Page 8 of Highland Warrior

“Come, ye must meet my clan.”

“How shall I be introduced?” Natalie was nervous about meeting the people. From her studies, she’d learned that clan men and women were very tightly knit, and it was rare for them to let an outsider in.

Ian stopped and turned toward her. His gaze flickered with emotion and then doubt. “I suppose we ought to figure that out first.” Leaning against the door, he crossed his arms over his chest as he studied her.

“Any ideas?”

“I have an idea.” Ian’s gaze was hooded, and she couldn’t read what he was thinking.

“Share it.” She smiled, venturing to stand in front of him. Her hands absently caressed his folded arms until they encompassed her.

“I thought to tell them…ye were my betrothed.” He tightened his grip on her as if he expected her to draw away.

For a moment she was scared. This was all happening too fast. Yet again, she wanted it more than anything. She’d dreamed of such a thing happening. Her life’s passion had been learning everything she could about his people, and now here was her chance to study them in person.

She looked down at their bodies so closely entwined. Was love possible? Although it had been less than twenty-four hours since they’d met, stirrings of deep emotion whirled inside her. Did he feel the same way?

He still hadn’t answered her question about whether or not she could return to her own time. Her guess, since he hadn’t said no, was that she could. It wouldn’t hurt to stay with him, be introduced as his betrothed, and see how things turned out.

“All right.”

His eyes sparkled with content, and a slow, satisfied smile spread over his full lips. Was it possible for him to look any sexier? He exuded pure masculine strength and confidence.

“For now,” she added.

Some of the spark vanished from his gaze, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he kissed her lightly on the lips. “Then let us join my people to break our fast.”

He’d thought himself content to rule alone, to lead through strength and strategy. But the moment she’d smiled at him—unafraid, unbowed—he understood how hollow his victories had been. And now he was bloody confused.

7

The Great Hall fell silent the moment he crossed the threshold.

Dozens of eyes turned toward him—his people, his responsibility—and then, past him, toward the woman at his side. The murmur of conversation died beneath the crackle of the hearth. Even the hounds near the fire lifted their heads, alert.

Natalie’s fingers tightened on his arm. He felt the tremor in them and, beneath it, her effort to stand tall. She looked small beside him, wrapped in a borrowed length of MacDuff tartan, her golden hair glinting like sunlight against stone. She was no ordinary lass; anyone could see that. But she was his now, and he would make his people see that too.

He straightened, letting his voice carry. “Madainn mhath,” he greeted.

The hall answered in a low rumble of respectful but uncertain Gaelic good mornings. The fire popped, throwing light across the rafters and the long wooden tables, where the remnants of a meal lay forgotten.

He led Natalie deeper into the great hall, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the stone floor in the near silence. When they reached the dais table, he pulled out an intricately carved chair beside his own and motioned for her to sit. Natalie nodded, and gracefully sat, her cheeks flushed pink.

Raising his cup, he looked over his people—the men he’d fought beside, the women who’d fed and mended and prayed through years of war and hardship. They were his to protect. And now, somehow, so was she.

“This is Natalie,” he said. His voice carried easily through the hall, calm and sure. “My betrothed.”

A hush fell heavy. Then came the sound of a tankard slipping from someone’s hand and clattering to the floor. Whispers followed, like wind stirring dry grass.

Ian kept his expression neutral. Let them talk. Let them wonder. His gaze moved over the faces—Lachlann’s steady approval, Old Morag’s squint of suspicion, the younger warriors’ open curiosity. They’d seen him take women to his bed before, but never to his table.

A bearded man—Seumas, one of the smiths—rose and lifted his ale. “Then let us drink to the laird and his lady!”

Laughter and shouts broke out, the tension melting into cheer. Cups clinked, bread tore, and the familiar skirl of the pipes filled the air. The sound swelled up into the beams, ancient and proud.

Ian leaned toward Natalie. She was watching the scene unfold with wide eyes, her lips parted in a mixture of awe and disbelief. The sight tugged at something inside him he hadn’t expected protectiveness, and perhaps, God help him, admiration.

He raised his cup again, joining the chorus of voices toasting their future. And as he watched Natalie smile shyly at the women nearest the hearth, Ian realized with quiet certainty that the hall, his clan, and his heart already felt different.