by Kat Bastion
Brigid looped her arm in mine, pulling me out of my awestruck fascination and leading me down the stairs. She elbowed me in the ribs.
“Owww . . .” I glared at her, catching her wide grin before she yanked me to a stop. We’d only gone midway down the wide stone staircase. Her attention shifted beyond me, and I turned. Every gaze in the room fixed squarely on us as a hush spread like God had extinguished a raging wildfire with a single breath.
Heat flushed under my skin so quickly, from my breasts into my cheeks, I must have beamed crimson like a neon light. I took a steadying breath, examining their faces, wondering what they thought of me, a stranger who’d been welcomed within their protective enclave by their laird.
Turnabout in uncomfortable situations always settled my nerves, so I scrutinized them in return. Of those considered Iain’s closest companions, who would I deem friend, or adversary? Had any been privy to the same secrets I’d discovered?
More importantly, were the oddities within Iain’s castle even secrets at all? With his map room trustingly unlocked, he showed a clear lack of concern for protecting the unique, responsive wall. Maybe artifacts like the box, with its ritual purpose passed down through their generations, were a part of their lore and, therefore, common knowledge.
On my mental treasure hunt, each question became a clue leading to the next question. Had Iain shared with anyone that I’d been plucked out of another time and deposited here? I frowned, searching for Iain in the crowd. Regardless of my plan for independence, I needed reassurance that he still had my protection as a priority.
The last question shimmered to the surface as if summoned through a reverse Magic 8 Ball. Had other women been stolen out of their time? The thought faded as quickly as it had formed. Iain had said women came when their laird took a mate, but the last would’ve been his mother. Unless she still lived, and he’d made no mention of her, no other time-displaced women existed.
Where is Iain?
Done standing under the scrutiny of the party’s microscope, I squeezed Brigid’s hand, tugging her arm, but she held her ground. Patience had never been a strong point for me. I bit the inside of my cheek, waiting. Since my only experience in gaining a man’s interest by disinterest might’ve been a fluke with modern-day Iain at the games, I trusted our rough plan—and Brigid’s intuition—to guide our way.
Distracted by my chattering mind and the crowd’s intimidation, I didn’t notice the disturbance in the air behind me until the weight of pure power pressed into me without contact. A chill raced up my spine. The heat of his breath flowed up my neck to the shell of my ear, scattering every thought I’d had like a dandelion bloom bursting apart on a gust of wind.
The thunder of my heart muffled my loud gasp. I tried to turn—uncomfortable being sandwiched between eager voyeurs and their laird—but Iain gripped my hips, immobilizing me.
He inhaled, drawing my upper body back until he’d become the only thing holding me upright. I swallowed hard. A novice to any kind of intimate handling, I felt vulnerable under his command, and I forgot all about my plan and the audience below.
A low growl rumbled at my ear. “Isa, you devastate me.”
I sighed out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d held. Well, damn. At least I wasn’t the only one incapacitated. Angling my head against his chest, I looked up into dark, lustful eyes. That amazing mountain scent of Iain’s enveloped me. His long hair curtained down, shielding our faces from view. I reached a hand up, caressing his bearded chin. He smirked. I smiled.
Okay. Fine. I conceded the match to him. Five minutes into an evening together, and I’d literally fallen into his hands.
“Well, what now, big guy? Are you going to kiss me, or stand here holding me all night?”
He chuckled and forced me upright, smacking my ass. “I’ll do neither, lass. I’ll be escortin’ you to a seat beside me at my table.”
I straightened my dress as an odd disappointment replaced the arousal thrumming through me.
He took my arm, and I looked around, not seeing Brigid anywhere. He leaned down, whispering in a thicker-than-usual brogue, “That was me claimin’ you before them. I’ll not give another man the chance to sneak up to your enticin’ backside . . . or any other side, for that matter.”
Had the man read my mind? Maybe my schemes were that transparent. For the first time, I entertained the notion that I might be trying to outfox a master strategist.
