Page 87 of The Laird's Masked Passion

When the fiddlers struck up a brighter tune and the first dancers formed in lines upon the grass, Elspeth retreated at once towardthe table. Dancing was dangerous enough when a woman’s thoughts were untroubled.

A stout woman with merry eyes intercepted her. “Me lady, ye must dance.”

“I must dae many things in this life,” Elspeth smiled. “I have made a list, and dancing isnae presently at the top.”

“Then we shall improve the list.”

Before Elspeth could answer, two younger women seized her hands, laughing, and drew her toward the forming set. The crowd cheered. She looked, quite against her will, for Colin.

He stood near the musicians, with his arms folded, watching. She lifted her chin in challenge. He did not move.

Good, she thought.Excellent.

Let him stand there like a carved warning while she danced with someone cheerful, harmless, and incapable of making her remember the dark.

Then an old clansman cried. “The laird must dance with his lady!”

The suggestion caught like a spark in dry grass. Voices joined. Cups were lifted. Someone whistled. Breac, traitor that he was, clapped Colin hard on the shoulder and pushed him forward.

Colin’s eyes remained on Elspeth. He came toward her slowly, and the space between them altered as he crossed it. The meadow seemed to hold its breath. He stopped before her and offered his hand.

There was nothing improper in it. Nothing that any person present could condemn. Yet Elspeth looked at his hand andremembered it covering her mouth, holding her hip and catching her wrists when she reached for him.

Her fingers entered his. His closed at once and the music began. It was a lively Highland measure, all turning steps, crossings, and brief separations. At first, Elspeth was grateful for the speed. It allowed her to pretend her body had no memory beyond rhythm and instruction. She moved where the dance commanded, passed beneath another woman’s raised arm, turned with a laughing boy whose ears reddened when he touched her hand, and came back to Colin on the next figure.

His palm met hers. It ran through her like heat beneath silk.

He leaned just near enough as they turned. “Ye are flushed.”

“It is warm.”

“It isnae.”

“I was speaking of me temper.”

His mouth curved. “Then aye.Verywarm.”

The dance drew them apart again. She welcomed the distance and hated its brevity. When they returned, his hand settled at her waist for the turning figure, enough to remind her that he knew the shape of her beneath cloth, that he had held her when she trembled.

She looked up sharply. His expression was composed. His eyes were not. They were dark, fixed upon her with a possessiveness so complete that the meadow, the music, the clan, all seemed no more than witnesses to something that had begun in shadow and now dared to breathe in daylight.

“Dinnae look at me like that,” she whispered.

“Like what?”

“As if—” She faltered, furious with herself. “As if ye have some claim.”

“I dae.”

“The priest’s claim is hardly a romantic recommendation.”

“I wasnae speaking of the priest.”

Her step missed. Colin caught her without appearing to do so. To anyone watching, it was part of the dance. To Elspeth, it was the old, infuriating truth of him: that he could possess a room, a road, a battle, and now even the space around her body without raising his voice.

The music quickened. Their hands met, parted, met again. Each turn brought the scent of him. The sun lowered enough to gild the meadow. Shadows lengthened. Fiddles sang. Around them, people laughed and stamped and clapped.

Elspeth should have felt watched. Instead, she felt wanted. That was far worse.