“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 unmistakable.
“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
