Kat Bastion - Forged in Dreams and Magick

He stopped just below the foot of the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I doona want to have to dress you, but I will.” That crooked smile told me he imagined no great hardship in manhandling my nakedness.

“No, thank you. I’ll manage. Do I get privacy? Or are you going to stand there and stare?”

“Oh, I’m gonna stare, lass. Your discomfort amuses me in no small measure.”

“Wonderful,” I snarled.

I flung the rest of the bedding off my legs and walked to the foot of the bed, giving him my backside to view. Mmm-hmmm . . . and you can kiss it too.

A toffee-colored suede outfit lay innocently on the bed. I grabbed the supple pants and shimmied into them, their thin weight stretching over every curve. “Damn, Iain. What’d ya do? Have Elven seamstresses take measurements and sew through the night? This feels like it was painted on me.” I pulled a matching top with cuffed sleeves over my head.

Another low growl rumbled behind me. “Aye, and it looks it.”

I spun around, glaring at the man ogling my ass for the millionth time.

He smirked. “I’ll never tell my secrets.”

What a loaded statement. I’d bet all-in there were plenty of secrets to tell too.

All in good time, Laird. All in good time.

By torchlight, we left the castle through a back exit—a secret underground tunnel. Iain led the way, ducking his head down with the low clearance. At the end of the passageway, he slid the torch into an iron fitting affixed to the wall.

Iain climbed a wooden ladder secured into the side of the earth, and I followed up behind him. We emerged into dense forest well beyond the curtain wall. Iain dropped the scrub he’d held back, concealing our exit point, and I spun around at the unexpected rustling sound.

My hand flew to my forehead as pain throbbed over my eyes, the dull headache I’d been trying to ignore shouting its presence with attitude. Too bad they didn’t have coffee makers here. Or a caffeine patch . . .

The sky turned an ever-lightening dusky blue as the coming sun inched toward the horizon. A black wool cloak and divinely warm suede pants that I’d tucked into my favorite boots guarded against the morning chill.

I jogged forward to catch up with Iain as he disappeared into the swirling mist. He wore a similar leather outfit, absent the warmer outerwear. A large satchel hung from his right shoulder.

We picked our way through nearly impenetrable foliage until we reached the end of the trees. Iain threw an arm out, blocking my path, signaling our stop. He cast a glance over his shoulder, nodding once. I begrudgingly went along with his bossy nonverbal commands, unwilling to be the one to startle any prey.

Twenty feet away, on a rise to the right, a brook bubbled up from the ground and flowed gently along the forest’s edge. Moss-covered rocks lined both sides of the stream. A distinct game trail had been worn into a flat area of ground on the other side of the water.

Iain hung his bag on a broken stub jutting from a tree trunk and opened the gathered top. He removed a slender leather quiver filled with arrows and a curved wooden bow.

Silently, he placed the bow in my hand. He wrapped his arms around me and nocked an arrow, positioning my hands with his. Together, we drew back and released. The arrow flew straight, sinking into the trunk of a tree thirty feet away.

He broke our intimate contact, but the warmth of his body and his intoxicating scent remained. Independent streak aside, having Iain wrapped around me, teaching me, made my chest ache a little. I’d heard that encouraging a man to change your tire, irrespective of your ability to do so, brought out a man’s hero complex. The advice had serious merit.

To demonstrate my excellent learning curve, I fastened the quiver to my back and smiled at him, retrieving another arrow. The sleek weapon had an iron-bladed head, a light wooden shaft, and goose-feather fletching. I nocked it onto the string; drew my right arm back, brushing the tips of my fingers across my cheek; and loosed the arrow. A wisp of air curled over the inside of my left forearm at the bowstring’s release. My arrow landed an inch above our first.

Iain gaped at me.

I shrugged, mouthing, “Archery lessons.”

He shook his head, his chest shaking in silent laughter.

Iain carried our cotton-tailed kills by their ears like a boy carrying my books home from school. We returned back through the same dark tunnel that was surprisingly dry with its tightly fitted stones covering every surface.

He stopped midway through the long passage and turned, looking deep into my eyes as he bent over me. The flame from the torch he held wavered gently in the stale space, highlighting the soft expression on his face.

I backed into the cold wall behind me, suddenly uncomfortable in the confined space. I stared up at him, waiting for something to happen, torn between trusting his demeanor without question and clinging to my resolve to have him prove himself. My heart thundered in my ears, panicked at my inability to commit to a decision, but too many activities happening in rapid succession hadn’t given me a chance to think things through.

Iain sighed. “You’re such a stubborn lass, Isa. Doona shut yourself off from an entire world ready to embrace you.” He brushed the back of his fingers against my check. “There is a man standin’ right before you, wantin’ to love you. Let him in.”

I swallowed hard. I opened my mouth to say something profound, but no sound made it past my constricted throat. Thank God for frozen vocal cords—my mind had been utterly blown by tenderness I hadn’t seen coming, and only incoherent babbling would’ve come out anyway.

Iain’s gaze dropped to my parted lips before drifting up to my eyes for seconds longer. He turned away, leaving my unresponsiveness to his plea hanging there in the stale air. I followed him, feeling defeated by my own fears.

Along the stone wall further down the passageway, he stopped and handed me the torch. He spread his open palms across the wall’s surface, and with a hard shove of two stones—one shoulder height, the other a few feet below the first—he opened a hidden door. Its seal released with a whoosh of air as it pivoted open on a balance point.

“Iain, about my behavior last night . . . flirting with oth—”

“Och. Doona worry, lass.”

We stepped into a gallery filled with displayed treasures, but my full attention rested on Iain. He smiled at me. The man exposed a deep kindness beneath his gruff exterior, and I began to feel guilty for last night’s insolent scheming. In defiance of a being dealt a short hand, I had played a game of hearts. All the while, Iain trusted me, extending his out on his sleeve.

My conscience persisted. “It’s . . . I’m not used to sitting down and taking what’s dished out.”

He turned toward me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Isa. You’ve every right to act as you’ve done. Your bravery under the circumstances is remarkable, and I’m verra proud of you. Doona give another thought to me. I’m no beginner at this.”

I opened my mouth to argue and apologize, but he silenced me with his finger over my lips.

“Besides, I like the fight you have. I’ve always loved your feistiness.” He slowly smirked. “And a hunt isn’t sport ’til the prey gives good chase.”

My jaw dropped. His Royal Cockiness had returned. In a huff, I spun around, and he smacked my ass. Hard. I stumbled forward, my backside smarting from the sting. I glanced over my shoulder in time to catch the smirk fall from his face as he crossed his arms.

“Enjoy your afternoon, Isa. Your evenin’ . . . is mine. ” He brushed past me, disappearing into the hall.