Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(30)

I grasped his forearms, looking up into the eyes of a man promising the world from any woman’s perspective. Gawain’s vision of marriage bore as close a resemblance to a modern-day equality of partners as I’d ever hoped to get in a medieval world.

I realized that I had no idea what kind of husband Iain wanted to be with his wife. Our heated chemistry melted every thought in my head anytime we were together, making it impossible to formulate the question, let alone ask it.

Gawain suddenly dropped his lips to my mouth in a tender chaste kiss. I had no time to react. He lingered for a moment, then broke contact, lifting his face from mine. His weak smile said it all: there’d been no spark. He raised his eyebrows optimistically despite the lackluster connection. I shook my head, shrugging.

Memories of the passionate fire that had sizzled with Iain’s kisses flooded into my mind, followed by hope that Iain would be everything his men had promised to be as husbands . . . and more.

Brigid barged in between us, and Gawain stumbled back, gaping at her.

“Isobel, I’ve been lookin’ for you. So has Iain. Off with you, Gawain.” She shooed away the man larger than her by half. “Go find your men and get drunker.”

Gawain laughed and winked at me. On a turn, he disappeared into the crowd.

“Fingall—” Brigid paused, catching her breath. “We’ve been handfasted.”

“Handfasted?” I stepped closer, wrapping an arm around her waist, murmuring, “Are you not to be married tomorrow?”

Her brow furrowed. “Nay. Seamus and Gawain leave with him tonight. They’re to resolve a dispute between two clans about their border lands.”

The crowd milled around us as we talked. I faced her, squeezing her upper arms. “He asked, though. And you accepted?”

“Aye, I did.” A broad grin returned to her face, flashing her cute dimple.

I hugged her. “Of course you did. I’m thrilled for you.”

My heart twinged with a touch of envy. She’d had years to discover the right man for her. Brigid knew what she wanted, and she had known it for a long time. Time for me had become a lost luxury . . . and a bane to my existence.

“Och, I’ve to tell Agnes.” Brigid darted away.

I tried to follow her, but my body got tossed and turned through a tight mob of people until I ended up at the edge of the crowd near the isolated tents. The peaceful quiet of the crisp night air lured me away from the noise, smoke, and frenzy. With lazy steps, I strolled along the perimeter, staying in the torchlight, casting occasional glances at the crowd a dozen yards away.

I enjoyed the accidental solitude, wondering about what would transpire tomorrow—my foretold wedding day. Not exactly what a girl dreams about: alone in the middle of someone else’s extended family. As if I would’ve had any family in attendance, anyway. The bittersweet memory of my seanair floated into my mind. The faded loss of my parents followed. An only child, orphaned by their tragic car accident, I didn’t harbor dreams of idyllic fairy-tale nuptials. No family would’ve ever been on my side of the aisle.

Will there even be an aisle? I wondered what their Beltane wedding rituals would entail.

A painful grip at my elbow got my attention. “Ow!”

“Look at what I found,” a gravelly voice rasped above my head.

Alarm bells rang out. I stared up into the face of a stranger: a very large, brutish man whose fetid ale breath explained his glazed-over eyes. Two other men surrounded me.

My heart pounded in my ears. I’d taken my safety for granted—beyond foolish on my part. Their lack of Brodie plaid indicated they weren’t even loyal to the clan.

If Gawain, Robert, and Duncan had been drunk, these men were plastered. I yanked my elbow to my side, but his death grip jerked my arm into his ribs along with the rest of my body.

Adrenaline clarified my dire situation. I either unleashed a bloodcurdling scream, or I’d remain completely at the thugs’ mercy.

“Well, lass, you’re in for a bit of fun,” said the fire-haired man in front of me.

The vice at my elbow tightened painfully. He pulled me backward. I inflated my lungs to scream, only to have my cry muffled by a dirty hand, my captor dragging me into a tent. I stumbled into darkness behind linen flaps.

The man behind me caged me as he braced himself against a back table. His hand snaked around my waist, holding me. The rough hands of his companions in front lifted my kicking legs, pushing my skirts high up on my thighs. Panic set in. I flailed my arms around, knocking a half-filled pitcher to the ground with a muted thud. Kicking the men only fueled their lust; their chests heaved, their eyes sparking with fire.

“Aye, go on, lass. We like a bit of fight,” said the blond.

An unusual calm washed over me. My brain engaged. One chance. I focused, dragging air into my nostrils, and bit down on the fingers over my mouth. He cursed, yanking his hand away and loosening his hold around my ribs, and I tore out the ear-piercing scream waiting in my lungs.

I seized on the window of surprise, breaking free of his hold and bolting for the tent opening. The other two grabbed me and spun me around. A tug-of-war ensued, one yanking me, then the other. I shrieked again, freaking out about men who could’ve cared less if they broke their new play toy.

Two heartbeats later, the tent nearly blew over from the hurricane bursting in. A dozen Highlanders stampeded through the tent’s closed flaps, ripping the opening to twice its size. Iain led the assault, growling like a rabid wolf as fury etched into every square inch of his maddened face.