Chapter 23
Hunter leaned against the window frame in the cavernous Great Hall of Castle Culloch, his gaze fixed on the sinking sun as it disappeared further and further into the sparkling expanse of the sea.
It would be a clear night, not a cloud to be seen. The perfect night for a swim.
Instead, he was stuck in the noise and heat of the cèilidh, expected to exchange pleasantries with strangers, simply because the council had appointed him as Laird instead of his younger cousin. He was already weary of the gathering, and he had only been there for half an hour.
“I ken the feeling,” a gruff voice said. “But me wife relishes a gatherin’, and I cannae argue when it’s in honor of me daughter, who isnae even here.”
Hunter flashed a wry smirk at Dougal Murdoch, the Laird of Clan Culloch. “How come?”
“She doesnae like the noise,” Dougal replied, handing him a cup. “She was here for five minutes, screamed her head off, so me sister took her up to her chambers to put her to bed.”
Hunter sniffed the contents of the cup and, satisfied it was just whiskey and not an ally stabbing him in the back with a poisoned chalice, took a decent sip.
“It’s good whiskey,” he said as it warmed his belly and took the edge off his general dislike of gatherings.
Dougal nodded. “Aye, it’s from the island.”
“Island?”
Dougal gestured through the window to a tiny smudge on the horizon. “Logan’s island. Adeline makes medicine, Logan distills whiskey.”
“Sounds like paradise,” Hunter replied with a stilted laugh.
Even with the lairds he liked, he hated having to make idle talk. The trouble was, it seemed he, Logan, and Dougal were cut from the same cloth, all three uninterested in speaking unless there was a good reason. It had made his time in Logan’s study yesterday a rather silent affair.
There had been a few discussions about the MacLeach issue and Dougal’s recent troubles with some arrogant pirates, but other than that, there had been nothing but the crackle of the fire and each of the men sipping their whiskey.
Not unpleasant by any means, but it had given Hunter far too much time to think about Nancy.
As if summoned by his thoughts, a new arrival stepped through the double doors of the Great Hall. A vision in dark red, the color of spiced wine and ripe blackberry juice, her chestnut hair flowing down in loose waves, her hands clasped in front of her, radiating nerves.
Hunter’s appetite surged as he noted the low neckline, far more daring than anything Nancy had worn before, his hands itching to hold that narrow waist of hers, to slide over her hips, to grasp and tear at those flowing skirts until he reached her heat, to make up for the tormented hours he’d spent in her absence.
He wasn’t the only one admiring her.
All around the Great Hall, eyes widened and conversations stopped. It was fortunate Hunter hadn’t brought his broadsword to the gathering, or he’d have had to draw it to deliver swift punishment to all of the men who openly gawped at her.
He’d have asked if they had any shame, but he couldn’t look away either.
Just then, her eyes found him, and something like relief eased the tension in her beautiful, rosy-cheeked face.
“I’ll speak to ye later,” he told Dougal, who took one look at Nancy and cracked a smile.
“I daenae expect ye will,” he replied.
Hunter barely heard him as he made his way through the crowd to his betrothed, no longer bothering with the ‘fake’ distinction. In that dress, looking like she did after a whole day away from him, she was his.
“So, ye finally decided to grace us with yer presence?” he drawled, holding out his hand to her. “Lady Culloch said ye needed yer rest and werenae to be disturbed.”
Nancy gingerly took his hand. “I was very tired.”
“Ye must have been, to sleep so long.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, his eyes never leaving hers. “But ye’re awake now. Come, let’s dance.”
He pulled her toward the open space that had been designated for the lively reels he usually wouldn’t partake in. He could dance, but he just didn’t see the point. But he felt like making an exception tonight so that all those staring, slack-jawed men would know to whom Nancy Kane belonged.
“Hunter!” Nancy hissed as he cast a glance at the musicians. “Hunter, what are you doing? I can’t dance!”
“Everyone can dance,” he replied, his arm sliding around her tempting waist as the musicians took his cue and struck up a rousing tune. “Just hold on, lass, and try nae to step on me toes.”
Her mouth opened as if to protest, but it was too late. To the beat of the hand-drum and the stirring flow of the fiddle, he swept her into the dance, holding her close to his body as she clung to his arm and his hand for dear life.
In a sort of hopping fashion, he danced with her across the floor, the couples flowing back and forth in staggered directions, one dancing left, the next couple dancing right.
To the spectators, it made for a dramatic effect, but Hunter couldn’t have cared less what those watching thought. His attention was fixed solely on the woman he’d been aching for since she parted ways with him yesterday.
“Where did ye get such a dress?” he asked as Nancy slowly began to mirror his steps, moving with him instead of merely holding on tight.
