Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends, Book 1) (5 page)

A
logical explanation, if one disregarded the laws of the Universe. “Where did your body go? If all your memories are here”—I pointed to his chest—“what’s left of twenty-first-century you?”

He
broke our gaze as the women brought us silver goblets. I grasped mine two-handed, eagerly drinking down several swallows of the mellow honeyed ale before Iain replied. “And the next question swimmin’ round in that bonnie head of yours: Is your body left back there too?”

The
far-fetched idea of
my
body and soul splitting in two hadn’t occurred to me.
Great.
If I gave credence to the notion, part of me would be doomed to madness, lost in the past, while a fully functioning Isobel carried on with her life in the future. I laughed at the unbelievable implications while I broke off pieces of the hard bread and dipped them into my stew.

My amusement at his insane suggestion trailed off as he continued. “I think t
he magick split me in two with the purpose of retrievin’ you. Now that I’ve fetched the woman intended for me, it snapped me back, like a rubber band. You, by design of the box’s magick, were meant to be here, and therefore arrived here, in this time, whole.”

“How insightful,”
I remarked.

With the jeweled dirk and metal two-pronged fork I’d been prov
ided, I cut a piece of venison and forked the meat into my mouth. I rolled the gamey morsel over my tongue, weighing Iain’s words. Regardless of an earlier pledge to send me back if he could, did he truly want me to go? His matter-of-fact interpretation sounded like he only wanted what the box did: to bring him his soul mate. If his goal had been achieved by the magick that brought me here, why would he ever want me to leave?

A
rush of commotion burst through the door. Robert and another man, both leviathans from my seated perspective, strode toward us. Iain shifted back on his stool as the men addressed him from across the table. Neither paid me any attention. The red-headed newcomer rattled on in Gaelic—something about a clan dispute or territory issue, but I couldn’t be certain.

They finished their report, and Iain nodded his understanding as their attention shifted to me. Iain switched languages and said, “This is Isobel. She’s come for our celebration.”

Robert, whose dark brows, angled cheekbones, and strong jaw made him seem sinister compared to the fairer man next to him, spoke with a brogue thicker than Iain’s. “Why are you speakin’ English?” He scowled at Iain then squinted at me, turning an already-fierce countenance deadly.

I never broke eye contact with Robert. My back straightened. A wicked smile stretched across my face, temporary insanity taking over as I answered Robert’s question to Iain with the best brogue imitation I could muster, “Aye, Robert, I am indeed English. I’m here for the festival tae find me a suitable Scot. What think ye?”

A feather settling to the ground could’ve been clearly heard in the deafening silence that followed. Only the crackling of the dry logs in the hearth pierced the heavy seconds. I didn’t bother to look at Iain to see his fury at either my having spoken or the actual words themselves—I
felt
him burning in anger beside me, like a nuclear reactor melting down.

Robert barked out laughter, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “
Duncan. What think you? Have you ever seen such a bonnie lass come on our lands?”

Duncan
shook his head, grinning at me. “Nay. She’s a bold tongue too.”

The brazen compliments surprised me, causing my cheeks to heat. I smiled. My foray into dreamland had the potential to be more fun than I’d thought.
I’d never been courted by any man, let alone several, and I failed to remember men ever finding me so attractive—well, besides Iain.

Iain’s snarl choked off their laughter. “The suitable Scot would be me .
 . .
lass
.”

I
slowly turned my gaze toward him, meeting rage-filled eyes. His clipped words were the clear command of his claim . . . to me.

The dust had settled in my mind. Stuck operating by the rules of a new world, I resolved to stay true to myself. Strong, independent, and spirited, I refused to cave to any man’s forced authority over me, or to some unknown magick’s supposed prophecy of my future.

I raised a single brow, speaking in a calm, low tone. “We shall see . . .
Laird
.”

CHAPTER Five

Iain scraped his stool back and left. His irritation hung heavy in the cavernous room. The men followed, dismissing me as they all deliberated some issue in unintelligible Gaelic. The heavy door slammed behind them, my companions diminishing from three energetic men to a trio of napping wolfhounds.

Iain’s indifference for my welfare seemed a tactical ploy. It worked; being disregarded by one’s only connection sucked. Fear crept in, magnifying my core concern: Who could I trust to help me other than Iain?

I
shrugged off the apprehension, unwilling to submit to vulnerability. Forced dependence on Iain chafed almost as much as the acceptance of an altered reality. My obstinate nature fueled a need to find others to rely on—I needed to find an ally.

Motivated, I charged off
in the opposite direction of the supposedly sleeping beasts. After only a few steps, I jarred to a halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with a brave maid piloting blindly behind clothing stacked high in her arms. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and wisps of her auburn hair fell loose about her round face.

