Free Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends, Book 1) by Kat Bastion

to see Brigid’s Fingall. A dark blond braid hung from each temple beside ice blue eyes. A strong jaw and defined cheekbones made him worthy of Michelangelo’s marble. The breadth of his shoulders and imposing stature evidenced his fearsomeness. Without doubt, a Viking descendant stood before me.
    As if an announcement had been made about the formalities ending, the hostile women pressed into the group again, asserting their rights. Four women in particular seemed quite aggressive, two of them nearly sidling a very poised Brigid out from in front of Fingall.
    I watched as she expertly stepped out of their way, letting the silly girls twitter and giggle before the giant of a man. Brigid gave Fingall a coy smile, demurely tilted her head down, and slowly ran her hands from her hips down her thighs, looking very much like she wanted somewhere else to put them.
    Oh, hell. Brigid had him nailed. Fingall responded instantaneously. The trespassers had the wisdom to move before being trampled in his rush to get to Brigid’s side. Fingall grasped Brigid’s hand, looping it in his arm. His dreamy-eyed expression explained everything: Brigid had already captured the completely entranced Fingall.
    While Iain laughed with his men about something I’d not been listening to, I sensed harsh waves of animosity radiating my way. Paint-peeling glares from the clique told me those women viewed me as an eleventh-hour party crasher. They couldn’t have been more right; except, the fairy godmother failed to ask my opinion about attending the ball. If only my charade finished at midnight—I’d gladly go home in a pumpkin with the mice.
    I inclined my head toward the blatant hostility, offering a sincere smile, hoping to at least convey something akin to respectful acknowledgement. My extended olive branch broke as Iain turned me, leading us in the opposite direction. Iain’s guard, Fingall included with Brigid in tow, followed with spirited discussion.
    We stopped at the head of the largest table. Iain gestured for me to sit at his right as the other guests filtered their way to their seats. The room calmed, all gazes riveted toward their laird.
    Iain stood, lifting a jewel-encrusted goblet in his hand. The entire room raised their cups. I mimicked them, lifting my silver goblet high.
    “Welcome to the commencement of our Beltane celebration. This night shall be filled with drink, food, and laughter.” Iain raised his goblet higher. “May all who seek refuge, find it. When you find comfort from another, cherish it. Should you be graced with true love, embrace it. For the protection of all we value most in life, so we are .  . .”
    “Clan Brodie!” The room shouted the last two words in approving chorus.
    Impressed by Iain’s expression and the camaraderie in the room, I sipped the honeyed ale, the warm liquid dancing across my tongue before I swallowed. My thirst made the beverage taste like the sweetest nectar, and before I realized what I was doing, I’d downed the cup. Well, what the hell. It’d been a very long day, and I deserved a relaxed buzz.
    I looked up to catch Iain’s amused expression at my rapid consumption. He laughed, shaking his head, and poured me another from a pitcher on the table.
    “You’ll want to take the drink easy, lass. We brew it a wee bit stronger than the beer you’re accustomed to.”
    I arched a single brow. “I shall take that under advisement, Laird. ”
    Iain’s smile vanished, replaced by a smoldering stare so hot, an erotic current shot straight between my thighs. I swallowed hard, uncertain if his response had been prompted by my sweet smartass demeanor or by my addressing him as Laird.
    He lifted my hand, pressing the backs of my fingers to his soft kiss. His scorching gaze dropped to the cleavage bared by my low-cut gown and drifted back up to my face. My body responded, his wandering eyes commanding the hot flush rising under my skin.
    “Isa, you are stunning.” He smirked. “Even