by Kat Bastion
The lustful look he blasted my way melted through my body like warmed honey, sliding down on pace with his gaze. His appreciation of me in my new emerald gown confirmed what I’d surmised in my room only moments ago: those magical seamstresses had a talent for capturing a woman’s assets and displaying them proudly.
Iain let out a slow sigh, his words purring out above a whisper. “Damn, Isa. You’ve descended straight from Heaven.”
I blinked, feeling a blush heat my cheeks. The man earned points within seconds.
My fingers slid across his outstretched palm. The intoxicating scent of woods and earth, mixed with pure essence of Iain, drugged my senses. He stepped aside, wrapping his other arm around me, guiding me with a hand at the small of my back.
A giggle escaped, and I shot a hand to my lips, shocked. Ian’s overpowering presence—his scent, that dominance, the electrical current that charged the space between us, warming every point of contact—threatened to turn me into a nervous idiot.
Iain led me into the courtyard. I stopped cold, startled at what awaited us: his saddleless stallion accompanied by a stable boy. The black, beautifully muscled creature reacted to our arrival with excited urgency, tramping his hooves in place and lifting his head, crying out a soft whinny. Moonlight reflected a black-blue luster in his glossy coat. Before my surprise settled into apprehension, Iain lifted a leather satchel, swung up onto the horse, and grabbed me under the arms, depositing me in front of him.
My loud gasp and subsequent protest was lost to the wind as his steed obeyed some silent command, charging into the darkness. Iain’s iron grip around my waist and expert bareback riding calmed my nerves from a near-hysterical pandemonium down to a low-anxiety thrum.
The animal galloped with grace, hugging every curve like a train on the rail, flowing over every rise and fall like rushing water. A growing sense of merging with the animal overcame my fear of our precarious perch as Iain rode astride and my dress-bound legs dangled off to one side.
Without reins or saddle, I marveled at the perfect communication between Iain and his beast. I shifted to get more comfortable, and Iain adjusted his hold instantly, tightening his grip, pulling me closer into his protective embrace. He leaned back imperceptibly, and the horse responded to the change in weight distribution, reducing his pace. As we slowed to a walk, I realized how Iain had been directing us: the slightest pressure from his thighs—or a shift from a hip forward or back—had translated instructions to his horse.
We traveled outside of the perimeter wall and ran parallel along it until we reached the farthest corner, veering off a couple hundred yards to a moss-covered ledge that jutted out into the night sky. The platform saluted an almost-full moon rising above the tree horizon.
Iain lowered me down in a gentle slide and held my shoulders until I confidently stepped away. He remained on the horse’s back, leaning forward, slowly brushing his hand down its neck as he murmured soft words of praise in Gaelic. The animal replied with a gentle whuffle. Iain dismounted in an effortless jump and slapped the animal’s flank. It wandered off to a nearby clearing, dropping its muzzle into newly sprouted grass.
Unruly wisps of hair that had escaped their ribbon binding at my nape tickled my face in the cool breeze as I waited. A mineral fragrance traveled on the air current, and I inhaled deeply, enjoying the crisp freshness of the spring mountain night. Iain opened an arm wide when he returned, the satchel dangling from his shoulder.
“Come, lass. ’Tis over here,” he said.
I stepped into his arms, and he pulled me tight to his side, kissing the top of my head. He led us further out on the mossy overhang, and my breath hitched at the enchanting view.
The glassy surface of a great body of water shimmered a streak of bright moonlight toward us. Insects marked their invisible presence with tiny, circular ripples. The moon inched higher, and my vision adjusted to the darkness, the far shoreline revealing its many muted shades of black. Spires of pine tops edged the sky, a grassy carpet blanketing their feet. The night paid quiet reverence to what amounted to a first date with Iain, the hushed sounds of soft insect chirps and the occasional low hoot of an owl becoming our distant nighttime melody.
Iain’s soft chuckle broke through my awe of the breathtaking nightscape. He grasped my hand, tugging me. The empty satchel sat on the corner of a spotless plaid upon which he’d spread out a picnic—fruit, meat, a round of bread, and a wineskin.
