30. Edie #3
But we don’t get a chance to escape. The band surges into another reel and suddenly I’m gathered up and swept into a group of eight by a charming old man who smells of whisky and woodsmoke, grinning at me as he twirls me through the next dance.
And then another, and another. I catch sight of Anna twirling in Jamie’s arms with a cat-who-got-the-cream expression on her face.
She’s clearly got over being trumped by Fenella.
I lose count of how many hands I grab, how many kilts spin past in a blur of tartan, how many hoots of delight raise the roof as the drinks keep coming and the atmosphere gets wilder.
I end up laughing in the arms of Rory’s farmer friend from earlier as – fuelled by cocktails and Dutch courage – I spin around the room doing a terrible attempt at the Military Two-Step.
My dress is crumpled. My hair is a mess. My cheeks ache from smiling. It’s chaos but it’s amazing.
Eventually the music fades and the lights dim slightly. A bell chimes from the balcony where the ceilidh band are taking a well-earned break.
Gregor, flushed and grinning, his apron gone at last, is standing beside Janey who’s looking at him with a fond smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he calls, his voice carrying easily. “Ror—His Grace would like to say a few words before the whisky sees off the last of your brain cells. ”
Rory shoots him a look. I think that the last thing he wants right now is to give a speech, but duty always comes first, and so we watch as he steps up onto the makeshift dais and pauses for a moment.
The crowd quiets. I wipe sweat from my brow and accept one of Gregor’s cocktails from someone passing by with a tray.
He looks magnificent. Rugged and dark against the gold candlelight, kilt showing off his strong calves, his sleeves rolled up so the muscle of his arms flexes as he crosses them for a moment and surveys the room.
And yet he looks tired to me – dark shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw emphasises a hollow to his cheek that wasn’t there before.
It’s a lot for one person to take on. The title is one thing, but the responsibility is huge.
“I know my father used to give this speech,” he begins, and the room seems to hold its breath. “And I know I’m not him.”
Kate slides me a sideways glance and I think she’s noticed too that for a moment the mask slipped, and Rory’s face looked almost haunted.
I wonder if everyone who remembers the crazy antics that took place at the ball also knew the dark side to the late duke.
There’s a rustle of agreement. It’s polite, but cautious.
“I don’t intend to be.”
That gets a stronger response. There’s some laughter, some nodding.
“I do intend,” he says, more seriously now, “to keep Loch Morven as it’s meant to be. A place where community matters more than ceremony. Where history isn’t something framed on a wall” – he waves an arm towards the huge portraits hanging in the ballroom – “but something we reckon with. ”
I swallow, thinking of the contents of the diaries.
“To all of you—” Rory raises his glass. “Thank you for being part of this.”
The applause rings out and it’s warm and genuine. But I can’t stop staring up at him, because there was something in his voice, just for a second. A crack he didn’t quite cover, like he’s shouldering something he doesn’t want anyone else to see.
I’m still looking when Fenella sidles up.
“You must be exhausted,” she says, handing me a drink I didn’t ask for. Her smile is polite, but her eyes are like knives.
I take the glass, warily.
“You’ve been doing so well,” she says sweetly. “Trying so hard to keep up.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“Oh,” she gives a tinkly little laugh. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I mean, it’s just such a different world, isn’t it? These sort of parties. All the people. All the… expectations.”
I open my mouth to reply but she waves a graceful hand, as if to say she understands.
“Must be overwhelming, I’m sure.”
My stomach sinks and I can feel my cheeks burning.
I give a tight smile and mumble something about needing to find the bathroom before turning away, clutching my glass like a lifeline.
There’s no sign of a familiar face – Kate’s nowhere to be seen, nor Janey or Gregor – and Anna’s been AWOL for ages.
The last time I saw her she was hovering on the periphery of a group of Americans, talking about bonds.
I retreat to the edge of the ballroom, slipping behind one of the heavy red velvet curtains which frame the huge windows. There’s a cool draught here and I lean against the cold stone and breathe in the now-familiar scent of beeswax and pine.