She held his intense gaze. “Your cousin made me bring it. I thought I’d managed to sneak it out of the luggage, but there it was.” Her brow creased. “It’s probably the worst thing anyone could dance in.”
“Then we should find somewhere so I can help ye take it off,” he replied quietly. “I wouldnae want ye to faint.”
A mock-withering laugh bubbled up her throat. “I’m not the fainting type, Hunter. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s not going to kill me.” There was a glint of triumph in her eyes. “I can manage one dance.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said as he promptly turned her into a dizzying whirl, the music quickening with him as he spun her around and around.
His arm tightened around her waist, but she didn’t miss a step, her back straightening, her smile softening, as she allowed herself to be twirled.
All he could think about was the rhythm of the music and the firm grip of her hand on his bicep, not to mention the pleasing rise and fall of her chest as the exertion began to show in her breathing.
“Is that all you’ve got?” she challenged with a wicked smile.
“Och, lass, ye’ll regret sayin’ that,” he replied as the music soared.
Without warning, he moved both hands to her waist and lifted her into the air, his footwork never faltering as he spun her around and around.
Yet, in mischievous defiance, her hands braced against his shoulders, as if she’d done this before, her gaze fixed on his as they whirled in small and blurring circles.
A few moments later, he lowered her back onto her feet, a growl rumbling in the back of his throat as her body slid down against his, the friction sparking his aching frustration.
But there wasn’t time to dwell on that, as the music commanded him to begin another journey back and forth across the dance floor, Nancy now fully confident as she leaped along with him, her eyes shining with something that might have been happiness.
All around the dance floor, spectators had gathered, clapping along to the tune. Some shouted encouragement as the song quickened again, becoming a frenzied thing that had already sent two couples staggering off into the crowd, unable to keep up.
Nancy showed no signs of slowing as, breathless, Hunter swept her into another series of vigorous twirls, her hair and skirts flying outward as they turned together in perfect unison. As attuned to one another in the dance as they’d been at the pool’s edge, what seemed like a lifetime ago.
What have ye done to me?
He didn’t truly believe she was a witch, but he was in no doubt that he was bewitched by her.
Despite what he’d said about duty and wanting to be better at diplomacy, there was only one reason that he was there at Castle Culloch, attending the kind of gathering he usually avoided: because she had asked him to.
If that wasn’t evidence that she’d cast a spell on him, or he’d lost his mind somewhere between their first kiss and now, then he didn’t know what was.
With one final, powerful lift, his hands tight around her waist, her lips curled into the most enticing smile, the vigorous music slowed toward its conclusion. The couples slowed with it, whereas Hunter turned Nancy around in a graceful last circle before he set her back down.
Her palms smoothed over his broad chest as she touched down on solid flagstone, the brush of her hands pouring fuel onto the furnace of his desire.
He’d made promises to himself, he knew that, but if he continued to stay so close to her like this, then he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to keep them.
Remember, she wants to leave. This betrothal isnae real. Ye’ll never have a weddin’ night with her, and ye cannae risk lyin’ with her unless ye’re wed.
It was a small mercy that they weren’t sharing a bedchamber, or he’d have had no hope of keeping a clear head.
“Ye dance very well,” he said as the last notes of the song drifted across the Great Hall and the spectators erupted into rapturous applause.
Breathing hard, Nancy smiled. “I took it up… as a hobby… a few times. Never stuck with it, but… I always liked it when I found the time.” She tightened her grip on his shirt, as if trying to steady herself. “I find it… helps with my work.”
“What work?” he asked, confused.
“I… tell stories,” she explained. “I write stories about things that are happening, and people read them. Dancing… seems to help me make… connections, and—”
Just then, a glass shattered, the chime of it rippling through the room like a barked command.
People turned to find out who’d dropped what. Hunter’s eyes quickly found the source.
A thin woman with a shock of curly gray hair stood in the center of the Great Hall, several winking shards at her feet.
She might have been very beautiful once, but the years had weathered her.
Indeed, she looked as if she’d just wandered in from the mountains, dressed in a longer form of the men’s belted plaid, with a pale purple shirt.
Not quite what was expected at a cèilidh.
She didn’t seem to notice the disapproving stares all around her, for she was entirely focused on Nancy. The slender, blue-veined hand that had dropped the glass trembled violently, her startling, feline eyes wide in disbelief.
“This can’t be,” she rasped, in a strange accent that wasn’t quite Scottish and wasn’t quite English, but somewhere in between. “Nancy, is that you?”
Hunter glanced down at Nancy, just in time to see the color drain from her face. His arm held her tightly, fearing she might faint despite her assertions that she wasn’t the type, as a familiar name slipped past her lips.
“Mrs. Crimmins?”