The Name in Gold
Sleep did not come easily. Isla tossed and turned beneath her blanket, her mind racing through scenes from the book, words echoing like they’d been etched into her memory. The final image—the prince giving the order—haunted her. Lachlan’s face, his silence, the blade. It looped through her head like a curse.
Eventually, exhaustion took over. But when sleep came, it did not bring peace.
She stood in the middle of a flower-strewn field, the sky above her thick with swirling smoke. The scent of fire and blood filled her nose. Wildflowers lay trampled beneath boots, their colors muted by ash. In the distance, steel clashed, cries rang out—war waged just beyond the hills.
Then came the thunder of hooves.
She turned.
A line of Scottish warriors charged across the field. Their faces were fierce, painted with dirt and urgency. Before she could move, they were upon her. The lead rider yanked hard on the reins, stopping just feet away. His eyes locked on hers—shock, then recognition. And then something deeper.
Relief.
He leapt down from the horse in one fluid motion, long strides closing the distance. Without hesitation, he wrapped her in his arms.
He whispered something in Scottish Gaelic, the words low and grounding.
"You're safe now. I've got you."
His voice rumbled through her bones. Familiar in a way that broke her heart.
He stepped back, cupping her face, eyes roving over her features like he had been waiting a lifetime just to see her again. Then he kissed her. Deep. Desperate. Certain.
Her breath caught. Her heart thundered in her chest.
She was in Lachlan’s arms.
Everything about him felt real. Solid. His broad chest under her palms, the heat radiating from his skin, the tension in his muscles. She knew this man. She shouldn’t have—but she did.
He took her hand. She didn’t resist.
They rode through the wilds of Scotland, wind tearing through her hair, his strong back steady before her. No one spoke. No one needed to. The silence between them was not awkward—it was sacred.
When they reached the camp, it was dusk. The sun painted the sky in molten golds and burning reds. Flags flapped in the breeze—emblems she didn't recognize yet felt imprinted in her bones.
Lachlan dismounted and lifted her gently down, his hands lingering longer than necessary. A young boy bowed and took the reins, disappearing into the shadows.
He led her into a tent. It was simple—sturdy and well-worn. Armor rested on a stand, a sword leaning nearby. A cot sat in the corner, layered with a tartan blanket that smelled faintly of peat and pine.
Lachlan closed the flap behind them. The soft rustle of canvas sounded like a heartbeat.
She turned. He was close. His presence filled the space.
His hands brushed down her arms, slow and reverent. His breath grazed her neck. She shivered.
He kissed her skin—tender, aching. She gasped, her body lighting up like he had struck a match beneath her skin.
He turned her to face him again. Their mouths met, urgent now. Her hands threaded through his hair. His fingers curled around her waist, grounding her.
He lifted her, laid her back on the cot, and followed her down.
His smile disarmed her. His eyes were storms—fierce, aching, endless.
Clothes slipped away—his shirt, her blouse, layer by layer. She mapped every line of his chest, every scar, with her fingertips. She didn’t feel scared. She felt found.
When he finally entered her, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. It was slow. Intimate. Like he had all the time in the world and had been waiting centuries to touch her.
Her breath hitched as he moved inside her—slow, deliberate. Every inch of contact made her feel more present than she’d ever felt in her life. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands gripping his shoulders, grounding herself in the weight of him, the warmth of his skin.
She moaned softly, his name a breath against his ear. Every stroke sent a ripple through her body. Her nerves sang. Her chest tightened with the overwhelming sensation of being opened—body, heart, soul.
His mouth explored her skin, kissed the hollow of her throat, her collarbone, the slope of her breast. Her back arched into him, seeking more. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she pulled him closer, needing to feel all of him.
She wasn’t just being touched—she was being remembered. Worshipped. Claimed by something ancient and unspoken.
He whispered to her in Gaelic, words low and reverent. She didn’t understand them, but they wrapped around her like a spell, made her feel adored.
They moved together in rhythm, breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat, the world narrowing to the cot beneath them and the air between their bodies.
When release came, it was all-consuming. Her cry broke free as a wave of sensation crashed through her, shattering her into something new. Lachlan groaned her name against her neck, his body trembling as he followed.
After, he held her close. Skin to skin. No words.
Only silence.
Only him.
The alarm blared.
Isla bolted upright, gasping. Her skin flushed, her chest rising and falling like she had run miles. Her sheets clung to her body, damp with sweat.
She sat there for a moment, stunned.
Her lips tingled. Her skin still buzzed. Her core pulsed with memory.
It had been a dream.
But it hadn’t felt like one.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest. She was hot all over. Aching. Alive.
God.
She’d never had a dream like that before—never anything that vivid. Nothing that emotional. Nothing that… real.
She stumbled to the bathroom, turned the faucet, and splashed cold water on her face.
Her reflection looked back at her—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, lips slightly parted.
“Get a grip,” she whispered.
But how could she? That hadn’t just been a dream—it had been something more. A memory from a life she hadn’t lived. A story her body remembered.
She dried her face and moved back toward her desk.
There sat the book. Innocent. Still. Closed.
But she could feel it. Calling to her.
She stared at the cover. Lachlan Strathclyde. The name alone made her stomach twist.
Who was he? More importantly—who was she to him?
She reached out and placed a hand over the leather binding. Her fingers trembled slightly.
She didn’t know what was real anymore. But she knew this:
She had to find out who A.I. Smith really was. She had to learn why a book written centuries ago had just transported her into the arms of a man who didn’t belong to her world.
And why it felt like she had always belonged to his.