My stomach growled, mirroring my mood and reminding me that I’d not eaten in nearly twenty-four hours. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Okay, hotshot. For the moment, I’m a prisoner of circumstance. But I’m assuming you do feed your captives?”
Iain threw his head back, deep laughter booming from his lungs. The rich sound bounced off the stone wall behind him, threatening to overtake the clash of swordplay in the field below. I groaned at his uncontained amusement, glaring at him.
He powered down his annoying outburst to a twitching smirk and stepped closer, extending an arm toward the castle’s main entrance. “Aye, Isa. Rowena will make us some food.”
He pressed his other hand into the small of my back. I brushed past him, but his longer strides closed the gap in seconds, and he silently appeared back at my side.
Iain’s inherent dominance had never failed to set me off-balance, even when I’d only been a casual spectator at the Highland games. I cast a furtive glance at the man beside me—the only link to my world and my apparent guide in his. Although I’d only begun to know him back in the future-turned-chronological-past California—pieced together from superficial conversations at a few Highland events over the last two years—I already sensed the medieval version of Iain held differences that ran miles deeper than a rougher exterior.
The man was intensity personified; deadly confidence radiated from him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Iain had stared the Devil in the face and won the encounter without a single bead of sweat. His calm fearsomeness had likely given opponents at least a moment’s pause before they’d advanced to their certain defeat.
And yet, I found the protective blanket of his powerful presence soothing to my chaotic mind. The silent balm washed over me, giving my frazzled nerves a much-needed break.
The fleeting peace ended as a large stone-arched entryway opened before us, encasing a massive oak door. Iain gripped the iron handle. The hinges creaked as he pushed it open and led us into the great hall. One step into the enormous room further entrenched me into never-never land, the striking fantasy wrapping itself around me as it stole my breath away.
The rich scents of salt and fat from cooking meat flooded my senses, making my mouth water. Tri-pronged iron frames in each corner held amber beeswax tapers, their flames dancing in the air current. The wooden floor, covered in fresh rushes and a purple haze of dried heather, echoed hollow tones beneath our boots. A fire glowed beneath logs in a stone hearth so large, even six-and-a-half-foot Iain could step inside without ducking.
Two stout women bustled about, removing the remains of the prior meal. They tossed bones speckled with sparse meat into the snapping jaws of three wolfhounds whose fierceness and size suggested they weren’t far removed from their namesake. The growling beasts each staked out separate territories between ornately carved armchairs in front of the hearth, settling down to gnaw on their afternoon snacks.
Iain continued into the room, dwarfing the women as he spoke to them in murmured tones. I roamed around feeling as if I’d walked into a museum brought to life, my eyes drinking in every detail, my mind drowning in everything I wanted to touch, feel . . . experience.
A giant tapestry depicting a battle scene drew me to the far wall. The quality of the piece was astonishing. I laughed softly. Of course it looked vibrant and new; something recently woven would. Brilliant colors and intricate embroidery showed the experiences of Iain’s own clansmen. I feathered my fingertips across the plush surface, amazed at the workmanship.
Appraising an artistic rendition of an actual event made me worry about the time paradox. I stood in a space in time not meant for me. Every action I made undoubtedly caused an altered consequence. My mind swam with the possibilities of millions of tiny changes rippling forward, causing cataclysmic effects in years yet to unfold. The crisp colors slowly hazed into a jumbled mosaic as my strained mind hit overload.
I sank deeply into a suffocating quicksand, barely registering a hand grasping my elbow. Unable to respond, I remained frozen. Gossamer threads that had tethered me to reality snapped, casting me adrift.
Iain tugged me toward him, his strong arms enveloping me in an unexpected embrace. Spent from the overwhelming shock of the last hour’s events, my shoulders sagged. I broke down crying as his protective warmth melted the last of the tough outer shell I’d been clinging to.
I’d never let adversity reduce me to tears; showing weakness wasn’t an option for a woman battling for recognition in a male-dominated profession. The hair-trigger emotional mess I’d become here, however, had lost the capacity to care.
For what seemed like an eternity, he simply held me. Tightening his solid grip, he placed a kiss on the top of my head, leaving his lips there.
The intriguing paradoxes of the man—hard edged but tender, accepting but inflexible, twenty-first century past and medieval future—had me more than a little unsteady on my feet. Yet his two-hundred-fifty-pound, rock-solid frame had become the support holding me upright. My hands slid tentatively around his waist. During my weakest moment, I found solace in the embrace of a man I hardly knew, and yet, felt bound to by an inexplicable connection. Guess I’d become a paradox too.
The downpour across his chest eventually reduced to an occasional teardrop, my sobs turning to hiccups. Iain gently rubbed my back, pulling away without unlocking his powerful arms.
“Doona fret, Isa.”
He tucked a finger under my chin, tilting my face up. I blinked away the last of my tears as reassuring eyes looked into mine. His dark brows raised slightly, compassion relaxing the features of his face. “I’ll send you home if I can, lass. If not, I’ll protect you. I’ll make you happy.” Every whisper left his lips as a potent promise, seeping into my heart.
Stripped bare and completely vulnerable, I was rendered speechless by his tender assurance. The entire world—along with any worry or care I’d ever had—ceased to exist in the protection of his arms.
I nodded, raising my hands to the woolen fabric draped across his chest. I wiped my face dry as my hiccups subsided. Numbness settled into my mind, a reprieve from the daunting anxiety that had nearly overtaken me.
With an arm locked tight around me, Iain led us to the nearest of two long tables. His firm hands guided me down onto a bench, preventing my shaking knees from buckling. In the wake of my emotional outburst, I stared at the grain in the wood running lengthwise along the table like a zombie entranced.
Iain gripped the edge of a wooden stool with one hand and planted it beneath him, sitting near me at the corner. “I’ve told Mairi to fetch a proper gown for you to wear ’til others can be made.”
I glanced down at my clothing. Although my appearance hadn’t appeared to attract notice, blending in seemed wise.
The two women rushed back into the room, carrying boards laden with cheese, meat, and two rounds of hollowed-out, crusty bread filled with an aromatic porridge. My stomach growled in response, my mouth watering at the rich fragrant stew wafting under my nose.
Without a word, I devoured my food. The thick, salty bites—full of meat and chunky root vegetables—fueled my body and mind, enabling my brain cells to fire again. Iain watched me as he picked at his food, furrowing his brows.
Unsolved puzzle pieces floated through my mind as I intermittently glanced his way. How much had I ever really known about modern-day Iain? We’d normally debated history facts, training techniques, or the likelihood of my accepting his dinner invitation, so I’d never really learned much about the man. Perhaps my unfamiliarity of him would be a blessing, since the Iain that sat beside me was clearly a different man or, at the very least, a more complex one.