Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(10)
Laughter tinkled out from little ones running between their mothers’ skirts. Curious eyes, big as silver dollars, peeked at me from beyond the folds. The women gave me only a cursory glance, likely because no threat would be allowed within the protection of their stone curtain wall.
A sizable garden area opened to my left where young women sowed seeds in neat rows, tilling unusual dark soil. Beyond their farming activity, carved into the wide part of a stream, stretched a mill pond stocked full of fish. I passed animal pens that housed cattle and sheep. Further into the heart of the compound, a gangly teenage boy with a shock of red hair sprouting atop his head led two majestic, well-lathered horses—one gray, the other black—into the stables. A furious plume of smoke spiraled up from the rooftop stack of a stone smithy. The building’s two wooden doors were thrown wide open, and I spied on the blacksmith as he repeatedly dropped a metal hammer onto fiery-red steel. The piercing strikes rang in my ears, and my vivid imagination envisioned a claymore being formed.
As I advanced, an occasional nonchalant glance toward the castle confirmed Iain still stood his ground, watching me intently. His wide, confident posture expressed the absolute certainty he’d had in his earlier prediction. My struggle with the implausible scenario aside, I’d returned enough from the land of denial to admit the remote possibility. I traveled an uncharted path not knowing my destination in this paradigm shift. How could I know for certain that he didn’t have a better clue about my upsetting situation than I did?
Iain’s foretelling accuracy made no difference to my stubborn, independent Scottish roots, however. I intended to give the man a worthy hunt. Besides, I reasoned as I gave a wide berth around the training soldiers in the field, my romantic heart needed irrefutable evidence Iain was indeed the one man on Earth meant for me. If the rules in my delusion-turned-reality dictated I had three days to find said man in this world, I planned to make the most of my allotment, deciding for myself who would bed me—not the other way around.
Caught up in the moment, I shook my head, chastising myself for allowing crazy thoughts to muddle my priorities. If a passageway had opened, snatching me from my world and depositing me here, I had to believe a return flight existed. No matter how tangible everything seemed, my way back home had to be hidden behind a locked door yet to be found. I needed to learn the rules of the game, discover its secrets, and ferret out the key.
I stepped within a few feet of Iain, and a cocky grin stretched across his handsome face. Sunlight glinted off his hair, highlighting copper strands woven through dark brown locks. His hazel eyes sparkled with pleasure.
I tamped down my irritation at his pride. Big deal. I returned. Where the hell else am I supposed to go?
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.