He dropped his finger, planted his hands on either side of me, and shoved hard into the mattress, launching off the bed on the upward bounce. He growled as he paced at the foot of the bed, shaking his head. “No. I’m your husband. I brought you here.” He stopped and glared at me, anger rolling off his tense shoulders. “You. Are. Mine.”
I sighed. Iain’s emphatic assertion wouldn’t alter the fact that he’d become a victim in the convoluted mess too. His territorial side staked his claim due to first ownership rights. But all kinds of arguments could be made as to why one man would have more right to me than the other; the amount of time spent together threw a vote in Velloc’s favor. No amount of debate toward either case changed my shredded feelings.
Both men held my heart. They had equal claim to it.
No way in hell would I say that to Iain, however. I stood from the bed, approaching him. His nostrils flared as he held his rigid stance, glaring at me . . . daring me.
I pressed against him, sliding my arms around his waist and skimming my hands up his broad back. “I am yours,” I said in a soft, firm voice.
He slowly exhaled the breath he’d been holding and relaxed his body, encircling me in his arms. “Isa, I’m never lettin’ you go again. Nothin’ will keep me away from you.”
A shiver raced up my spine, and I gripped Iain tighter. I’d once thought that very thing . . . moments before forces outside my control proved me indisputably wrong.
Late morning brimmed with activity in the courtyard as summer gifted the world with abundant sunshine. Iain shut the heavy oak door behind us with a thud. I raised my coffee mug to my lips, sipping the barely cooled, caffeinated heaven as we strolled down the grassy slope. I spotted the back of Brigid’s straw hat as she sat in her favorite corner of the garden.
I blew ripples across the divine liquid, taking another near-scorching swallow as the top layer cooled infinitesimally. My other hand tugged repeatedly at the bodice of my emerald gown. The garment I’d loved not so long ago suddenly felt confining. Running wild in animal skins for over a month had ruined my joy of dressing like a lady.
A frown curved my lips, and I dropped the fidgeting hand from my dress. How unsettling. I’d become like one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys, stuffed into an itchy chemise and constricting gown that once adorned a beautiful princess in her medieval fairy tale. How quickly things changed.
Iain interrupted my internal battle. “She’s not been doin’ well.”
I glanced up at him, seeing worry lines etched into his face. “Iain, I’m so sorry. I wish I could’ve saved all of you from the pain I’ve caused.”
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, squeezing lightly. “I know, lass. You’re not the only one she’s been missin’.”
I stopped and furrowed my brows. Iain’s meaning dawned on my slowly awakening brain. I whispered in surprise, “Fingall.”
“Aye. He’s been missin’ since he left with Seamus and Gawain on the eve of Beltane. On the second day of their travels, in the middle of the night, the man simply vanished from their camp. Our search party found Seamus and Gawain. They’d been looking for Fingall.”
“Vanished.” I repeated the word as it rattled my alarm bell. I mentally added the item to a growing list of unsolved mysteries—a magick wall, a time-warping box, and a misplaced Viking.
Iain crossed his arms over his bare chest. “The only thing that’s kept me sane these past weeks is my greater concern for Brigid. She’s been . . . impulsive . . . as of late. Even for her.”
“She and I need some girl time.” I angled off toward the garden.
When I sensed Iain fall into step behind me, I stopped, and he collided into my back. I laughed, whirled around, and shoved my half-full coffee mug into his chest, releasing my hold. He shot his hands up, catching the falling mug without a drop of liquid splashing out.
“Girl time. Alone.” I arched a challenging brow, and the corners of his mouth twitched.
Satisfied my shadow would stay put, I strode purposefully down the hill. At the edge of the garden, I carefully stepped between rows of flourishing plants, holding my billowing skirt to my thighs with flattened palms.
I glanced up at Iain. He obediently stood at the edge of the training field, but his penetrating gaze peered above the coffee cup lifted to his lips as he tracked my every move.
I laughed softly at my overprotective guard while weaving through the fennel patch. Brigid hunched over a line of parsley plants, repeatedly stabbing the soil with a metal garden tool.
“Brigid?”
She jumped, her gaze flying up. “Isobel!”
Brigid launched from the ground so fast, I gasped when she tackle-hugged me onto a bed of rosemary. I laughed hard, wrapping my arms around her. “I’ve missed you too, my friend.”
We collected our wits and righted ourselves, surveying the damage. Our dresses fared well due to the thick plants breaking our fall. I plucked a broken stem from my gown, dropping it into Brigid’s basket. The rosemary, however, had been crushed.
“Pffft.” Brigid knelt down, cutting tender shoots from the plant and tossing them into her basket. “I’d been needin’ to harvest this one anyway.”
I sat beside her, the sun to our backs, as we trimmed up the broken pieces. Even a plant could survive unexpected devastation . . . with enough strength and the right circumstances.
“Brigid, I’m so sorry about Fingall.”
She smiled weakly. “He’ll be back. ’Tis but a temporary thing.”
“Hey, I disappeared and returned.” I held out my bare forearms. “Not a scratch on me.”
She pointed to a fresh nick and its droplet of blood. “Except for what I inflicted upon you.”
I laughed, nudging her and picking up two more broken casualties from the top of the plant. “You, my dear friend, I can survive.”
Brigid sighed. “I miss Gawain too.”
I blinked. “Wait. What?” I began to think I’d been rash in relinquishing my coffee.
Brigid’s eyes widened at my shock. Her mouth fell open for a few seconds before she burst into uninhibited laughter. “Och, Isobel. I dinna tell you? Iain dinna?”
I shook my head.
Brigid’s smile faded. “Gawain’s our brother. He’s a summer younger than Iain.”
“You’re kidding.” I shot her a deadpan expression, astounded by the number of mounting revelations. I recalled my encounters with Gawain. “How many siblings do you have? And why the hell do you all keep these damn secrets?” I felt foolish for not detecting the clues sooner.
She shrugged. “’Tis no secret; I thought you already knew. Iain’s my protective brother when I act without thinkin’. But Gawain . . .”
The long pause made my heart ache. I put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Brigid, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”
“Nay, Isobel. You need to know. Iain and Gawain were the closest friends, or so I’m told.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Our mother dinna survive my birth. The boys both adored her, but the loss nearly killed Gawain. The tragedy did kill our father, who died soon after from heartbreak. Gawain hated me the moment I came into the world. He refused to acknowledge me. But Iain loved me all the more for it, clingin’ to the last gift his mother gave him. He protected and raised me from a helpless babe. Gawain’s heart dinna heal, and the rift tore my brothers apart.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “How awful. But they . . . Gawain’s still here, part of the clan.”
“Aye. Iain protected Gawain, treatin’ him as family like any of the clan. As I’ve grown older, Gawain has made peace with us . . . in his own way.”