Chapter 12 #2
The fiddle's voice soared high and sweet while the pipes provided a steady, droning undercurrent. Someone had a bodhrán and was keeping time, the drum's heartbeat rhythm making it impossible to sit still.
"Oh no," Lachlann muttered.
"What?"
"Once the dancin' starts, they'll expect—" He didn't get to finish before Eilidh appeared at Alba's elbow, her face flushed with ale and happiness.
"Will ye dance, me lady? It's tradition after the work's done."
Alba glanced at Lachlann, who was very deliberately studying his ale. "I dinnae want tae impose on anyone's partner—"
"Oh, ye'll have nay shortage of partners," Moira said with a laugh, appearing on Alba's other side. "Look, young Finn there is already workin' up the courage tae ask ye."
Sure enough, a gangly youth of perhaps sixteen was hovering nearby, his face bright red and his hands twisting nervously in his shirt.
Alba bit back a smile. The boy looked terrified.
"Actually," she said, turning to Lachlann with sudden boldness, "I was hopin' the laird might dance with me first."
Lachlann's head went up sharply, surprise flashing across his face. Around them, several conversations stopped as people turned to listen.
"I dinnae dance," Lachlann said flatly.
"Ye danced with me at the ball," Alba pointed out.
"That was different. That was—" He seemed to realize that everyone was watching them now. "I dinnae dance at village celebrations."
"Why nae?"
"Because I'm the laird. It's nae... appropriate."
"But if I'm here, and I'm askin'..." Alba let the question hang.
Lachlann's jaw tightened. "Alba—"
"Fine." She stood abruptly, her chin lifting. "Then I'll find another partner. Finn looks like he'd be willin'."
She turned toward the dance floor with more confidence than she felt, her heart pounding.
It was a gamble—pushing him like that, publicly, where refusing would look churlish. But something in her needed to know. Needed to see if that moment they'd shared at the ball had meant anything, or if it had just been duty and obligation.
She'd taken perhaps three steps when a hand closed around her arm, firm but gentle.
Alba stopped and turned back. Lachlann stood there, his expression unreadable but his eyes intense.
He didn't speak. Didn't explain or apologize or make excuses.
He just kept his hand on her arm and steered her toward the dance floor.
The music was still playing—a reel, fast and lively. Around them, couples were spinning and laughing, their movements energetic and joyful.
The women's skirts swirled in shades of brown and grey and faded blue, the torchlight catching on the movement. Men's faces were red with exertion and ale, but everyone was smiling.
But when Lachlann took his position across from Alba, everything else seemed to fade.
His hand found her waist. Hers settled on his shoulder. And when the dance began, it was like the rest of the world disappeared.
They'd danced at the ball out of necessity—to escape Torquil, to maintain appearances. But this was different. It was a choice. They were choosing to be there, together, in front of all those people who would talk and speculate and draw their own conclusions.
And Alba found she didn't care.
Lachlann moved with the same controlled grace she remembered from the ball, his hand steady at her waist as they turned through the steps. But his eyes never left hers, and there was something in his gaze that made her breath catch.
Intensity. Focus. Like she was the only person in the entire village. Like nothing else mattered but that moment, that dance, that connection between them.
The music swirled around them, fiddle and pipe twining together in perfect harmony.
The drum kept its steady heartbeat rhythm, pulling them forward, keeping them moving. Their feet knew the steps without thought—turn, step, turn again. His hand tightened fractionally when they spun, keeping her steady, keeping her close.
Alba was acutely aware of everything—the warmth of his palm through the fabric of her dress, the way his breath came just slightly faster as they moved, the small scar above his eyebrow that she could see clearly in the torchlight.
The way his thumb brushed against her waist, just once, in a gesture that might have been accidental but felt deliberate.
Around them, the other dancers were clapping and calling out, encouraging them. But Alba barely heard them. All she could focus on was Lachlann—the way he looked at her, the way he held her, the way they moved together like they'd been dancing for years instead of twice.
They didn't speak. There was nothing to say that their bodies weren't already communicating—the slight lean toward each other, the way they anticipated each movement, the perfect synchronization that came from something deeper than just knowing the steps.
The song built to its crescendo, the music faster and more urgent. The fiddle climbed higher, the pipes grew louder, the drum pounded faster. They moved with it, spinning and turning, their hands clasped tight and their eyes locked.
And when the final note rang out and they stopped, breathless and close, Alba realized two things simultaneously.
First, that every person in the village square had stopped what they were doing to watch them.
And second, that she was completely, irrevocably in love with Lachlann MacNeil.
The realization hit her hard. It wasn't a childhood crush or simple attraction. It was something bigger, deeper, more terrifying than anything she'd ever felt.
And from the way Lachlann was looking at her—his grey eyes dark and his hand still at her waist—she thought maybe, just maybe, she wasn't alone.