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.