Chapter 21 #2
It takes everything I have to keep my face neutral. I keep my eyes on Callum—who, notably, has incredibly thick hair. I dare not look at Hamish, but now that I think about it, I recall catching a glint of scalp when the sun hit him just right.
“Enjoy the laugh, MacGregor.” Hamish spits the name like a slur.
And just like that, every ounce of humor drains from Callum.
A reminder: that Hamish knows his secret. That he holds Callum’s life in his hands.
Hamish, smug with the shift in power, leans back. “Now go back to your prancing with the other drudges.”
A muscle twitches in Callum’s cheek.
After a tense moment, he finally nods. Gives Hamish a formal half-bow.
Then turns and walks away. But not before he catches my eye. Only for a second. Long enough for me to see it—the raw anguish. For him. For me. And it makes my chest ache.
“I’m sorry to shock you in that way,” Hamish says, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. “But it’s best you know the truth—the lad’s naught but a dirty MacGregor. One false move, and we can turn him in.” He preens as he says it, like I might swoon from the very power of it all.
How little this creep knows about me.
I don’t understand how having a last name can be illegal. It makes no sense. It makes Hamish and his family seem like the biggest pricks in all of history.
I’m trying to figure out how to address it when Hamish stands and extends a hand to me. “I’d enjoy a dance.”
I gape at his outstretched hand like he just offered me a live snake.
I’d rather set my own hair on fire.
I pull it together and politely say, “I don’t really feel like dancing. Sorry.”
Bafflement. Disbelief. Embarrassment. And finally—fury. Hamish’s emotions flicker across his face so fast, I almost feel bad for him. Almost.
“Because you think we should turn Callum in right away?” His voice is cool, flat, as though perhaps this is a favor I might, in fact, appreciate. “It might be the sensible course of action.”
And there it is. The threat. A chill runs down my spine. “What? No. Of course not.”
The bastard is blackmailing me. Using Callum’s life as leverage. Callum—who’s already been punched, beaten, slashed, all for me.
I hate Hamish.
But I also can’t let my pride get Callum hurt.
I glance at the dancers, the fast rhythm, the fact that nobody’s really touching. I can fake it. One dance, and I’m done. I take a breath and plaster on my best whatever face.
“You know—” I glance at Hamish. “My legs are getting stiff. A dance might actually be just the thing.”
“You’ll find it is.”
Hamish’s smile returns, but it’s different now. Cold. Measuring. Like he’s just peeled back a layer of me and discovered exactly where to press.
I grit my teeth and take his hand. It’s clean and dry, gripping mine with polite firmness. I tell myself it’s not so bad. It’s just a hand.
And yet.
I’m aware the moment Callum spots us. Like a stone dropped into a pond, waves of anger ripple from him. People shift without realizing why, as if instinctively adjusting for an approaching gale.
I give him the slightest shake of my head. Chill out, Callum.
Hamish pulls us into the circle of dancers. Everyone joins hands. I don’t get a chance to see who is on my other side before the music starts and we’re jolted into motion.
It’s chaos. We hop around one way, then stop and reverse back the other way, a manic, high-speed Ring Around the Rosie. And I’m the Rosie who’s feeling ringed.
Abruptly, I’m let go, and I look around wildly, trying to mimic what everyone else is doing. Thankfully, people just seem to be skipping around and clapping. Then everyone surges in again, grabbing hands.
By the time the music fades, my jaw aches from clenching and my cheeks hurt from the fake smile I’ve worn to hide my distress.
The fiddler shouts something over the din. A collective groan rises from the dancers. I don’t need to speak Gaelic to recognize the universal call for last dance.
I peel my hand from Hamish’s. He’s about to protest.
Before he can, Callum appears from nowhere. He gives Hamish a peremptory nod, then simply takes my hand and sweeps me deep into the crowd.
It’s thrilling.
Blood is pounding in my chest. It rushes to my head, to my hand in Callum’s…to my everywhere. Like I have blood inside me that’s never pumped before. He grins down at me like he’s just masterminded the greatest caper in the history of capers.
“Won’t Hamish be mad?” I ask, but my smile is too big to sound truly concerned. This smile is beaming into outer space.
Callum gives a cavalier shrug. I can’t tell if he really is that laid-back about stealing me away from the young Campbell, or if he’s faking it for my benefit.
Either way, I’m too relieved to care.
Callum says something, but I can’t hear over everyone shouting at the musicians, so he leans closer to repeat himself.
I still don’t understand his accent.
