by Kat Bastion
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 rolled 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 the 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.
“You’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.
Strong hands gripped both of my arms below the shoulders, hoisting me straight up, my feet dangling until Iain lowered me to the ground. His eyes sparked fiery brilliance under furrowed brows. Another giant plucked Brigid up in the same manner. Neither removed their hold, but the iron clamp around my arms gradually loosened, allowing blood to flow again.
Iain took a slow, deep breath. He bit out words through gritted teeth. “Lass, look forward when you walk.” He glanced at my companion. “Brigid,” he growled, “you know better.”
He turned back to me, scowling. The man didn’t seem to know whether to be concerned or angry. “I doona want there to be a next time with you hurt . . . or worse.”
Iain stepped back, roughly spinning me around. Incensed, I opened my mouth to object to the callous manhandling, but a tic in his jaw and his daring glare made me reluctantly bite my tongue.
He squinted, holding my body still for his scrutiny. I glared back at him. Intimidation never worked with me. Despite his anger and my irritation, the air between us sizzled. My heart rate and breath accelerated. A flash of erotic heat snapped through my body, settling into a deep ache between my thighs. I gasped, and his nostrils flared. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly bone-dry as Iain smirked . . . with pride?
“Brigid, take Isa inside. Have Mairi draw you both a bath.” He pierced me with a hard look. “You’ll both join me at my table tonight, clean and in fresh gowns.”
Without warning, Iain released his hold. I flailed my arms from the loss of support, nearly falling. Brigid was freed at the same time, but found her balance with a tad more grace. The men departed in silence, but a good distance away, they broke into low rumbles of laughter.
I grumbled, “Men find stupid things amusing.”
Brigid laughed, locking our arms. She whirled us around, guiding us up toward the keep.
“Are you with the man who helped you up?” I asked, wondering if she’d been married off yet.
“Nay. I’m fond of Fingall, though.” She turned, walking backward, wistfully watching the group of men head toward the widest part of the stream. She pointed to the far right. “He’s the largest in the laird’s guard.” The man she’d indicated dwarfed the others in height and mass, including Iain, by a good half foot. “I hope he’ll notice me in the days ahead.” The longing in her voice was unmi
stakable.
“Tell me about the festival.” A springtime event pairing off young lovers intrigued me. Her perplexed look hinted that Iain’s “festival” label was not common. “The days ahead,” I clarified.
She tore her gaze away from the men, speaking in hushed tones about the upcoming event. “They’re a glorious few days, filled with fresh flowers and sweet kisses.” She blushed at the apparent thought of receiving a kiss from Fingall. “Bealtuinn is my favorite time of year.”
Of course. Beltane. The first day of May. Beltane marked the passage of spring to summer—a celebration of fertility and hope for a strong harvest. Gaelic lore believed otherworldly spirits danced dangerously close to entering our world at Beltane and Samhain, the last day of October.
In all my studies, there had never been mention made of a mating ceremony at Beltane. I wondered about the omission’s significance. Could the clan, with its unique castle and prehistorical tartan, have been somehow protected or isolated from the rest of Scotland? The idea seemed implausible with the Viking conquests, clan wars, and English invasions over the centuries, but the day had taught me a valuable lesson: I needed my mind open wider than the Grand Canyon.
“Brigid, Iain told me Beltane is also a mating festival. Is that true?”
Her brows shot up, her mouth falling open. “Laird told you that? And you call him Iain?” A smile spread wide across her face, revealing a dimple on one side. Mischief danced in her eyes, making me worry I’d said something unusual.
“Yes . . .” I hesitated, uncertain of how much to reveal for fear of exposing myself. I cautiously kept the disclosure brief. “He told me single men and women take mates. He also said a woman not claimed . . . is fair game—at risk of being taken whether she’s agreed, or not.”
Brigid burst out laughing. “Ah, Isobel, Laird had a bit of fun with you. I’ve seen women thrown over a drunken shoulder, but I’ve not heard of one bein’ . . . taken.” She paused. “Then again, I doona know of any opposed to bein’ carried off.”
Although I wanted to believe her version, I was fairly certain Iain hadn’t been outright lying. “Are you sure, Brigid? Iain seemed very serious about the point.”
Her fits of laughter subsided. “’Tis possible Iain spoke the truth—our warriors live by rules that I’ve no desire to be well versed in—but I thought only those wantin’ to wed took a husband. I could’ve married many summers ago, but I’ve been waitin’ on Fingall. He told Hamish, who told his wife Agnes, who told me, this is the year he’ll take a wife.”
I turned my head toward her as she grew pensive. “Do you think he’ll choose you, Brigid?”
“I doona know,” she replied. “He flirts a bit, but he also flirts with every other lass who shows him attention.” She scowled. “They gather around him, twittering nonsense.”
Her disapproving jealousy and my cunning mind roused a plan. “Brigid, we’ll make sure Fingall has eyes for you and no other when the time comes for choosing a wife.”
She stopped walking, clapping her hands once in excitement. “You have a plan?”
I laughed, plucking a blade of grass from a lock of her shimmering copper hair. “Yes, I do.”
Brigid squealed, hugging me tightly and knocking us into the keep’s unforgiving wall with her exuberance. We stayed there, huddled together, hashing out ideas as a rough strategy unfolded.
My refugee status in a foreign land had been forgotten. Serious girl talk banished anxiety about magick boxes, living walls, and forced soul mates. Hope welled anew. An old-as-time scheme to catch a man’s attention had forged more than an alliance—I’d found my first friend.
Arm in arm, we walked inside and up the stairs to follow Laird’s orders . . . and then some.
