Chapter 19
Heat and music washed over him. Fortunately, as the Laird, Hunter was allowed to sit grandly in his big chair and watch the world go by.
Willow weaved between the dancers, choosing partners wherever she wanted. At the moment, she was dancing with a grinning, hulking soldier who was bent double to keep her hands in his and her feet on the floor.
Skye danced with her husband, as graceful and athletic as always. Helena and Lady Pilbury sat together at the table, watching the dancers and whispering.
River did not seem to want to join the dancing, but he had favored them all with his presence. The little fox lay curled up on Hunter’s knee. At first glance, one might think that he was asleep, but a closer inspection revealed large, yellow eyes, wide and watchful.
Of course, Hunter thought wryly, stroking between River’s pointed ears, nobody could sleep through this din.
The musicians his mother had hired were certainly worth the money. At least half of the guests were dancing, and the other half were tapping their toes or fingers in time to the music.
And then Daphne stepped into the room. His world narrowed until there was only her, as if she were the only one standing in candlelight while the rest of the room was in pitch blackness. He heard his own breath catch in his throat.
A man stepped forward, speaking to Daphne and then to her sister. Hunter blinked, feeling like a fool for not having noticed Laird and Lady McKane before. But no, there they were, with Lady McKane’s arm wound around Daphne’s.
They looked so much like sisters, twins even, but at the same time there were so many differences that he could not understand how anyone could mistake Daphne for Ceana.
He imagined that Laird McKane felt exactly the same, only the other way around.
The man extended a hand, and Daphne took it, before he led her to the dance floor.
The jig had already begun, but they joined seamlessly. Hunter watched her twirl across the dance floor. Her blue and yellow skirts billowed around her, hair streaming out around her shoulders. She laughed with delight, tipping her head back. She moved to the music like she’d danced all her life.
The dress was a new one, something that his mother had commissioned, if he remembered correctly. It clung to her breasts and hips, cinching her waist. He could almost imagine how her body would respond to his touch, warm and supple, wanting.
The dance called for them to change partners, and Daphne did so, moving seamlessly onto another man.
He rose gingerly to his feet. River jumped down from his knee and threw him a long, reproachful look.
No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he reminded himself that people would be looking, he couldn’t drag his gaze away from her. She lifted her skirts a few inches, allowing her feet to move more nimbly.
I should be dancing with her, he thought sourly, even though he had to admit he’d probably not be as good a dancer as the trim young man dancing with her at that moment.
He let himself imagine walking over to her, pushing the man aside, and pulling her in his arms. What would she do? Would she laugh and take his hand, or walk away, annoyed?
“She looks a real beauty tonight, does she nae?”
He flinched at his mother’s voice at his elbow, and glanced down to find her smiling fondly at the dance floor.
“Aye,” he said, when it became clear that she wanted an answer. “Very pretty.”
Helena chuckled, as if knowing full well that very pretty barely scratched the surface of how Daphne appeared at that moment.
“That’s Laird Gordon she’s dancing with. With him being a neighboring laird, they’ll live nearby.”
Hunter blinked down at his mother. “What?”
“If they were to marry, of course,” she added, with the faintest smile. “And then they would be close by, and we could see Willow often.”
He curled his fingers into a fist, squeezing tighter and tighter. “Why do ye think she’ll wed Gordon? Has he shown interest?”
“Oh, nothing beyond what’s friendly,” Helena answered comfortably. “But we ought to think about what would suit Daphne, shouldnae we? I’d be glad to see her safely wed and settled, and I ken that Edith would, too.”
Abruptly, Hunter turned away, snatching up a glass of whisky to distract himself. He took a long sip. “Enough, Mother.”
“Enough of what?” Helena asked innocently. “Hunter, ye cannae expect Daphne to remain unwed for the rest of her life. Most women marry. Perhaps she’s lonely.”
“Why would she be lonely?” he snapped, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Daenae push yer luck, Mother.”
Of course, Helena had never done what either of her children had told her and wasn’t about to begin now.
“If she married a laird, both she and Willow would be safe and probably happy forever,” she pushed. “It’s for the best. Ye should want this for her, Hunter. I am surprised ye didnae think of it yerself.”
Stinging-cold whisky dripped down his fingers. Hunter barely registered the sensation before his mother looked down at his hand and gasped.
“Hunter, the glass!”
He flinched, glancing down. Sure enough, the glass had cracked in his tight grip, and the whisky was leaking out.