She spoke Gaelic, and I shook my head, not understanding what she’d said. “Do you speak English?” Her wide-eyed hesitation reached my sluggish brain. I’d forgotten the Scottish hated the “arrogant” English.

The maid recovered and gave me a weak smile. “Aye. English. Gowns.” She held up the evidence. I fought a smile, not wanting my amusement to be mistaken as mocking.

“You’re Mairi?” I asked.

She nodded.

“I’m Isobel.”

She nodded again, turned, and briskly walked toward wide stone steps lining the front wall. Her glance and a head jerk over her shoulder wordlessly suggested I follow. I darted after her.

A cozy chamber on the next level held a twin-sized bed, a low wooden chest, and a small chair and table next to an unlit hearth. A light layer of dust coated every surface in the musty room. Mairi systematically laid out her items onto the bed: two gowns, two linen chemises, a leather-braided belt, and their folded clan plaid. She placed flimsy, brown leather shoes on the floor.

“Thank you,” I said. Her blank expression told me she had no idea what I’d said. I pointed a finger at the outfits, feeling like a tour guide in my own foreign movie where someone forgot to add the subtitles.

While I
assessed the limited clothing options, a soft click of the door marked Mairi’s swift departure before I even had a chance to say goodbye. I shook my head, snorting, figuring the welcoming committee must have been invented sometime later than the thirteenth century.

Although no fire yet burned in the room, the air’s ambient chill didn’t bother my thin Golden-Coast blood. I pulled my sweater over my head. While stacking discarded clothes on the corner of the chest, I considered leaving on my black, French lace bra and panties, but opted for commando under the chemise, lovingly tucking my only lingerie inside the folded skirt.

With a final tug of the plainer of the two gowns over the linen slip, I’d transformed into a medieval woman. I looked down, straightening the pale yellow fabric. The color matched the ends of my hair curling over my breast. Cinched ties, laced across the bodice, compensated for a slightly large fit. The brown toes of my comfortable boots peeked out from the floor-length hem. I defiantly plucked up the provided slippers and deposited them next to the stack on the chest.

T
he clan plaid remained. I admired the fabric’s green, black, and gold pattern, remembering historical record. Kilts, or plaids as I liked to call them, did not exist prior to the sixteenth century. I grinned.

If only they knew what I’ve seen
.
Nothing like rewriting history books from firsthand knowledge. I shook my head. The odds of that happening, short of dragging their self-righteous, narrow-minded asses back in time for irrefutable evidence, hovered around nil, zilch . . . nada.

I wrapped the awkward
fabric around me, starting at my waist. Material pooled at my feet when I finished, a glaring clue I’d done something wrong. I began again at the other end, which resulted in bunched pleats falling around my hips. After three failed attempts, I growled, tossing the unwieldy mess back on the bed.
They want the clan plaid on me? They’ll have to put it there.

Muted sounds of clanging metal
drifted up from the training field. I crossed to the tapestry on the wall, peeling back a corner of the heavy cloth, revealing the courtyard below where shirtless soldiers sparred in small groups. Beyond them, Iain and Duncan stepped out from the smithy.

Iain stopped. He tilted his face up, locking onto my gaze.
Power emanated from that ruggedly handsome man, easily detected even from my vantage point. He smirked at me and continued walking toward his men on the field. I dropped the tapestry, annoyed at his never-ending cockiness.

Riled, I stormed from the room to learn about Iain’s castle and its people. With firm belief in the old adage
knowledge is power
, I intended to become more and more powerful by the minute.

I trotted down
stairs, searching along the outer wall. A good distance from the sleeping chambers, I found the garderobe. The medieval bathroom’s design had two snug-fitting doors, one after the other, preventing odors from escaping into the hall. Two clerestory windows circulated the air and brought in light. On a high wooden table, folded linens and lavender sprigs sat alongside a water pitcher, soap rounds, and a small basin. Near the wall, a low wooden stool with a center hole, sat over an angled tunnel, likely leading to a moat or cesspool. My spirits lifted. A simple room gave me one less worry amid a thousand lost conveniences.

Once I’d taken care of business, I backtracked. My steps slowed as the castle’s uniqueness settled into my awakening brain.
This was
not
Brodie Castle, at least not the Brodie Castle in modern-day Scotland; it wouldn’t be built for another three hundred years. Architectural details I’d witnessed in Iain’s castle raced through my mind: the massive, curved corner towers; the size and number of windows . . . and the gigantic groin-vault ceiling in the great hall. My pulse quickened with my pace as I rushed back to study the anomaly.

Standing under the impressive design yielded no further explanation of its bizarre existence. With my neck craned back, I stared in open-mouthed disbelief at an engineering impossibility. Graceful, perfect curves crossed the ceiling from the room’s four corners, the arching gray stones peaking in the center where the bowed panels joined together. Churches and castles throughout Europe and
Scotland had the popular method of construction—the Roman design eliminated a need for substantial buttressing—but to the scale above me
in thirteenth-century Scotland?

