Ciaran."

He gave her a quick nod, stepping out of her grasp. A flash of hurt crossed her face at his evasion, one she quickly masked.

"So . . .where are you from?" she asked. "Is your home nearby?"

He stiffened. He was afraid she'd ask probing questions; he had no intention of telling her he was an outlaw. Especially given her own false story.

"I'm just traveling in this area," he said shortly.

He turned to leave before she could ask any more questions, heading into the cave.

The cave was larger than it looked from the outside; there was more than enough room for the both of them. He gathered some fallen branches and sticks by the entrance, carrying them inside.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Isabelle asked.

“I can handle it, lass,” he said, focused on stacking wood for the fire.

"May—may I ask you something?" she hedged, after a brief silence. "Have you heard of a Fiona, by any chance? Fiona Stewart?"

"There are many Fionas in the Highlands," he said, looking up at her with a puzzled frown. "I ken two Fionas—one a wee lass in her ninth year, the other an elderly cook."

Disappointment flashed across her face.

"Who is she?" he asked.

"My closest friend. She's like a sister," she said, her voice wavering. "It's why I may have been sent here—to this time."

Ciaran’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. The lass was determined to stick to her tale. He quickly got the fire started and stood.

"I'll be in the clearing gathering more firewood," he said, not looking at her as he stepped out of the cave.

As he worked, gathering any stray sticks he could find, a memory struck him. The last time he'd built a fire was during a hunting trip with Eoin a few months ago. They'd gone on a hunt in the forests that surrounded Aitharne Castle and had made camp there for the day. The stressors of his duties as laird had taken their toll on Ciaran, and Eoin insisted he needed a break. They'd invited Tavish to come along, but he'd declined.

"I doonae ken why he dislikes me so," Ciaran had said, with a heavy sigh.

“He’s always kept tae himself. He doesnae like anyone,” Eoin had returned, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Ciaran had fallen silent. Eoin was right, Tavish had always kept to himself and didn’t seem to have close ties to anyone—including his brothers. But Tavish had seemed more remote and isolated than usual, not even coming to suppers in the great hall, taking his meals alone in his chamber.

Just weeks later, Eoin would be dead by Tavish’s hand.

Ciaran paused from his task, closing his eyes as a wave of anger and grief roiled through him.

“I’ll avenge ye, Eoin,” he whispered into the silence.

A twig snapped behind him and he whirled, his hand lowering to the hilt of his sword. But it was Isabelle who stood there, hands up, giving him an apologetic look.

“I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He turned, resuming his task, hating that she’d caught him in a state of vulnerability. Had she heard what he said?

“I just wanted to tell you—the fire in the cave is already dying.”

When he returned to the cave to tend to it, Isabelle knelt down by his side.

"Let me help," she said. Her proximity was unnerving; he could see the curve of her breasts beneath her tunic. "I insist. I hate being useless."

He grudgingly showed her how to use a fire steel to restart the fire, and he had her use torn fabric from his bag as kindling to ignite the flames.

As the fire roared to life, he glanced up, admiring the curve of her long neck and the bright blue of her eyes, illuminated by the flames. For just a moment, he forgot about his ever-present grief and guilt, as something he'd not experienced in a long while coursed through him.

Desire. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself tasting the tender flesh of Isabelle's lips, pressing her body to his as he explored her mouth.

Isabelle stilled as her blue eyes met his, as if aware of his lustful thoughts. He could have sworn he saw her eyes darken with the same molten desire that filled his body.

But he forced his gaze away from hers, getting to his feet.

“I’ll be out gathering more wood,” he said gruffly, turning to leave, though his desire still burned as fierce as the fire that now raged inside the cave.