Page 12 of Fierce Highland Magic

The sound cut through the music.

Every lantern in the market flickered.

The thistle at my collar burned cold.

Rowan looked over my shoulder.

For the first time since he had taken my wrist, genuine alarm crossed his face.

A hush spread outward from the far end of the thoroughfare.

The movement of the market slowed. A dancer stopped mid-turn. A merchant lowered a handful of glittering coins. Even the rain seemed to hesitate in the air.

Someone was coming.

I could not see who.

Only that the crowd was parting.

Rowan swore under his breath.

It was not a dramatic oath. It was quiet and immediate, the sound of a man who had just watched a door close with him on the wrong side.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Who is coming?"

He did not answer.

The watching faces turned toward me.

Not Rowan.

Me.

The pressure in the market changed. It was no longer merely interested. It had focused.

I stepped backward.

My shoulder hit Rowan's chest.

He caught my upper arms before I could stumble. His hands were warm through my damp jacket. Too warm.

For one wild second, the lantern light caught in the green of his eyes and the whole market narrowed to the space between us.

His mouth was close.

His gaze dropped to my lips.

Or perhaps I imagined it.

That was the trouble with unreliable conditions. You could not trust the data.

But the calculation landed wrong.

Not because it was inaccurate.