Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(100)

I crept beneath tree-provided shade with the agility of a cat on the hunt, easing ever closer to my prey. Slow is smooth. Smooth is . . . deadly.

Behind the last gnarled trunk, I stopped. Bound energy hammered through my veins. Fueled muscles yearned to unleash the power of their adrenaline-sparked charge. Raw anger burned a fire so hot at my core, each swallow scorched my throat and every breath singed my nostrils.

Fearless, I strode toward the main tent, stepping from the shadows into the light. No audible alarm sounded. Two larger men dressed in their red-and-black plaid, one red haired and one flaxen, angled toward me. Our paths collided a few yards before my destination.

Red moved into every inch of my personal space, blocking me. “You are verra lost, wee lass.”

I glared up into cold, blue eyes, stepping between him and his friend. “Do I look lost to you?”

Not awaiting a response, I shouldered past them, walking straight up to their leader’s tent. Growls grumbling behind me told me I’d acquired two escorts.

I scoffed at the closed entrance flap, shot an arm up, and barged into the lion’s den. My narrowed eyes scanned the room. Colorful cushions lined the ground. A wooden table and three chairs stood in a corner. A narrow table along the back wall held a line of dripping rushlights. I ignored the stench . . . from more than the candles.

Directly to my right, I felt a presence.

No fear. Stupid man.

I tilted my head, tracking him peripherally. “Stewart. The man I wanted to see.”

A gruff laugh followed. “Aye, lass. Aren’t you a sight, with your painted face and wild hair.”

I slid an irritated glance toward him. He stood weaponless. At a good six-ten or so, with shoulders carved from mountains and hands the size of treetops, the man needed no additional aid in the weaponry department.

His predatory gaze traveled along my body. “Och, you are a brave one. I’m shocked you made it all the way into my tent without being disarmed.”

I turned fully toward him. “Your men must have thought you needed to see me as I stand. Wise men.”

“Aye, they are. What business do you have with me?” he asked.

“Iain.”

Instant understanding showed on his face as the uttered name conveyed volumes.

“Ahhh, you are Iain’s. Only a woman who loves a man would dare such a thing. Come to rescue him, did you?”

I laughed. “Do you really think little ol’ me could snatch anything from you?”

He snorted, his shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. “Nay. ’Tis impossible. Tell me, what do you want, if not a rescue?”

“I understand you want the box.”

Stewart smiled. “You’ve been well informed.”

I leveled a hard stare at my adversary. “You have not.”

Stewart’s jaw popped. His massive chest inflated with a deep inhalation. “Enlighten me.”

“You first,” I countered. “What do you know of the box?”

Stewart folded his arms, eyes narrowing. With slow steps he circled me, gaze traveling up and down my body, assessing deeper than what his eyes could see. I held my ground, relaxed and unmoving.

He stopped, and I turned, facing him again.

His tongue slid along the upper row of his teeth before he spoke. “I know all I need to. The box holds magick. It makes the castle disappear.”

I laughed. “You are truly misinformed. It is not the box that makes the castle disappear.”

He raised his eyebrows.

A deadly confident smile spread across my face. “I do.”

Stewart’s eyes widened. “Och, woman, you’ve gone mad. I’d never believe such folly.”

With deliberate care, I reached toward my left hip. I flicked a glance toward the hilt and back up at Stewart, conveying my intent. “May I?”

He dipped his head, his watchful gaze never leaving my eyes.

Using an index finger and thumb, I pinched the end of the sword, freeing it from its leather scabbard. I rested the blade on the palm of my other hand, offering up the weapon to my enemy for his inspection.

Stewart made no move to look down. I waited. After a good minute or more, he broke the staring match, dropping his gaze to see what I held. The intricate metal designs in the cross of the hilt would tell a man of war—bred from a culture with oral traditions steeped in lore—what he needed to know.

He gasped. His brows furrowed deeply as his gaze flew back up to my eyes and scanned my blue-painted face anew. “Pict,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Impossible.”

I smiled, sheathing the weapon without permission. “And yet, here I stand.”

“That tells me naught,” he gruffed.

“Well, allow me to show you everything.”

Sunshine?

One minute, I stood in Stewart’s shadow. The next, a cocoon of gloss-black wings blocked my vision. With a slight adjustment, the feathers canted, enabling a view of my surroundings. The spicy-sweet scent of cinnamon wafted into my nostrils . . . from Sunshine?

Stewart roared, spinning around. He swiped at the air where I’d stood, but his arms sifted right through me—us.

“Had enough yet?” My bored tone masked the vibrating urgency I had to get to Iain. Patience. Patience, then reward.

“Aye, woman. Aye.” Resignation stained Stewart’s tone.