Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends, Book 1) (10 page)

“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 into 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.

Without our distinctive plaid, foreigners were easy to spot. Even I had one draped across my breast and secured around my hips. I’d become a plaid-fastening aficionado due to Brigid’s vital wardrobe assistance.

Brigid waited for me in front of the grandest tent, its large white flaps fastened open. It had an unobstructed view of the great hall’s entrance. I followed her inside. Food and drink were displayed on a long table in the back. Carved wood armchairs and pillows scattered upon blankets served as seating. Iain, Fingall, and most of their guard stood off to one side.

“Isobel.” Iain grinned, his face lighting up.

His formal use of my name surprised me.

Iain abandoned the group and strode forward to embrace me. He lowered his mouth to my ear, rumbling low. “Hello, my bonnie lass. You look radiant. How’re you feelin’?”

His warm lips over the shell of my ear shot goose bumps down that entire side of my body. Heat flushed into my cheeks. “I’m fine.”

“Only fine?” Iain pushed me back toward a corner of the tent. I lost my footing, but his possessive grip on my hips prevented my fall. “Surely, I can help you do better than fine.”

As I stumbled backward, he brushed soft lips across my jawline and dotted hot kisses down the column of my neck to my collarbone. His arms threaded through mine, wrapped around my back, and pulled me close. I laughed, even though I found nothing remotely funny at that moment. Iain had pushed us to an area where a large screen stood, and the barrier blocked us from view.

In seconds, his nimble fingers tugged down on my neckline, popping a breast free. I gasped as the rush of cool air hardened my nipple. Iain’s hot mouth sucked it in, and he bit it with his teeth.

Stunned immobile, I felt my knees buckle, and I grasped his shoulders for support. Iain growled low, vibrating into the flesh as he suckled without mercy. My mind reeled. Sharp pulses of pleasure inundated me, a fiery ache building between my thighs. He dropped to a knee, pulling away, looking up at me with lowered lids as he flicked the hardened tip with his tongue.

He smirked and asked again, “Only fine?”

I exhaled a hard puff of held breath, shocked at his boldness. “I’m far beyond
only fine
, and you know it, Iain Brodie.”

He shot me a smug look of satisfaction and stood.

I rapidly repaired my appearance, replacing that which had been removed. “You are
terrible
,” I chided on a whisper, smoothing out the front of my dress. I took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm the fierce arousal. No wonder men wore kilts; damning evidence could be hidden beneath those folds.

His lips assaulted my ear again. “You love my mouth on you, and you know it.”

Yeah, I did. It had become hard to decipher what I did and didn’t love—or want—anymore. With my eleventh hour looming on the horizon, the hourglass sand looked alarmingly low. Three days was no time at all to get to know someone, but circumstances afforded me no more. Last night had been the first time I’d spent any heartfelt time with Iain, but what had I learned? We wanted each other.
Well, duh.
Oh, and we talked about his horse.

Iain kissed the top of my nose and left me standing there, flushed and confused, as he rejoined the others. The clear decision my heart and body had leapt toward last night clouded in the light of day. Unwelcome doubt crept in when I tried to ascertain what I wanted.

I sighed, shaking my head.
Isobel MacInnes, you think too much.

On the final day of my supposed sentence to select a mate, I resolved to learn more about Iain and his clan. The eve of becoming Brodie by one man or another gave me no other option but to choose, or the decision would be made for me. I hoped my mixed-up mind would hurry up and agree with the rest of me.

Iain returned, leading me toward Brigid as his guard exited the tent, and I realized I wouldn’t have my learning opportunity anytime soon when understanding dawned on me—Iain participated in the events.
Of course he did.
They were his people, after all.

He bent down and kissed me thoroughly, threading both of his hands into mine. He lifted my right one, colored ribbons dangling between us.

“For me?” he asked, raising his brows, looking hopeful.

I supposed it was for him. Pennants were given to the man you favored in the games as a good-luck token. My best wishes on the field definitely went to Iain.

I nodded. “Yes.”

He grinned, removed the ribbons from my hand, and kissed me soundly. As he broke contact, I sighed with my eyes closed, sucking in my bottom lip, savoring his salty taste.

By the time I’d opened my eyes again, Iain had left the tent. He’d also left me in a hot mess of aroused and confused. The man expertly employed battle tactics off the field as well as on.

Reality trickled into my recovering brain as my stomach growled. The table in the back was buried beneath a buffet of foods. I covered a silver plate with cheese and fruit. Brigid had already grabbed an apple and reclined on a pile of cushions. I swiped a piece of crusted bread through stewed cherries, thinking about all the questions I
could
ask and those that would arouse suspicion.

“Brigid, how is it that you’re so close to Iain?” With everything else going on, I hadn’t thought to ask earlier, but it seemed unusual for her to have such privileges—our decadent baths, feasting toward the head of his table, and inclusion in his personal tent—even if Iain had done so because she’d become my friend.

“He’s my brother.” Her innocent expression belied her mischief. She’d wanted me to wonder.

I snorted, joining the amusement she’d had at my expense.
Well, hell.
That changed the course of my line of questioning.

“Brigid, I wandered around the keep two days ago and found a map room.” I watched her face, gauging her reaction. She remained stoic but listened intently. “A wall in that room had points of light on it.”