Page 9 of Highland Warrior

“If ye are betrothed, why not state your intentions here, now?”

Ian looked at the warrior who’d shouted the suggestion, then quickly turned to see Natalie’s face pale before she looked at her hands. Did she know that stating their intentions was as good as marrying? If he repeated his vows in front of witnesses and declared his commitment to her, then he and Natalie would be husband and wife, it was legal and binding. All they’d need to do was have a priest bless the union later.

The grumblings of the people in agreement echoed through the hall. Ian reached for Natalie’s hand; her gaze was panicked. As much as he wanted her to be his wife, he didn’t want it in name only. He would have to find a way out of this.

He raised his hand for silence. Warm, slim fingers lightly caressed his arm. He gazed down into her eyes. Acceptance filled their depths. She nodded, and once again, he sensed she could see into his soul.

Smiling, he placed a feathery kiss on her forehead, and then, turning, he clasped each of her hands in his. His people fell silent as they watched and waited.

“I, Ian, now take ye Natalie to be my wife.” He squeezed her fingers, winking, hoping to ease her fears. “In the presence of God and before these witnesses, I promise to be a loving, faithful, and loyal husband to ye, for as long as we both shall live.” Or as long as we have together, he wanted to add but kept that part to himself.

Natalie looked down for a moment, the top of her short hair only reaching his chest. He had the sudden urge to crush her to him and caress away all of her fears. He couldn’t imagine the turmoil she was going through right at that moment. She took a deep breath before returning her gaze to his.

“Tha mise, Natalie, a-nis ’gad ghabhail-sa, Ian, gu bhith ’nam chéile phòsda.”

Ian raised his eyebrows, taken aback by her perfect Gaelic. Until then, he’d been mainly speaking English with her. She repeated the rest of her pledge to him in Gaelic, and Ian felt his chest puffing with pride.

Was this her way of telling him she was more than ready to wed him, be with him?

Touched by her use of his language, Ian clasped her around the waist, hauling her against him before capturing her mouth for a searing kiss. The clan cheered and howled their approval.

During the light meal of bread, cheese, salt pork, apples, and ale, Natalie barely spoke, giving him small smiles and murmuring to the people surrounding her.

His people observed and chatted lively with her. He realized how much he really did want her to stay.

Would she?

8

When the meal ended, Natalie was unsure of what to do next. Although the people did not question her place in their household as Ian’s wife, she was still a little uncomfortable.

She’d spent years dissecting history from the safety of books. But here, history had teeth—it breathed, it bled, and it kissed her with a hunger she’d never known. And despite those years of deep study, actually living in the period she’d coveted so much was completely different.

She needed to take a walk to process, to take in all that was happening. Her brain felt like it might explode.

The mist was lifting off the hills when Natalie wandered beyond the courtyard, drawn by the smell of woodsmoke and the rhythmic clang of a hammer from the blacksmith’s hut. Frost still clung to the grass, melting under her boots in footprints that were quick to disappear. The world was quiet, and steady, in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

A cluster of crofts stood beyond the keep’s stone wall, their thatched roofs glistening in the pale morning light. A door stood open, and Natalie listened to the low murmur of a woman and the laughter of a child. She hesitated near the entrance, until a woman’s voice called, warm and sure, “Ye might as well come in, lass. The chill’s no kinder outside.”

Natalie stepped through the doorway, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the soft amber glow. A hearth blazed at the center of the small room. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with the scent of rosemary and peat. A woman stirred a pot over the fire while a dark-haired toddler sat nearby, stacking bits of wood.

“I’m sorry,” Natalie said quickly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

The woman smiled over her shoulder. “Nonsense. I’m Catriona. My man’s off to find the laird this morning to train the younger lads. Sit, before your teeth chatter clean from your head.”

Natalie obeyed, grateful for the warmth. The fire popped and hissed as Catriona ladled stew into a wooden bowl and handed it over. “Ye’ll need something in your belly if you’re to brave our Highland winds.”

Natalie tasted the broth, which was rich, smoky, and a little wild. “This is wonderful,” she said honestly.

“Venison,” Catriona replied. “A gift from the laird himself, after last week’s hunt.” She sat opposite, folding her hands in her lap. “Ye’ve caused a stir, ye know. Not every day a lass appears out of thin air and catches our laird’s eye.”

Natalie flushed. “I’m afraid I’ve done little to deserve his notice.”

Catriona tilted her head, studying her with kind curiosity. “Sometimes what a man needs isn’t a fine lady or a dowry, but a soul that makes him remember he’s human. Ian’s carried his grief like a wound since Donell vanished. It’s good to see him laugh again.”

Natalie looked down at her hands. The rough-spun cloak she wore smelled faintly of smoke and pine, as if it had absorbed the very scent of this land. “He’s been kind,” she said softly. “Kinder than I expected.”

“Aye. That’s his way, though he hides it behind that stern brow.” Catriona smiled. “He’s a good man, and the clan loves him. Ye’d do well to trust that.”