The crowd slowly animated again, rotating. Glances darted toward us often, whispers and hushed conversations igniting. Iain led me into the room with a firm hand at the small of my back. We wound our way through the crowd, stopping briefly when someone waylaid Iain.
Not one woman seemed welcoming when we approached, balanced by speechless stares from every man. Gaping looks switched from me to Iain, then back, making it difficult to discern whether the commotion was caused by my presence or by ours.
I spotted Brigid in the center of the room, talking with a group of Iain’s soldiers. Several other beautiful women were there. Some stood too close to one man or another, loudly broadcasting their claim or intentions.
Iain’s possessive hold moved up to my shoulder as we stopped before the familiar group of his men. Every woman, aside from Brigid, faded back into the room as if implicitly instructed.
Brigid smirked at me. Her mischievous expression prompted me to reassess my new friend. Her earlier disappearance, along with Iain’s usurping our game plan, made me wonder if a cunning mind hid beneath that innocent exterior. I winked at her, unquestionably hoping so.
Iain squeezed my shoulder. “Isa, these men are most of my clan guard. You’ve met Robert and Duncan. This is Jamie, Calum, Ailig, Bryce, Seamus, and Fingall. They’ll watch over you, protectin’ your life as if it were mine.”
His words became a formal command to his elite guard rather than a mere introduction of me. Each man bowed his head to me while raising a fist over his heart, returning an unspoken oath to their laird. Unfamiliar with proper etiquette on meeting one’s clan in medieval Scotland, I followed their lead, respectfully titling my head to each man in succession.
At last, I had an opportunity to see Brigid’s Fingall. A dark blond braid hung from each temple beside ice blue eyes. A strong jaw and defined cheekbones made him worthy of Michelangelo’s marble. The breadth of his shoulders and imposing stature evidenced his fearsomeness. Without doubt, a Viking descendant stood before me.
As if an announcement had been made about the formalities ending, the hostile women pressed into the group again, asserting their rights. Four women in particular seemed quite aggressive, two of them nearly sidling a very poised Brigid out from in front of Fingall.
I watched as she expertly stepped out of their way, letting the silly girls twitter and giggle before the giant of a man. Brigid gave Fingall a coy smile, demurely tilted her head down, and slowly ran her hands from her hips down her thighs, looking very much like she wanted somewhere else to put them.
Oh, hell. Brigid had him nailed. Fingall responded instantaneously. The trespassers had the wisdom to move before being trampled in his rush to get to Brigid’s side. Fingall grasped Brigid’s hand, looping it in his arm. His dreamy-eyed expression explained everything: Brigid had already captured the completely entranced Fingall.
While Iain laughed with his men about something I’d not been listening to, I sensed harsh waves of animosity radiating my way. Paint-peeling glares from the clique told me those women viewed me as an eleventh-hour party crasher. They couldn’t have been more right; except, the fairy godmother failed to ask my opinion about attending the ball. If only my charade finished at midnight—I’d gladly go home in a pumpkin with the mice.
I inclined my head toward the blatant hostility, offering a sincere smile, hoping to at least convey something akin to respectful acknowledgement. My extended olive branch broke as Iain turned me, leading us in the opposite direction. Iain’s guard, Fingall included with Brigid in tow, followed with spirited discussion.
We stopped at the head of the largest table. Iain gestured for me to sit at his right as the other guests filtered their way to their seats. The room calmed, all gazes riveted toward their laird.
Iain stood, lifting a jewel-encrusted goblet in his hand. The entire room raised their cups. I mimicked them, lifting my silver goblet high.
“Welcome to the commencement of our Beltane celebration. This night shall be filled with drink, food, and laughter.” Iain raised his goblet higher. “May all who seek refuge, find it. When you find comfort from another, cherish it. Should you be graced with true love, embrace it. For the protection of all we value most in life, so we are . . .”
“Clan Brodie!” The room shouted the last two words in approving chorus.