I should leave now. Go to bed. Pack. Vanish into the night like Cinderella, only minus the glass slipper because my feet are killing me.
“When I was young, I used to escape here when I’d had enough.”
I jump, almost spilling champagne down the front of my dress. Rory is standing there, one eyebrow raised, holding a tumbler of whisky and looking as if he’s just stepped out of a Highland romance novel.
“Bloody hell.”
“I see my knack of charming pretty girls hasn’t lost its edge.”
I roll my eyes. “Shouldn’t you be working the room, Your Grace?”
“I’ve done quite enough of that.” He lifts the glass to his lips. “Besides, I’ve been looking for you.”
I swallow again and take a breath, watching as my breasts rise and fall, trapped in the bodice of the dress. I look up to see his gaze has landed in the same place and he smirks for a moment and looks away.
“You said you were looking for me?”
He nods. “You vanished. And you only vanish when someone’s been awful.”
I blink. “How would you know that?”
“I pay attention.”
He reaches out and takes the champagne flute from my hand, his fingers brushing mine.
“You don’t like champagne.”
“It was given to me. ”
A silence stretches for a moment.
“By Fenella,” I say, eventually. “I think she was warning me off.”
“Is that so.” He puts the flute down on the side table and passes me his tumbler of whisky, his hand brushing mine again. This time it feels deliberate. “Why don’t you have this.”
I take a sip, cupping the heavy crystal in both hands and looking at him over the rim. And then he takes that from me too, setting it carefully down and closing the gap between us so I can feel the warmth of his body radiating through the space between us.
“Edie,” he says, and my name is a low murmur on his lips.
I try to laugh but it comes out shaky and breathless. “Is this the part where you seduce the writer behind the curtain at the ball?”
He catches my hair in his hand then lifts it so it falls back over my shoulder, letting the edge of his thumb run along the base of my neck for a moment. My breath hitches and I look up at him.
“This is the part where I stop pretending I haven’t been thinking about you every fucking moment since the first time I saw you.”
And then he kisses me. It’s not a gentle kiss. He kisses me like he’s furious with himself for wanting me. Like he wants it to silence something inside him.
“We can’t—” I say breathlessly as he eventually pulls away.
“Yes, we bloody can,” growls Rory. He takes my hand, and I follow him through a hidden door in the wood panelling and into a dark staircase.
It smells of damp stone. He reaches out and traces the line of my jaw with a thumb.
“I’ve made my speech, and now I’m going to exercise my right to fuck off.
” He motions to the staircase. “After you.”
I hesitate for a moment, my hand on the smooth metal rail, not sure where the stairs lead.
He narrows his eyes for a moment as if he’s trying to work out what I’m thinking, then gives a brief laugh. “It’s a secret staircase to the west wing.”
“Oh,” I say as I start climbing the stairs, weirdly calm despite the fact my heart is thumping, “I thought perhaps you were taking me to a secret dungeon.”
“Perhaps I am.”
Oh, fucking hell. A jolt of desire almost knocks me sideways. And then I feel his hand on the curve of my waist in the gloomy half-darkness.
“Here.” He reaches past me, his arm brushing against my shoulder as he pushes open another hidden door. I inhale the familiar scent of his aftershave as I duck under his arm and into the familiar carpeted corridor.
Rory closes the door with a soft click and turns around to look at me, caging me with his arms against the silk wallpaper. I lean back and look at him with a half-smile. “Are you sure you aren’t going to get into trouble for bunking off?”
He shakes his head slowly and tips my chin up with one finger, a smile curving on his lips. “I can’t get in trouble. I’m in charge.”
“I’d better do as you say,” I say, teasing, emboldened by cocktails and whisky.
In response he leans in to kiss me, gently this time, and then surveys me with a thoughtful expression. “Good girl.”
In his accent, in that kilt, with that upper class restraint, it’s all too much. There’s a pulse beating between my legs and I reach up, twining my arms around his neck as he pushes me back against the wall, not caring that we’ve knocked a priceless painting askew.
“Come on,” he says, taking me by the hand and leading me to his room.