Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(12)
He broke our gaze as the women brought us silver goblets. I grasped mine two-handed, eagerly drinking down several swallows of the mellow honeyed ale before Iain replied. “And the next question swimmin’ round in that bonnie head of yours: Is your body left back there too?”
The far-fetched idea of my body and soul splitting in two hadn’t occurred to me. Great. If I gave credence to the notion, part of me would be doomed to madness, lost in the past, while a fully functioning Isobel carried on with her life in the future. I laughed at the unbelievable implications while I broke off pieces of the hard bread and dipped them into my stew.
My amusement at his insane suggestion trailed off as he continued. “I think the magick split me in two with the purpose of retrievin’ you. Now that I’ve fetched the woman intended for me, it snapped me back, like a rubber band. You, by design of the box’s magick, were meant to be here, and therefore arrived here, in this time, whole.”
“How insightful,” I remarked.
With the jeweled dirk and metal two-pronged fork I’d been provided, I cut a piece of venison and forked the meat into my mouth. I rolled the gamey morsel over my tongue, weighing Iain’s words. Regardless of an earlier pledge to send me back if he could, did he truly want me to go? His matter-of-fact interpretation sounded like he only wanted what the box did: to bring him his soul mate. If his goal had been achieved by the magick that brought me here, why would he ever want me to leave?
A rush of commotion burst through the door. Robert and another man, both leviathans from my seated perspective, strode toward us. Iain shifted back on his stool as the men addressed him from across the table. Neither paid me any attention. The red-headed newcomer rattled on in Gaelic—something about a clan dispute or territory issue, but I couldn’t be certain.
They finished their report, and Iain nodded his understanding as their attention shifted to me. Iain switched languages and said, “This is Isobel. She’s come for our celebration.”
Robert, whose dark brows, angled cheekbones, and strong jaw made him seem sinister compared to the fairer man next to him, spoke with a brogue thicker than Iain’s. “Why are you speakin’ English?” He scowled at Iain then squinted at me, turning an already-fierce countenance deadly.
I never broke eye contact with Robert. My back straightened. A wicked smile stretched across my face, temporary insanity taking over as I answered Robert’s question to Iain with the best brogue imitation I could muster, “Aye, Robert, I am indeed English. I’m here for the festival tae find me a suitable Scot. What think ye?”
A feather settling to the ground could’ve been clearly heard in the deafening silence that followed. Only the crackling of the dry logs in the hearth pierced the heavy seconds. I didn’t bother to look at Iain to see his fury at either my having spoken or the actual words themselves—I felt him burning in anger beside me, like a nuclear reactor melting down.
Robert barked out laughter, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Duncan. What think you? Have you ever seen such a bonnie lass come on our lands?”
Duncan shook his head, grinning at me. “Nay. She’s a bold tongue too.”
The brazen compliments surprised me, causing my cheeks to heat. I smiled. My foray into dreamland had the potential to be more fun than I’d thought. I’d never been courted by any man, let alone several, and I failed to remember men ever finding me so attractive—well, besides Iain.
Iain’s snarl choked off their laughter. “The suitable Scot would be me . . . lass.”
I slowly turned my gaze toward him, meeting rage-filled eyes. His clipped words were the clear command of his claim . . . to me.
The dust had settled in my mind. Stuck operating by the rules of a new world, I resolved to stay true to myself. Strong, independent, and spirited, I refused to cave to any man’s forced authority over me, or to some unknown magick’s supposed prophecy of my future.
I raised a single brow, speaking in a calm, low tone. “We shall see . . . Laird.”
CHAPTER Five
Iain scraped his stool back and left. His irritation hung heavy in the cavernous room. The men followed, dismissing me as they all deliberated some issue in unintelligible Gaelic. The heavy door slammed behind them, my companions diminishing from three energetic men to a trio of napping wolfhounds.
Iain’s indifference for my welfare seemed a tactical ploy. It worked; being disregarded by one’s only connection sucked. Fear crept in, magnifying my core concern: Who could I trust to help me other than Iain?
I shrugged off the apprehension, unwilling to submit to vulnerability. Forced dependence on Iain chafed almost as much as the acceptance of an altered reality. My obstinate nature fueled a need to find others to rely on—I needed to find an ally.
Motivated, I charged off in the opposite direction of the supposedly sleeping beasts. After only a few steps, I jarred to a halt, narrowly avoiding a collision with a brave maid piloting blindly behind clothing stacked high in her arms. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and wisps of her auburn hair fell loose about her round face.
She spoke Gaelic, and I shook my head, not understanding what she’d said. “Do you speak English?” Her wide-eyed hesitation reached my sluggish brain. I’d forgotten the Scottish hated the “arrogant” English.
The maid recovered and gave me a weak smile. “Aye. English. Gowns.” She held up the evidence. I fought a smile, not wanting my amusement to be mistaken as mocking.