Impressed by Iain’s expression and the camaraderie in the room, I sipped the honeyed ale, the warm liquid dancing across my tongue before I swallowed. My thirst made the beverage taste like the sweetest nectar, and before I realized what I was doing, I’d downed the cup. Well, what the hell. It’d been a very long day, and I deserved a relaxed buzz.
I looked up to catch Iain’s amused expression at my rapid consumption. He laughed, shaking his head, and poured me another from a pitcher on the table.
“You’ll want to take the drink easy, lass. We brew it a wee bit stronger than the beer you’re accustomed to.”
I arched a single brow. “I shall take that under advisement, Laird.”
Iain’s smile vanished, replaced by a smoldering stare so hot, an erotic current shot straight between my thighs. I swallowed hard, uncertain if his response had been prompted by my sweet smartass demeanor or by my addressing him as Laird.
He lifted my hand, pressing the backs of my fingers to his soft kiss. His scorching gaze dropped to the cleavage bared by my low-cut gown and drifted back up to my face. My body responded, his wandering eyes commanding the hot flush rising under my skin.
“Isa, you are stunning.” He smirked. “Even more so from your front side.” His rich bass tone eclipsed every other sound in the noisy room.
I struggled to maintain composure with his overpowering flattery as my sluggish brain registered his last remark. I burst out laughing. Iain smirked, clearly satisfied in his utter control over my reactions.
With the powerful ale providing a gentle room spin, I downed a second cup. Beyond buzzed seemed a perfect plan on a night in which His Lairdship unmistakably ruled.
Iain ensured I sampled any food my palate desired. After enjoying his royal treatment, I pushed my plate away, tossing my napkin on the table, my tongue numb from ale.
Brigid winked at me from across the table. I hiccupped. My hand shot up to my mouth, and to my dismay, I started giggling uncontrollably. In some distant corner of my mind, a fleeting thought suggested my drunkenness would only further his cause, not help mine, but the warning drifted off into Unfiltered Land.
A bard regaled us with a romantic tale, plucking the strings of a lyre braced between his legs. Storytelling gave way to the strong beat of a drum and the picked chords of a lute. Couples snuck away two by two to join in the dancing well underway.
Brigid cast a devilish glance at Fingall. “Will the great Fingall be dancin’ tonight?”
Fingall leaned back on the bench, titling his head down at her, popping his jaw. His gaze traveled from the top of her head down to her seated ass and back as if he was sizing her up for battle.
Iain nudged my knee. I looked over as he arched a brow toward his friend. “Well, Fingall? Will your greatness be dancin’?”
Fingall sighed, glaring at Iain.
Brigid bit her lower lip, the corners of her mouth twitching.
Robert joined in. “Nay. I forbid it. Fingall might not bring bonnie Brigid back unharmed.”
Fingall grabbed Brigid’s hand, yanking her upright. His mighty thighs knocked the bench beneath them back with such force, Duncan and Seamus had to grip the table edge to avoid falling backward.
Brigid laughed, tugging her arm back into her side. “Finn!”
Ignoring her protest, Fingall dragged her to the dance floor. In seconds, that Viking had a huge smile on his face as he gazed down at the sparkling vixen twirling in his arms.
Iain leaned closer to me. “It’s not Brigid’s welfare I’m worried about.”
I arched a brow at Iain. “Finn?”
He chuckled. “Aye. She’s been callin’ him that since she was knee-high. Brigid remains the only person still in one piece who’s ever done so.”
The snapshot portrayed Iain’s clan as a tight-knit family. They’d all grown up together, trusting and protecting each other. I felt a twinge in my chest, unexpectedly yearning to be a part of it.
My wistfulness got interrupted when Iain sprung up, pulling me with him. He held me in his steadying arms as the rest of the men shoved tables and benches against the walls. The room spun with my sudden altitude change, and I leaned into him for stability.
Iain whirled me onto the dance floor before a protest left my lips. He went easy on me, though, teaching me the footwork and turns. The man’s patience and ability overcame my inebriation as I learned their delightful reel. A song change led us from one dance into another. Iain tightened his possessive hold, reducing the space between us to the width of our clothes.