He was bleeding, too. A glass shard had pierced the base of one of his fingers. Not a bad cut, and no glass pieces left under the skin, which was better than he could have expected.
Tutting, he set down the broken glass and wiped his bleeding finger on a handkerchief.
“Of course,” Helena added, almost as an afterthought, “ye could always dance with her, if ye daenae think Laird Gordon is a good match.”
Hunter rolled his eyes. “Daenae think I daenae ken what ye are doing,” he scoffed. “But I’ll nae argue with ye. Arguing with ye can drive a person mad, just like Skye.”
Helena beamed. “Why, thank ye, son.”
Once he was sure his finger had stopped bleeding, Hunter turned grimly to the dance floor. There was Daphne, darting here and there. Laird Gordon must be there too, but there was no sign of him.
Around them, the party was in full swing, even for those who weren’t dancing. The tables were piled with food, and servants weaved through the crowd, bearing jugs of wine and ale and bottles of whisky. There was cider, too, and plain water.
The cooks had prepared the most elaborate, mouth-watering dishes a person could think of.
Fowls of every kind, cooked every way: boiled, braised, roasted, baked.
Beef, pork, mutton, as well as cheese, fruit, cooked vegetables dribbled with meat drippings.
There were gravy boats and bowls of dripping set alongside hunks of bread.
Pies, savory and sweet, cakes, haggis, blood pudding, and more.
Imported spices, sweetmeats, marzipan, gingerbread.
A person could eat all night if they chose to and still not sample everything.
But he wasn’t in the mood for eating. Instead, he set off at a stride for the dance floor.
Fresh rushes had been piled up on the floor, sweet and clean, with herbs and fragrant flowers scattered in between them.
In the morning, all the rushes would be flattened and soiled.
They’d have to be swept out, changed altogether.
Green garlands hung everywhere, strung with wildflowers, adding color and a fresh, earthy smell to the Great Hall.
It was his mother’s favorite decor, simple yet beautiful. Real.
He stepped between spinning dancers. The ones who noticed him moved deferentially out of the way, shooting him curious stares.
And then, quite abruptly, Daphne was in front of him. She had her arms half lifted in the air, as if ready to spin. She faltered when she saw him, glancing around uncertainly.
“Looking for yer partner?” he asked.
She dropped her arms. “Nay, it’s nae that kind of dancing. Nae like the balls in England.”
As if to highlight her point, the music reached a crescendo, and the dancers let out joyful cries.
“Ye are avoiding me,” he noted.
She pressed her lips together. “I am trying to dance.”
“With another man.”
She flinched, her gaze flicking up to his. “Ye shouldnae say that to me here.”
“Nobody can hear with the music.”
“Nay, but they’ll notice ye standing so close to me, nae dancing on a dance floor while everybody else is doing so.”
He gave a grim smile. “Then dance with me.”
Her lips parted. He waited, wondering if she was about to move away. She could do it. She could dance away as if it were natural, and nobody would think otherwise.
She didn’t. She silently extended her hand. He took it, pulling her toward him.
The world narrowed. The other dancers vanished off the face of the earth, and the music stopped altogether.
He wrapped an arm around her waist. Her hand landed on his shoulders, a light pressure but so heavy at the same time.
“Ye have been avoiding me,” he breathed.
She tightened her jaw. “Nae deliberately.”
“Oh, nay? And here ye are, dancing with another man.”
“I can dance with who I like.”
“Oh, aye? What if I told ye that I hate it when another man touches ye?”
“Ye have nay right to say that.”
He stopped abruptly, leaning in until they were almost nose to nose. “Oh, but I do,” he whispered. “Follow me.”
He pulled away abruptly, turned on his heel, and strode away across the floor. More dancers stopped and stared after him. They’d whisper about this later, he knew.
Was Daphne following him?
He didn’t dare look. But he could feel her presence.
He reached a small doorway, one that led into a narrow corridor that wrapped around the Great Hall. Stepping out into the corridor, he heard the muffled clack-clack of shoes behind him. He turned and watched silently as Daphne stepped over the threshold.
It was quieter in the corridor. Not silent, not with all the noise and laughter drifting from the grand room beyond. The drumming of dancing feet made the whole castle shiver.
“We cannae talk here,” Daphne murmured, her voice hushed. Her gaze flitted up to his, just briefly, then away. “Anybody could step through the door.”
He gave a short nod and gestured to a narrow doorway at the end of the corridor.