Page 1 of The Highland Fling
CHAPTER ONE
GRACE
The song ends, and the room erupts with a cacophony of clapping hands and thumping feet. Red-faced, tartan-clad men and women cheer, laugh, and thank their dance partners. From my seat at the side of the bustling dance floor, I applaud too, swept up by the crowd’s infectious energy.
When the roar subsides, the accordionist announces the next dance will be the Gay Gordons. The band, which also includes a fiddler and a drummer, are seated in a corner of the hotel’s function room, by open French windows that look out onto the garden. Even though it’s after ten and the sun has finally dipped below the horizon, there’s still enough light to see by outside. Before today, I hadn’t appreciated that summer evenings in the Highlands last an entire hour longer than in London.
“The dance floor is heaving, which is what we like to see,” the accordionist says into his microphone, “but I’m sure we could squeeze a few more couples on. If you’re sitting down having a breather, why not jump to your feet and join back in?”
“You heard him, sis: grab a man and get up there!” Without waiting for a response, my twin brother, David, follows his own advice, taking the hand of Johnny MacDonald—whose side he’s barely left all night—and leading him up onto the floor.
The two of them couldn’t look more different. Johnny is tall but carries himself with a hint of self-consciousness. Clean-shaven with long dark hair tucked behind his ears, he’s dressed traditionally for a ceilidh, in a kilt and white shirt. My brother, meanwhile, though shorter in stature, exudes confidence. His beard is carefully groomed, and his short Afro hair is closely shaved at the sides. As anyone who’s met him knows, bright colours are his trademark, and tonight is no exception: his thick-rimmed orange glasses match his orange shirt.
David and Johnny find a spot in the circle of dancers in front of Emily Thomas and Ally McIntyre, whose engagement is the reason for tonight’s celebration. With a glance back at me, David impatiently beckons me up.
“I think he wants you to join in,” a low masculine voice says.
I turn to see Aidan Stewart. The sight of him is as delicious to my eyes as his smooth Scottish accent is to my ears. Wavy dark-blond hair; light-blue irises flecked with gold; a tall, muscular build; and a chiselled, smooth jaw. His face is flushed, from dancing or drinking or perhaps both, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. He cuts a fine figure in a red kilt with crisscrossing lines of green, blue, and yellow.
He shoots me a roguish grin. “Your brother’s right, of course. You should join in. As the best friend of the bride-to-be, you shouldn’t be sitting on the sidelines. You should be up there, taking part.”
Maintaining my composure to disguise my quickening pulse, I reply, “In that case, as the best mate of the groom-to-be, you should dance too.”
“Aye, I should.” He winks at me then holds out his hand.
I take it and revel in the warmth of his skin against mine. This won’t be the first dance we’ve shared tonight—far from it. It’s hard not to feel flattered by his attention, even though Aidan’s reputation precedes him. He . . . is not boyfriend material.
Aidan guides me up onto the dance floor, squeezing us in behind the newly engaged couple: Ally, a tall, chestnut-haired Highlander, and Emily, my petite, elegant best friend. Eight years ago—when I was a nervous twenty-two-year-old running my first ever yoga class—Emily was an attendee, and our friendship blossomed from there. In the spring, she came here to the small Highland town of Bannock for a last-minute holiday, to escape an unfortunate situation in London. She never expected to find herself a man—or a new home.
Leaning close to the besotted couple, Aidan says, “This is a cracking party, you two!”
Emily and Ally turn, and I catch Ally’s face tightening with disapproval. Emily has already confided in me that he feels a certain duty to protect me from his mate. Apparently, it’s well known in the town that Aidan Stewart doesn’t do relationships, only one-night stands. That makes him the polar opposite of me. I’ve always believed in forming an emotional bond before a physical one. These last eighteen months, though, I’ve sworn off men altogether.
Maybe it’s time I finally moved on, and maybe for that I need to try something new. Tonight I’m not sure I want Ally’s protection.
Trying to keep the mood light, I giggle and say, “I didn’t know ceilidhs were so much fun!”
Ally and Emily exchange a look, then Emily whispers something into Ally’s ear, but before any of us can say anything more, the band starts up.
David, Emily, and I—the Londoners—are new to these dances, but everyone else in the crowded room seems to know them all. For this dance, Aidan positions me by his side, holding my right hand at my right shoulder and my left in front of him. When the band finishes their brief introduction to the song, all the couples in the circle walk forward.
“And now back,” Aidan says, switching the position of our hands and turning me around.
We walk backwards, Aidan confidently guiding me.
“And repeat,” he instructs.
Again, we walk forward, turn, then walk back.
“Now I get to twirl you around.”
He raises my right hand and spins me then pulls me close to him, dropping a hand to my waist, and together we go around and around in a circle.
“You got it?” Aidan asks.
“Yeah! I like this one. It’s simple.”
Some of the other dances have been challenging, but this one I can do. With each repetition of the steps, I grow in confidence, and soon I’m losing myself in the dance, intoxicated by the lively music, the thumping of feet, the constant spinning. Whenever Aidan takes me by the waist, he fixes me with his baby blues, and my heart skips a beat. As we spin, I catch his scent too—a whiff of whisky on his breath, plus the smoky, masculine aroma of his aftershave mingling with the alluring hint of his sweat.