The rhythm changed: a deep cadence took hold. Iain deposited me along the wall and joined a growing group of men dancing in the center of the room. The heavy beat of a drum led their loud stomps and sliding feet. They drew in together close, then pulled out, circling around. Iain executed the steps with precision—passion and pride featured on his face.
Brigid appeared at my side. We watched as the men increased their pace. She commented, “Isobel, Iain indeed claims you as his.”
I smirked, tilting my head to the side, never taking my eyes off the crowd. “I know he does.” Aside from his saying so, his hands and body pressed against mine said as much. Growls at any male approaching me within talking distance shouted his unquestionable intentions.
Brigid laughed. “Aye, ’twill not be easy for you.”
My co-conspirator had a point. It would be no simple task to get the man who’d claimed me by right and fate to bow down, understanding he needed to win my heart to have it. Odds against me had never deterred me before, however, and they weren’t about to no matter my present circumstances.
The song ended, and Iain and his guard were swarmed by a throng of women. I laughed. The same fawning that modern-day Iain had been plagued with in California’s Highland games hounded him in the actual Highlands. The men had been surrounded by bold flirting, bright smiles, and heaving breasts.
A white linen shirt across a broad chest interrupted my view. Several men blocked us in, corralling us into a corner, muting the sounds of laughter and music from the room. Brigid scowled at the lot of them.
The tallest and darker haired of the foursome addressed me. “I’ve been unable to look upon another all night. Now you stand alone, in need of my company.”
I laughed at his boldness. Ego flowed abundantly with this clan; that, or they saw red tape as superfluous and got right to the point in a pure survivalist era—have testosterone, will conquer. The development, however, worked right into my plans, even if the newcomer likely saw the situation in his control and favor.
“Mmm . . .” I gave him a coy smile and even pulled off an eyelash flutter. “Does my new company have a name?”
He grinned. “I’m Gawain.”
Gawain angled in closer, separating me from Brigid who’d already engaged his companions into conversation. He grabbed silver goblets of ale from the tray of a passing maid and handed me one. I accepted, taking only a sip, peering at him above the rim.
I felt his hand push gently on the small of my back, guiding me away to the edge of the room. “Tell me your name, lass. I’ve not seen your bonnie face before.”
“I’m Isobel.” I kept my response concise to avoid a risky inquisition.
Undeterred by my br
evity, he pressed. “Are you visitin’ someone here?”
He brought his cup to his lips, watching me intently. I should have expected questions due to the clan’s familial closeness, but with all the excitement, I hadn’t prepared a plausible story. I didn’t want to cause trouble for myself or Iain—not that he needed protecting; but I didn’t want to raise any alarm, so short answers seemed prudent.
“Yes.” There. A single-syllable response—as short as linguistically possible.
He squinted, a brief curve twitching the corners of his mouth as he got the nondisclosure hint. “Welcome, then. Would you like a tour of the castle?”
A guided tour would have aided my quest immeasurably. From a male clan member, it would have also been dangerous, which made it inadvisable. I wrestled with my goals and the risks of a potentially foolish decision.
Gawain waited for my answer with inquisitive eyes. He took a step back, giving me space, demonstrating his patience. The great hall still bustled with music and conversation.
Indecision froze my mind while I chewed on my lower lip. Brigid glanced at me, smiling. Gawain’s friends sat casually around her on the floor while, perched on the edge of a stool, she enthusiastically entertained them with a story. She winked at me.
Trust. Brigid had it in me with our situation tonight; I held it with blind faith, accepting my plight in their world; and Iain had it in his people as he turned me loose among them without warning or instruction.
I stole a furtive glance Iain’s way. He stood beside Fingall, surrounded by a flock of women. The two men appeared bored by the attention, polite smiles never reaching their eyes.
Iain lifted his face, and his gaze locked onto mine. The whole room faded, his glare burning through it, blasting my face from forty feet away. He lifted his chin, turning his head an inch to the left. The movement relayed a silent command: a cease-and-desist order had been issued.