Impressed, I knelt down. Iain yanked me toward him, and I landed sideways onto his lap. He embraced me, preventing my escape.
I laughed, lightly smacking his forearms. “Hey, watch it, mister. I never agreed to second base on a first date.”
He growled. “Nay, you dinna. But then, I’ve never needed permission to take what I want.”
My mouth fell open at his blatant arrogance. He seized the opportunity by capturing my lips, proving he indeed did not need my verbal agreement. Delicious tingles and hot pulses sizzled everywhere, my traitorous body responding to his like he conducted my entire orchestra. Any plans I’d made to make the man come to heel fell away, forgotten.
Iain gently nipped my bottom lip, and I nibbled his. He slid the tip of his tongue across the seam in erotic suggestion, and my lips parted of their own volition. He invaded, his tongue pressing in, tangling slowly with mine. We dueled in a sensual dance of lips and tongue, heated and urgent, slow and tender. He threaded his fingers into the bound hair at my nape, slowly pulling my head away from his as if his mouth couldn’t bear the separation.
My chest heaved, starving for oxygen, as he gazed deeply at me. His darkened eyes glittered with mischief and desire along with the sparkling moonlight. He stole a chaste kiss as he shifted me off of his lap, nestling me against his side. An uncontrolled whimper came from my throat.
He grinned, kissing my nose. “Isa, if you stay on my lap, we’ll be tumblin’ right here. You doona want that. We’ve a great fire buildin’, and there’s immense pleasure to be had in the waitin’.”
He’d found his moral fiber right as my rioting body wanted very much to be tumblin’ without further delay. I licked my lips, savoring his salty taste. A deep ache between my thighs fanned into a delicious warmth, and I briefly wondered why I’d fought giving in to a man who obviously wanted me. But I abandoned the question in favor of enjoying the moment, wanting nothing to spoil the most romantic date ever.
Iain popped the cork from the wineskin and took my hand, entwining our fingers around it as we held it between our chests. “Isa, I know you pictured your life differently. Aye, I wanted you, but I never imagined this would happen. I truthfully had no idea, neither here nor there, that I’d been livin’ another life. Bein’ with you here, though, ’tis a dream come true from both lives. I am the luckiest man alive.” He lifted a hand, cupping my cheek as tears sprang to my eyes. “You’ll make me the happiest man—in all of any time—if you agree to be my wife.”
He leaned forward, kissing me tenderly, and I melted into him. His powerful words touched me. In the misty whirlwind of my mind, only sensations existed—the brush of his fingers on my cheek catching fallen tears; the gentleness of his lips teasing mine; the heat of his thigh against the silk of my skirt.
Iain broke the kiss. I’d grown breathless . . . felt weightless. He stared deep into my soul as he lifted the wineskin that we still grasped to my lips. I sipped the tart, earthy wine. Iain drank after me, our gazes locked together.
As he lowered the wineskin, Iain’s crooked smile appeared, amusement dancing in his eyes. If I’d ever wondered what provoked that wicked expression, I did no longer. He rendered translation unnecessary as his gaze drifted down, visually feasting on what nearly spilled over my gown’s revealing neckline.
His hand fell from my cheek, a look of wonder filling his eyes as he dropped his gaze, floating his fingertips above my breasts, the lightest touch feathering across my flushed skin. I closed my eyes, swallowing hard. He pulled away, and I glanced up to see blazing desire in his e
yes. We both inhaled so deeply, I wondered if we’d left any oxygen for the rest of Scotland.
His low, graveled tone sounded like the softest silk to my ears. “I love the instant reaction you have to me: the quick pulse at the base of your neck, your struggle for breath, those beautiful green eyes all dark and dilated. You’re a breathtakin’ present, beggin’ to be unwrapped.”
A dull ache throbbed low in my body, my inner beat thrumming to his cadence. I had no doubt every word he spoke bore the truth. He’d trapped me so thoroughly in his sweet seduction, if he wanted me here and now, he could have me.
He already has you.
The realization made me question if he’d had me all along, only I hadn’t known it. My seanair had often said that Scottish stubbornness often caused temporary blindness.
