Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(8)
“Promise me, Isobel. Promise me, no matter what happens, you’ll stay with me.” He raised his eyebrows slightly, searching my eyes with hope.
I, on the other hand, approached mind-numbing hysteria. I tried to hide in my deep breaths. Not sure where my voice had gone, I simply nodded, uncertain if I could promise anything at that point, frantically needing to regain a firm hold of reality—my modern-day reality.
He gave me a single nod, pulling my body tighter against him. I almost laughed—the guy sure knew how to milk the situation—but my inner scientist warred with the part of me that believed his explanation, dousing my sense of humor. I needed to believe his truth to get back, though, didn’t I?
Feeling a bit like Dorothy in her ruby slippers, her words and wishes played through my mind as Iain’s lips descended on mine. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. The cadence continued in my head as he kissed me sweetly at first, then more fervently as we both gave in to the passion of the moment. His hand, still holding mine, pulled away from our bodies and slowly lowered to the top of the box.
Upon initial contact, I expected a jolt. Still enjoying the erotic contact, I waited for something to happen. When no falling feeling occurred, I deepened the kiss, thinking my mantra had thrown things off. I tried to duplicate the intensity of our first world-tilting kiss, and he pressed his body further into mine in response to my increased passion. As seconds turned to minutes, I realized all we’d accomplished was accelerating toward a heightened state of arousal in his world instead of sending me home to mine. I broke the kiss to catch my breath, staring at our entwined fingers atop the cool metal of a box that seemed to grow colder.
“It didn’t work,” I said after slowing my breathing for a full minute and a half—I’d counted.
“Sorry, lass. I dinna think it would.” Resignation flattened his tone.
“Why didn’t you think it would work?” My voice escalated in pitch.
“Weel, this box holds certain properties and is used by my clan for its singular purpose.” His voice softened as he gently rubbed his hands up and down my arms. I remained in his embrace, because the whole situation frightened me and comfort from him felt damn good.
I looked up into his reassuring eyes, even though the height difference caused my neck to ache in protest. When he didn’t offer further explanation, I prodded, “What purpose exactly?”
“Every laird in my clan, as far back as the first and the Picts before us, used it durin’ our ceremony when their chosen time came to take a mate.”
I got stuck on the historical references. Lairds going back in time until the generations reached the Picts? Logic flared anew, rejection of my situation having me cling to the notion that the mind held vast mysteries we had yet to unravel; mine had spun a masterful tale, giving a mystical explanation to the origins of my artifact. He’d said something about a mate.
“How does the box help them find a mate?” I felt ridiculous for a moment, as if the entire episode created of my imagination had me now talking to myself represented in the form of Iain.
“We doona know, lass. All we know is when the rulin’ laird lays his hand on the top durin’ our matin’ festival, the one meant for him is brought to him.”
“Brought to him,” I repeated, as if the echo would make it go down any easier. “One meant for him. Like a soul mate?”
“Aye. We’ve always been a strong and fearsome clan. Our strength comes from the bondin’ of the two in this world right for one another. The union makes an invincible pair to lead our people in times of both joy and hardship.”
The entire time he spoke, I analyzed his words and expressions. Everything he uttered he believed to be true. He waited for me to reply while I pondered my bizarre and rapidly disconcerting situation. Deeper meaning dawned on me slowly, breaking through the barrier of denial, reaching out with the clarity of the proper lens bringing a blurry world into crisp focus.
“I’m your soul mate?” The shouted realization scorched my ears.
Iain struggled to reply, his mouth slowly opening. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, but no words came out. He exhaled, dropping his shoulders, and the firm nod that followed told me he truly believed I’d been destined for him, regardless of his inability to soften the blow.
A claustrophobic noose tightened around my awareness. I pushed the hulking brute away from me, and he gave no resistance, stepping back. I paced the length of the small room, troubled by the possibilities, or rather, the impossibilities. If the power of my mind had created this entire larger-than-life charade, with every ounce of mental effort, I would banish the fantasy. My feet stopped, and I pushed all my focus inward, hoping my sheer will would make all this nonsense go away, but the ghastly smell from those tallow candles kept interfering with my concentration.
“Isa.” He breathed my name from behind my ear, tempting me like a lover’s caress, resting his warm hands on my shoulders. “Accept this. Nothin’ you do will change what’s meant to be for us.”
I whirled around in his loose hold. His eyes widened, probably due to the wild panic I’m sure came across on my face. “And if I don’t accept this . . . this crazy idea that I’ve been snatched out of my time to be in yours . . . to be with you . . . ?”
“Weel, the festival is in three days’ time. I’m not the only man takin’ a mate. Every available man wantin’ a woman will take the woman they claim—whether or not the woman agrees.”