Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(11)
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.
As my thoughts turned more lucid, I discovered my voice again. “Iain, how did you know my name? How do you remember me from my time while still being laird in yours?” I stared at him as I tossed the most troublesome question out in the open.
“I’ve been thinkin’ on that verra thing myself. I doona know for certain.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “When you . . . we . . . came here, I fell to the floor. Pain exploded through my head. Memories from both times melded together, fightin’ for space in there.” He knocked his temple.
A logical explanation, if one disregarded the laws of the Universe. “Where did your body go? If all your memories are here”—I pointed to his chest—“what’s left of twenty-first-century you?”