Iain switched gears, leaving the passionate tension smoldering between us. He turned toward the food that he’d laid carefully on our blanket. With deft precision, he knifed off a small piece of meat, pinched it between his fingers, and lifted it to my mouth. My lips grazed the pads of his fingers as I pulled the salty morsel onto my tongue. I sliced off a piece, feeding him in the same manner. Iain accepted my offering, leaving his lips lingering on my fingers, swirling his tongue around my thumb. As he released the erotic hold on a gentle suck, I inhaled a shaky breath.
He’d turned eating into a lesson on the art of seduction, each move spiraling us toward a point of no return. In sensual rhythm we fed each other. Bite by bite, piece by piece, the giving and receiving ensnared me further as we spoke of insignificant things and laughed about others.
“Iain, tell me about your horse. The way you rode him was spectacular.”
“Aye, he’s battle trained. We raise our steeds by trainin’ them with our men to work as one. The slightest shift in weight or pressure, directs the beast so that our hands are free to fight when we’re mounted.” He glanced over his shoulder at the subject of our conversation, who happily munched on taller grasses at the base of a gnarled snag.
“Does he have a name?” I felt such a magnificent creature should.
“Aye. Dubhar.” He spoke the name with respect.
I smiled at the Gaelic word. “Shadow.”
Iain nodded, passing the wineskin to me. I quenched my thirst, listening as he continued.
“They’re taught from verra young to be in the thick of trainin’ fields without spookin’. They grow accustomed to the clamor of swordplay. We instruct them in voice and pressure commands before they’re ever mounted. A great warhorse will know when its rider is endangered, pullin’ him from harm’s way. It happened once with me . . .” He trailed off, staring into the darkness.
Iain began to pull apart pieces of the crusty loaf of bread. I left unasked what he kept private. The topic seemed less important than the tender bonds forming between us, and I found great comfort in talking with Iain about anything.
The enormity of the bigger picture captivated me: we sat on a plaid, over moss-covered ground, in the Highlands of Scotland mere years before the reign of Robert the Bruce; I existed in a time and place that I’d only dreamed about, wanted by a man cast straight from my fantasies.
A sense of wholeness washed through me. I no longer drifted, lost in a world not of my choosing. I’d been found. I belonged. For the first time in my life, my career took a backseat. I’d found another purpose in life—a reason to live.
The wayward storm had swept me away against my will, carelessly tossing a marooned passenger upon the rocks, but the survivor in me had scrambled for purchase. I stretched across the newly discovered beach, basking in the seductive moonlight.
Iain might have had a good-fortune epiphany, but I’d become the lucky one.
This shipwrecked soul has found home.
CHAPTER Eight
A piercing racket clattered into my brain. I dragged a feather pillow over my head, groaning, but the intrusive sound persisted. I grumbled incoherent expletives, adding a second pillow, my irritation growing at being robbed of decadent dreams in a Highland warrior’s arms on a moonlit picnic. With a growl, I tossed the pillows off my head, gearing up to pound on Mrs. Edmonton’s door and beg her to turn the TV down again.
I opened my five-hundred-pound eyelids.
Shut them.
Opened them.
I inhaled deeply, absorbing the extremely dated surroundings. No amount of blinking eradicated reality. I’d forgotten where I was. My tempting dream had been extrapolated from a wondrous night based firmly in my new reality—in the past.
I shot upright which, after the night’s wine consumption, proved to be a mistake. I’d gotten drunk off more than romantic moments with Iain; clearly, the wine he’d brought had been deadly. Grateful for the darkness of the room, I gingerly lowered my body back down as the delightful sounds of swordplay hammered incessantly into my brain, the recurring, disconcerting feeling of being lost somewhere in time and space dissipating as I sank against the pillows.
Suddenly, the door burst open on a loud crack of wood separating from the frame. A torturous high-pitched squeal stabbed into my ears as my peaceful bed was attacked by a flying leap.
Brigid.
Helpless, unable to defend my dream-filled place of solace, I groaned.
“Hurry, Isobel. You doona want to be late.” Her excitement crackled into the air.