My attention jerked
down, as two men hustled by carrying sacks over their shoulders. I discreetly followed them to the larder, rubbing a neck cramped from excessive ceiling watching. They deposited their load and exited the way they came, passing me without a glance. Fairly certain I hadn’t gone invisible, I thought it strange no one questioned my presence.

“Knowledge is power
. Knowledge is power . . .” My murmured chant spurred me on.

Toward the heart of the keep, I discovered a sizable room. Hundreds of r
olled parchments were stacked on their sides in floor-to-ceiling built-in shelving. On a large, carved oak table positioned in the center of the room, obsidian paperweights held down the corners of a large piece of vellum. The velvet page resembled a topographical map, with its detailed ink drawings and notations, but had only been partially completed—the entire right side of the soft, transparent paper remained a blank canvas.

I glanced up from the geographical work of art and skirted the desk, eagerly scanning the room. The treasure trove I stood within had to hold vital clues about the castle and surrounding lands.

Suddenly, I froze. Instant shock traveled so deep, my lungs seized until I gasped for air. The wall. I swallowed hard, blinking moisture into dry, wide eyes as I approached the marvel before me. The lone uncovered wall held an unbelievable—even for newly open-minded me—oddity.

Closer analysis revealed the phenomenon wasn’t on the wall—it
was
the wall. Spanning an incredible twenty feet stretched the largest, most unusual map I’d ever seen. The size alone amazed me. That the huge wall was crafted of a stone resembling the metal of my time-travel box . . . floored me. I suspended a shaking hand over sparkling lights embedded into the surface. The illuminated markings pulsed, giving the wonder beneath my fingertips the heartbeat of life.

A tentative touch of the cool surface shocked my finger. The lights surged brighter, and the stone warmed, its
lights glimmering blue. A familiar energy flowed into me. Frightened, I yanked my hand back. Recognizing kinship to a
wall
—no matter how cool—fell under the category of mildly insane, never mind my begrudging acceptance of the fact I’d
time traveled.

Information overload short-circuited my brain. My vision narrowed, rainbow dots fuzzing the fringes of my eyesight no matter how many times I blinked. Instinct prevailed, and I fled. With guarded attention on the virtually sentient wall, I backed through the door, stumbled into the dark hall, and doubled over, bracing my hands on my thighs, sucking in deep breaths.

In my entire life, I’d never run from anything, but in one landmark day I’d done so twice. An answer-finding expedition had only unearthed alarming questions, and I stuffed every last one into an open-at-a-later-date compartment in the far reaches of my mind.
Reality. Severe dose. Now.

In critical need of fresh air and human contact, I wrenched open the heavy front door, happily ditching my earlier vow of self-sufficiency. The solid earth under my feet, a cool breeze swirling around, and the vastness of the blue sky grounded me instantly. I exhaled a calming breath.

A coral sun dipped into the horizon, the day winding to its end. Soldiers, finished with their sparring, talked among themselves in small groups, a few heading down toward the village.

Iain, Robert, and Duncan remained on the field with a group of men. I started toward them, but a cheerful cry near the cottages stole my attention. A young woman jumped into the arms of a returning soldier. He embraced her, spinning them in a circle. Their rapt expressions, existing only for the other, expressed their love. Captivated by the romantic scene, I slowed my steps.

A jarring impact into something solid startled me. I tumbled to the ground in a heap of tangled arms and legs with a young woman. We both erupted into laughter.

“Were you watching th
e couple too?” I gestured down the hill with a wave of my hand.

She
nodded, her chest heaving from exertion. Pale gray eyes sparkled with mirth as she shifted her weight and lifted a leg off mine, freeing us from our human pretzel. She had a pretty face with light freckles dusting her nose and dark copper curls teasing pink cherub cheeks.

“Y
ou’re English,” she stated, tilting her head. She braced herself back on outstretched arms, assessing me from her sprawled position on the lawn.

“Yes, my name’s Isobel,
” I said, keeping my unbelievable reason for being English to myself.

“I’m Brigid. Verra
not
English.” A twitch at the corners of her mouth belied her gruff reply.

We’d fallen on damp ground, the crumpled layers of my skirt protecting me to a degree. Our dresses were soiled from grass and mud, and her sky-blue dress had a torn hem. She made no move to get up, and I had no desire to leave the first Scot I’d encountered who hadn’t vanished at the first sign of my Englishness. I’d never been more thankful of a bodily collision.

Before either of us had a chance to utter another word, a shadow descended on us—several shadows, actually. I angled my face up, meeting Iain’s displeased expression. His immense frame blocked the rest of the world from view. My already-aching neck forced me to drop my gaze, and I stared down at where the toes of his worn leather boots touched my exposed, pale shin.