My smile starts to fade. Will I ever understand anyone again?
He studies me, a soft, unreadable look on his face. Then he reaches out. Gives my chin a light pinch. He traces his finger along my jaw as he leans in again, gently tilts my head, places his mouth closer to my ear.
My heart stops.
When it starts again, I swear my pulse originates from that one narrow section of my body. For several beats, that’s all there is in the whole universe: Callum’s finger along my jaw and his lips at my ear.
“’Tis perfectly acceptable to cut into a dance,” he’s saying.
I barely register the words.
“Are you sure?” I ask, still trying to reboot my brain. “Because we can’t make him mad.”
Warmth floods my chest. Because I just said we. Not my usual lonely I.
He angles close again, and this time, I meet him halfway. Our faces are so close. And his hand—it’s still on my chin.
“I…um.” I forget what I was saying.
I lock my eyes with his. His steady, gray gaze is an anchor, hauling me back into the moment.
Finally, I manage, “I mean, that was Hamish.”
Callum’s mouth quirks. “Forget Hamish. He’s naught but wind and noise.”
“But not much in the way of hair, right?”
Callum staggers back as a laugh cracks from him.
My chest expands, stupidly pleased to be the source of that sound, and for a second, I’m bummed at the space between us.
But then he’s facing me. His palm cups my arm. He strokes up and down as he leans down again to whisper in my ear. “The next dance is ‘Strip the Willow.’ ’Tis always the last dance at a cèilidh.”
Nerves shoot through me, but he just grins. From across the clearing, the piper lets out a bright, keening note. Callum takes both my hands and walks backward a few steps, pulling me with him.
Pulling me closer.
His eyes say, You’ve got this…I’ve got you.
As the song kicks to life, led by the trill of fiddles and the deep thump of a drum, Callum arranges me into place. Still facing me, he takes my hands, crossing them one over the other, forming an X between us.
Then he starts to spin us.
The music picks up, and we spin faster. Around and around, keeping time. I laugh, giddy, like I’m being tickled from the inside.
Callum looks so pleased with himself. Like he’s been worried about me, worried about this, and now he can finally grin with relief. He might be an indomitable young warrior, but his feelings aren’t quite as invincible.
His fingers squeeze mine in quick warning. The steps are about to change. Another quick squeeze, then he lets go.
I barely have time to register what’s happening before another dancer snatches my elbow. A man grinning so wildly I can count all the gaps in his teeth. He hooks his arm with mine, skipping in a circle.
Then he’s gone, and my elbow is hooked by another dancer. And another. And another. Like a drunken square dance with no time to think.
Then it’s Callum again. He catches me, hands firm, eyes bright with laughter.
I’m flung back into the crowd, again and again. Every time, I barely have a second to orient myself before someone spins me, but there’s never a chance to worry, because whenever I’m let go, another dancer catches me.
And each time the pattern circles back, it’s always Callum waiting for me. Until suddenly, something shifts. The song must be nearing its end. There’s such quiet intent in his expression now.
The way he looks down at me, it feels like it’s just the two of us out here.
Hamish smiled with his teeth and not his eyes. But Callum is the opposite—his eyes are smiling, even as his mouth stays strangely serious.
Then the moment is gone, and the music kicks into a faster beat. Callum quirks his lips like he’s about to spring an epic surprise.
The faster the song gets, the faster he spins me, until my belly aches from laughing and my feet barely touch the ground.
Momentum pulls us closer. We’re spinning, but touching too. His chest, solid and warm, brushes mine with every rotation. The heat of his body radiates along the front of mine. It makes me feel like I might never be cold again.
The music stops, and joyful chaos erupts. Everyone claps, cheering, but…I can’t. I can’t let go of Callum.
His chest heaves with panting laughter, his breath warm against my temple. I pretend to be dizzy, like I need him to steady me, but really, I just don’t want to untangle our hands. Or our arms. Or anything.
I don’t want to move, and he doesn’t either. But finally, reluctantly, he steps back. He looks proud as he strides off the lawn, his arm still looped through mine. I’m not the only one who notices. A man shouts something good-natured but unintelligible as we pass.
Callum replies in Gaelic, grinning as he claps him on the arm.
“What was that about?” I ask.
Callum hesitates. Then, shyly, almost too quietly to hear: “He asked if I’ve permission to dance with you so.” He stops walking. Looks down at me, expression turning serious. “Do I?”
My pulse stutters. He’s asking about more than just a dance.
And still I say, “Yes.”