Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(14)
Toward the heart of the keep, I discovered a sizable room. Hundreds of rolled parchments were stacked on their sides in floor-to-ceiling built-in shelving. On a large, carved oak table positioned in the center of the room, obsidian paperweights held down the corners of a large piece of vellum. The velvet page resembled a topographical map, with its detailed ink drawings and notations, but had only been partially completed—the entire right side of the soft, transparent paper remained a blank canvas.
I glanced up from the geographical work of art and skirted the desk, eagerly scanning the room. The treasure trove I stood within had to hold vital clues about the castle and surrounding lands.
Suddenly, I froze. Instant shock traveled so deep, my lungs seized until I gasped for air. The wall. I swallowed hard, blinking moisture into dry, wide eyes as I approached the marvel before me. The lone uncovered wall held an unbelievable—even for newly open-minded me—oddity.
Closer analysis revealed the phenomenon wasn’t on the wall—it was the wall. Spanning an incredible twenty feet stretched the largest, most unusual map I’d ever seen. The size alone amazed me. That the huge wall was crafted of a stone resembling the metal of my time-travel box . . . floored me. I suspended a shaking hand over sparkling lights embedded into the surface. The illuminated markings pulsed, giving the wonder beneath my fingertips the heartbeat of life.
A tentative touch of the cool surface shocked my finger. The lights surged brighter, and the stone warmed, its lights glimmering blue. A familiar energy flowed into me. Frightened, I yanked my hand back. Recognizing kinship to a wall—no matter how cool—fell under the category of mildly insane, never mind my begrudging acceptance of the fact I’d time traveled.
Information overload short-circuited my brain. My vision narrowed, rainbow dots fuzzing the fringes of my eyesight no matter how many times I blinked. Instinct prevailed, and I fled. With guarded attention on the virtually sentient wall, I backed through the door, stumbled into the dark hall, and doubled over, bracing my hands on my thighs, sucking in deep breaths.
In my entire life, I’d never run from anything, but in one landmark day I’d done so twice. An answer-finding expedition had only unearthed alarming questions, and I stuffed every last one into an open-at-a-later-date compartment in the far reaches of my mind. Reality. Severe dose. Now.
In critical need of fresh air and human contact, I wrenched open the heavy front door, happily ditching my earlier vow of self-sufficiency. The solid earth under my feet, a cool breeze swirling around, and the vastness of the blue sky grounded me instantly. I exhaled a calming breath.
A coral sun dipped into the horizon, the day winding to its end. Soldiers, finished with their sparring, talked among themselves in small groups, a few heading down toward the village.
Iain, Robert, and Duncan remained on the field with a group of men. I started toward them, but a cheerful cry near the cottages stole my attention. A young woman jumped into the arms of a returning soldier. He embraced her, spinning them in a circle. Their rapt expressions, existing only for the other, expressed their love. Captivated by the romantic scene, I slowed my steps.
A jarring impact into something solid startled me. I tumbled to the ground in a heap of tangled arms and legs with a young woman. We both erupted into laughter.
“Were you watching the couple too?” I gestured down the hill with a wave of my hand.
She nodded, her chest heaving from exertion. Pale gray eyes sparkled with mirth as she shifted her weight and lifted a leg off mine, freeing us from our human pretzel. She had a pretty face with light freckles dusting her nose and dark copper curls teasing pink cherub cheeks.
“You’re English,” she stated, tilting her head. She braced herself back on outstretched arms, assessing me from her sprawled position on the lawn.
“Yes, my name’s Isobel,” I said, keeping my unbelievable reason for being English to myself.
“I’m Brigid. Verra not English.” A twitch at the corners of her mouth belied her gruff reply.
We’d fallen on damp ground, the crumpled layers of my skirt protecting me to a degree. Our dresses were soiled from grass and mud, and her sky-blue dress had a torn hem. She made no move to get up, and I had no desire to leave the first Scot I’d encountered who hadn’t vanished at the first sign of my Englishness. I’d never been more thankful of a bodily collision.
Before either of us had a chance to utter another word, a shadow descended on us—several shadows, actually. I angled my face up, meeting Iain’s displeased expression. His immense frame blocked the rest of the world from view. My already-aching neck forced me to drop my gaze, and I stared down at where the toes of his worn leather boots touched my exposed, pale shin.
Strong hands gripped both of my arms below the shoulders, hoisting me straight up, my feet dangling until Iain lowered me to the ground. His eyes sparked fiery brilliance under furrowed brows. Another giant plucked Brigid up in the same manner. Neither removed their hold, but the iron clamp around my arms gradually loosened, allowing blood to flow again.
Iain took a slow, deep breath. He bit out words through gritted teeth. “Lass, look forward when you walk.” He glanced at my companion. “Brigid,” he growled, “you know better.”
He turned back to me, scowling. The man didn’t seem to know whether to be concerned or angry. “I doona want there to be a next time with you hurt . . . or worse.”
Iain stepped back, roughly spinning me around. Incensed, I opened my mouth to object to the callous manhandling, but a tic in his jaw and his daring glare made me reluctantly bite my tongue.