“Ah, the games,” I grumbled, struggling to find the motivation to sit up again. My exhausted body wanted to bury deep under the covers for hours longer. My mind agreed, and I pulled the sheet and blanket over my head.
“Nay, you’ve slept long enough.” Brigid yanked every stitch of material from my fingers, stripped it all from the bed, and threw it onto the chair by the hearth. “Come, you’ll miss all the excitement.”
“Are you sure it isn’t already all in here?” I quipped, rolling over to block the sun.
Brigid’s tenacity prevailed, rejecting my morning sluggishness as she grabbed my arm, nearly pulling it out of the socket, and forcibly evicted me from my warm, feathered heaven. She mercifully left me at the foot of the bed instead of dropping me face-first onto the floor.
I hoped her enthusiasm would rub off on me at some point . . . and came with hot coffee. Light spilled in as she peeled back the window’s thick tapestry, fastening a corner tassel to a protruding wall hook.
I dragged myself off the bed and stood at a washbasin on the bedside table. Thankfully, Iain’s castle provided the finer things in medieval life, including toothpowders; the brush was a clean linen square with a dampened corner. I lifted the lid to a ceramic vessel, pressing the cloth into the rosemary ash. After rubbing the surface of every tooth, I splashed cold water on my face and into my mouth, rinsing away the ash. The routine helped banish the last traces of sleepiness while I listened to a very animated Brigid. I turned around to face her, tuning back into her long-winded exposition.
She chattered on, “. . . favorite event and see who’s best this year at turnin’ the kaber.”
Caber Tossing. The events she outlined in the day’s itinerary sounded like the Highland games in California . . . only those in Brigid’s world were the pinnacle of lifelong battle training and a means for the men to compete for advancement within their ranks. A few outstanding soldiers were chosen for rare, coveted spots in Iain’s personal guard, which comprised a dozen or so men.
“. . . Fingall made guard last year,” Brigid said.
I glanced at the bed. Brigid leaned back on her arms, gazing out the window all starry-eyed. I snorted.
“He’s a fine warrior,” she defended.
I absently lifted a cornflower-blue dress from the pile of clothing on a side chair and pulled it over my chemise. “Brigid, I have no doubt of his abilities. You are lovesick.” I imitated her in breathless perfection, “Fiiiiingall made guard last year . . .” I finished with a sigh. My mocking performance was applauded with a pillow in my face. We burst into fits of laughter as she pulled me out the bedroom door.
We walked in
to a courtyard overrun by ordered chaos, and it took me a moment to get my bearings. Children squealed, running wild in every direction. Women hustled around the event area carrying baskets filled with wooden trinkets, colored streamers, and various other wares. Young men milled about on the field, many lining up before the imposing Robert, Iain’s commander of the guard. Additional tents had been erected on each side of the rectangular arena, transforming the space into a true medieval arts and crafts fair. The clan had multiplied tenfold. I glanced left, noticing the drawbridge had been lowered.
“Do other clans attend the events?” I asked, lifting my skirt and rushing to follow Brigid before she disappeared into the crowd.
She shook her head. “Not entire clans. Select families are invited from surroundin’ clans, but only if they’ve daughters of marryin’ age. No other men compete. Ours is a celebration for the Brodie.”
Clan Brodie had more people within her family than I’d realized. Preoccupied with my crazy situation, I’d failed to notice the size of their vibrant community. My new kin bustled all around. No one worked gardens, tended ovens, sewed gowns, or fashioned weapons. Everyone stood present and accounted for, partaking in the day’s events or managing them.
Brigid stopped abruptly. My momentum bumped me into her. I hugged my friend, laughing, thankful we hadn’t tumbled to the ground again. We stood in front of a table covered with brightly colored ribbons. Some dangled from the sides of saucer-sized, woven circles while others were braided at one end with free-flowing streamers at the other.
“Choose the one you like most, Isobel.”
The one that caught my eye had strands braided in a palette of emerald, amethyst, and orange. I lifted the small pennant from the table, dashing off in time to catch up with Brigid, who’d nearly vanished into the throng of people. The crowd seemed larger due to the small space we occupied as spectators, but I’d grown convinced more than a few families had joined from afar.