CHAPTER Six
Steam rose off the surface of the water in dissipating tendrils. Soothing heat penetrated tight muscles, easing the stress of a challenging day. I stretched my limbs in an oblong wooden tub, ignoring the absurdity of enjoying my first spa day ever, nearly a millennium in the past. After being yanked into a world without my permission, I soaked in the blissful irony of a mini-vacation.
Brigid and I bathed in the sitting area of a bedroom that had to be Iain’s, since the largest bed ever created practically obscured the far wall. The stately piece of furniture made me uneasy by its very presence. Where Iain slept—and pleasured—both intimidated and aroused me. My unruly imagination spun visions of his body exploring mine, taking what he wanted, giving what I needed . . .
Damn, Isobel. All the talk today of claiming and taking has guttered your mind.
I reined in my wayward thoughts and rioting body, scanning the rest of the room from my medieval bathtub. Iain had generously appointed the room with both small conveniences and generous comforts. A dark-chocolate bearskin rug spanned the oak floor between the bed and a large stone hearth where a fire blazed. Silver goblets sat on a polished oak table with a carved armchair on either side. A tapestry woven into a luminous nightscape covered a tall window. At the foot of the bed, two wooden chests stood guard, their sides sparkling with dark jewels. Treasures themselves, the locked trunks piqued my curiosity. Did they protect secrets? Did they hold answers to the mystery of the box . . . or the wall?
A ticker tape of questions flooded into my mind, followed by excitement for the upcoming dinner. I glanced at my splashing companion. Her wet curls dripped onto the wood floor. She’d been graced with an angelic face, porcelain skin, and curves capable of taming any beast of her choosing. With her humor and quick wit, she’d easily snatch the one she wanted.
I wondered how I’d know for certain if Iain was the one I wanted. “Brigid, why Fingall? What’s so special about him?”
“Ahhh,” she drawled, staring dreamily into the far-upper corner of the room. “Fingall’s a fearsome warrior, but underneath all his power beats a kind and generous heart.”
I smiled at how the mere mention of his name affected her. “And you’re certain he’s interested enough to pursue you?”
A deep pink blush spread across her cheeks. “Aye, I think he likes me enough.”
“Any worry he’d choose another?” I rubbed lavender-scented soap into a wet linen square and stretched a leg above the water, dragging the fragrant suds over my calf.
“I doona know for certain,” she admitted.
I sighed. “Well, we’d better get busy then. Starting tonight, we have two days for our plan to work.”
Before our water cooled beyond lukewarm, two ladies-in-waiting appeared with towels, fresh clothes, and accessories. I stepped from the bath and dried off with a warmed linen towel as my maid arranged a silk chemise and gown on the bed and placed matching slippers on the floor. My fingers feathered across the dark-blue velvet gown, admiring the gold-braided threads that trimmed the square neckline and cuffs.
The efficient hands of my maid turned me, lifted my arms, and floated the silken chemise down my body in thirty seconds flat. The beautiful gown followed, its ribbons pulled tight across the bodice. Then she herded me in front of the fire, into a chair next to Brigid, and our hair was painstakingly arranged for us by the drying heat of the hearth. My spa experience apparently included an appointment in the medieval salon.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked as the maid tugged at my hair.
“Aye,” she replied without further elaboration. “Do you?”
I watched her attendant pin glossy ringlets up one at a time with swift precision. “No. I’m an only child.” The admission brought forth the memory of my seanair and a stark reminder: I had no remaining family. Crestfallen by the realization, my curiosity sails lost their wind.
Brigid pulled me by the hand from my blue mood and out of the chair. She led me in front of a ten-foot-tall mirror perched against the wall. It reflected the artistry our maids had performed. My gown hugged and displayed every gentle curve on my willowy form, the sapphire blue setting off my creamy skin. Blond curls, woven with shiny gold ribbons, fell loose about my should
ers. Inside of an hour, I’d been transformed into a temptress.
Brigid nudged into my side, and it suddenly occurred to me the two of us could have been related. Wild, copper curls had been piled on her head with reckless fallen spirals teasing her cheeks and neck. She wore an emerald-green gown, cut nearly identical to mine.
“Isobel. We’re sisters!” She twirled, bumped into me, and grasped my hips for balance.
I laughed. Jinx! “No stranger would ever think otherwise.” Besides our similar curly hair, fair complexion, and lean build, we even shared dimples in common when we smiled.
Framed by ornate gold gilding, the glass captured the image of two beautiful goddesses. The fire’s orange glow cast shadows in the backdrop, creating a striking scene worthy of the Louvre. Our success tonight hinged on garnering the attention of more than just Iain and Fingall, so I hoped we wouldn’t be the only ones to take notice.
* * *
My nervous stomach fluttered like a million netted butterflies. Brigid and I descended the stairs to the great hall where the festivities were underway. The room had been filled to capacity with well over a hundred people standing about talking, flirting, and laughing.
Men wore white dress shirts with the clan plaid draped across their chests and fastened securely around their hips. Their functional, muted attire, however, was completely outshone. Vibrant-hued gowns sparkled like emeralds, rubies, and sapphires as the women moved through the room, bringing a lazy kaleidoscope to brilliant life.
Additional seating had been brought in to accommodate the guests in attendance. Tables were laden with sumptuous delicacies as if Iain was entertaining for royalty. Stuffed swans, surrounded by apples, pears, and onions sat on silver platters at the head of each table. Fully dressed peacocks and pheasants were arranged farther down in line. Fragrant rounds of herbed rosemary and garlic breads were piled high between the beautifully arranged fowl dishes. I even glimpsed an artfully prepared salmon on a board.
