Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(25)
Iain broke the kiss. I’d grown breathless . . . felt weightless. He stared deep into my soul as he lifted the wineskin that we still grasped to my lips. I sipped the tart, earthy wine. Iain drank after me, our gazes locked together.
As he lowered the wineskin, Iain’s crooked smile appeared, amusement dancing in his eyes. If I’d ever wondered what provoked that wicked expression, I did no longer. He rendered translation unnecessary as his gaze drifted down, visually feasting on what nearly spilled over my gown’s revealing neckline.
His hand fell from my cheek, a look of wonder filling his eyes as he dropped his gaze, floating his fingertips above my breasts, the lightest touch feathering across my flushed skin. I closed my eyes, swallowing hard. He pulled away, and I glanced up to see blazing desire in his eyes. We both inhaled so deeply, I wondered if we’d left any oxygen for the rest of Scotland.
His low, graveled tone sounded like the softest silk to my ears. “I love the instant reaction you have to me: the quick pulse at the base of your neck, your struggle for breath, those beautiful green eyes all dark and dilated. You’re a breathtakin’ present, beggin’ to be unwrapped.”
A dull ache throbbed low in my body, my inner beat thrumming to his cadence. I had no doubt every word he spoke bore the truth. He’d trapped me so thoroughly in his sweet seduction, if he wanted me here and now, he could have me.
He already has you.
The realization made me question if he’d had me all along, only I hadn’t known it. My seanair had often said that Scottish stubbornness often caused temporary blindness.
Iain switched gears, leaving the passionate tension smoldering between us. He turned toward the food that he’d laid carefully on our blanket. With deft precision, he knifed off a small piece of meat, pinched it between his fingers, and lifted it to my mouth. My lips grazed the pads of his fingers as I pulled the salty morsel onto my tongue. I sliced off a piece, feeding him in the same manner. Iain accepted my offering, leaving his lips lingering on my fingers, swirling his tongue around my thumb. As he released the erotic hold on a gentle suck, I inhaled a shaky breath.
He’d turned eating into a lesson on the art of seduction, each move spiraling us toward a point of no return. In sensual rhythm we fed each other. Bite by bite, piece by piece, the giving and receiving ensnared me further as we spoke of insignificant things and laughed about others.
“Iain, tell me about your horse. The way you rode him was spectacular.”
“Aye, he’s battle trained. We raise our steeds by trainin’ them with our men to work as one. The slightest shift in weight or pressure, directs the beast so that our hands are free to fight when we’re mounted.” He glanced over his shoulder at the subject of our conversation, who happily munched on taller grasses at the base of a gnarled snag.
“Does he have a name?” I felt such a magnificent creature should.
“Aye. Dubhar.” He spoke the name with respect.
I smiled at the Gaelic word. “Shadow.”
Iain nodded, passing the wineskin to me. I quenched my thirst, listening as he continued.
“They’re taught from verra young to be in the thick of trainin’ fields without spookin’. They grow accustomed to the clamor of swordplay. We instruct them in voice and pressure commands before they’re ever mounted. A great warhorse will know when its rider is endangered, pullin’ him from harm’s way. It happened once with me . . .” He trailed off, staring into the darkness.
Iain began to pull apart pieces of the crusty loaf of bread. I left unasked what he kept private. The topic seemed less important than the tender bonds forming between us, and I found great comfort in talking with Iain about anything.
The enormity of the bigger picture captivated me: we sat on a plaid, over moss-covered ground, in the Highlands of Scotland mere years before the reign of Robert the Bruce; I existed in a time and place that I’d only dreamed about, wanted by a man cast straight from my fantasies.
A sense of wholeness washed through me. I no longer drifted, lost in a world not of my choosing. I’d been found. I belonged. For the first time in my life, my career took a backseat. I’d found another purpose in life—a reason to live.
The wayward storm had swept me away against my will, carelessly tossing a marooned passenger upon the rocks, but the survivor in me had scrambled for purchase. I stretched across the newly discovered beach, basking in the seductive moonlight.
Iain might have had a good-fortune epiphany, but I’d become the lucky one.
This shipwrecked soul has found home.
CHAPTER Eight
A piercing racket clattered into my brain. I dragged a feather pillow over my head, groaning, but the intrusive sound persisted. I grumbled incoherent expletives, adding a second pillow, my irritation growing at being robbed of decadent dreams in a Highland warrior’s arms on a moonlit picnic. With a growl, I tossed the pillows off my head, gearing up to pound on Mrs. Edmonton’s door and beg her to turn the TV down again.
I opened my five-hundred-pound eyelids.
Shut them.
Opened them.
I inhaled deeply, absorbing the extremely dated surroundings. No amount of blinking eradicated reality. I’d forgotten where I was. My tempting dream had been extrapolated from a wondrous night based firmly in my new reality—in the past.
I shot upright which, after the night’s wine consumption, proved to be a mistake. I’d gotten drunk off more than romantic moments with Iain; clearly, the wine he’d brought had been deadly. Grateful for the darkness of the room, I gingerly lowered my body back down as the delightful sounds of swordplay hammered incessantly into my brain, the recurring, disconcerting feeling of being lost somewhere in time and space dissipating as I sank against the pillows.