A young girl raced by me with a small basket in her hand. Seconds later, five older children chased after her, laughing and shouting as they ran past the end of the keep, rounding the corner. My gaze followed the fun, but stopped on the door of the small room that housed the box.
I stared in the direction of the gateway that had brought me here, wondering if the box would continue to remain in its cold, quiet stasis until another laird’s chosen time to take a mate. Having failed to reinitiate it with Iain’s help after my arrival, I was at a loss for a solution.
“Lost is more accurate,” I grumbled. On a labored sigh, I turned back toward the field of strangers in a foreign place and time.
Resigned to accepting fate’s hand instead of wallowing in my misfortune, I marched into the energetic scene, hoping for a distraction from my desolate thoughts. After a few steps, I spotted Brigid in the garden and made my way through the commotion to join her.
“Isobel!” Brigid shouted from afar, waving.
I grinned, waving back. The company of an excited new friend was exactly what I needed.
As I approached, she took off her straw hat and offered it to me, smiling. Dirt-dusted root vegetables were lined up in her basket. She covered them with a cloth while I fastened the ribbon ties of her hat under my chin, grateful for the sun protection.
“What happens today?” I asked, tilting my head at the tent affair.
“Everyone hunts or prepares for the meals and the tournament,” she replied.
I nodded absently. A sudden, overwhelming tiredness began to take hold, muting thoughts like a wet blanket on my brain.
Brigid popped up, looped an arm into my elbow, and tugged me energetically toward the stream. Coursing water danced over rocks in a shallow area. She bent down, letting the turbulent current scour dirt from her hands.
“So . . . what happened last night . . . after I left?” I asked, although the question could’ve been phrased, what happened before I left, since ale had clearly obliterated my memory.
“When you left, so did Fingall’s patience. Fingall knocked the other men over and stole me away.” She blushed, pausing to take a breath. “He escorted me for a walk outside, takin’ a verra long route to get back.” She smiled sheepishly, giggling.
Wonderful. My plan had worked beautifully . . . for Brigid.
Although, I had gotten Iain’s attention enough for him to take me out on an impromptu private hunt. Maybe his romantic side had a larger ego wall to break through. Tonight would show how far the man had come and whether he’d realized not only chasing, but some courting, was in order for one Isobel MacInnes—his supposed bride-to-be.
Brigid collected the gardening basket, and we walked to the shade of an oak tree. The gargantuan trunk stretched wide enough for us both to rest our backs flat against the bark.
Our perch, at the top of a knoll, overlooked the festival’s lively preparations. The idyllic panorama reminded me of Norman Rockwell, circa AD 1275, or whatever the year actually was, because I still had yet to find out. It’s not like I could ask Brigid without her thinking I’d suffered from a blow to my head.
“Help me with my Gaelic, Brigid. I want to sharpen my skill.” I’d managed to decipher the thick brogue everyone warbled out, my mind adding and subtracting words for my twenty-first-century brain to digest, but speaking and understanding their native tongue would help me further integrate into their world.
We chatted about the upcoming schedule of events as a language tutorial, translating to English when I stumbled. The discussion drifted into her talking to my listening until the breeze flowing over the rise, her soothing voice, and the peace of friendly companionship lulled my exhausted body into a desperately needed nap.
I began down the stone staircase for what I thought would be an evening meal like the night before. Iain stood at the bottom, waiting for me. Twenty steps separated me from two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscular warrior dressed in an ivory linen shirt and his dark green and black plaid that had been fastened about his hips with his brooch. Firelight glinted off the ornate heirloom and danced shadows over his dark features.
The lustful look he blasted my way melted through my body like warmed honey, sliding down on pace with his gaze. His appreciation of me in my new emerald gown confirmed what I’d surmised in my room only moments ago: those magical seamstresses had a talent for capturing a woman’s assets and displaying them proudly.
Iain let out a slow sigh, his words purring out above a whisper. “Damn, Isa. You’ve descended straight from Heaven.”
I blinked, feeling a blush heat my cheeks. The man earned points within seconds.
My fingers slid across his outstretched palm. The intoxicating scent of woods and earth, mixed with pure essence of Iain, drugged my senses. He stepped aside, wrapping his other arm around me, guiding me with a hand at the small of my back.
A giggle escaped, and I shot a hand to my lips, shocked. Ian’s overpowering presence—his scent, that dominance, the electrical current that charged the space between us, warming every point of contact—threatened to turn me into a nervous idiot.
Iain led me into the courtyard. I stopped cold, startled at what awaited us: his saddleless stallion accompanied by a stable boy. The black, beautifully muscled creature reacted to our arrival with excited urgency, tramping his hooves in place and lifting his head, crying out a soft whinny. Moonlight reflected a black-blue luster in his glossy coat. Before my surprise settled into apprehension, Iain lifted a leather satchel, swung up onto the horse, and grabbed me under the arms, depositing me in front of him.
My loud gasp and subsequent protest was lost to the wind as his steed obeyed some silent command, charging into the darkness. Iain’s iron grip around my waist and expert bareback riding calmed my nerves from a near-hysterical pandemonium down to a low-anxiety thrum.
The animal galloped with grace, hugging every curve like a train on the rail, flowing over every rise and fall like rushing water. A growing sense of merging with the animal overcame my fear of our precarious perch as Iain rode astride and my dress-bound legs dangled off to one side.
Without reins or saddle, I marveled at the perfect communication between Iain and his beast. I shifted to get more comfortable, and Iain adjusted his hold instantly, tightening his grip, pulling me closer into his protective embrace. He leaned back imperceptibly, and the horse responded to the change in weight distribution, reducing his pace. As we slowed to a walk, I realized how Iain had been directing us: the slightest pressure from his thighs—or a shift from a hip forward or back—had translated instructions to his horse.
We traveled outside of the perimeter wall and ran parallel along it until we reached the farthest corner, veering off a couple hundred yards to a moss-covered ledge that jutted out into the night sky. The platform saluted an almost-full moon rising above the tree horizon.
Iain lowered me down in a gentle slide and held my shoulders until I confidently stepped away. He remained on the horse’s back, leaning forward, slowly brushing his hand down its neck as he murmured soft words of praise in Gaelic. The animal replied with a gentle whuffle. Iain dismounted in an effortless jump and slapped the animal’s flank. It wandered off to a nearby clearing, dropping its muzzle into newly sprouted grass.
Unruly wisps of hair that had escaped their ribbon binding at my nape tickled my face in the cool breeze as I waited. A mineral fragrance traveled on the air current, and I inhaled deeply, enjoying the crisp freshness of the spring mountain night. Iain opened an arm wide when he returned, the satchel dangling from his shoulder.