At first, she wanted to believe that it was her imagination. She couldn’t have heardhim. He couldn’t possibly be standing right behind her.
She swallowed, and in a bid to confirm that she had been hallucinating, she turned slowly in the direction of the voice.
And there he was.
Jack Barkley stood just a few yards behind her, his hands hanging at his sides and a brutal smirk playing on his lips.
At that moment, it all clicked. The look on his face told him all she needed to know about the poem.
Ye bastard.
Her spine stiffened. She did not look at Ava or even at the man who had stolen her poem. She kept her eyes on Jack instead and felt the night tilt completely off its axis.
Good God.
From the shadows beside a pillar, Jack watched the false poet take his bow. The crowd parted for a better look, and the young man’s voice had carried well enough. However, it was the look on Emma’s face that held his attention. He had seen the composure first, then watched it turn into fury.
Success.
The poem had struck where he had intended. She had run once, and this time, she would not run again.
“Right where I want ye,” he muttered under his breath, before stepping out of the dark.
His eyes remained fixed on her as he moved closer to where she stood. The other guests shifted without his asking, and space opened. He didn’t expect anything less.
“It’s been a long time,” he said when he stopped behind her, and her eyes found him. “How did ye like the poem?”
Her glare met him halfway, and the candlelight put a small gold edge on her anger. He felt a pull low in his chest and pushed it aside.
Her jaw tightened. “Dance with me.”
His eyebrows rose. “Commanding me now, are ye?”
“Would ye rather I shouted?”
The corner of his mouth thought of moving, but he thought otherwise. Instead, he offered his hand. “After ye, me Lady.”
She put hers in it with a force that told him she would rather break his fingers than bend them.
He led her onto the line of dancers, and the music resumed. He was not oblivious of the eyes that watched them as they began to dance. He set a steady pace and kept the measure easy. She matched it without asking for mercy.
“Never thought I’d see ye again,” he said, his voice low.
“Really? Forgive me if I think otherwise, seeing that ye managed to get a hold of me poem,” she retorted.
“Oh, getting it wasnae hard. Finding the writer, on the other hand, was. Ye write rather beautifully, if I may say so.”
“So ye ken I wrote it, yet ye let another man take the credit?” she asked, her voice as sharp as a dagger.
“Well, I had to do something to get yer attention.”
Her chin lifted. “Ye had it in the woods.”
“This is a different place,” he pointed out. “It has its own rules.”
“How convenient,” she scoffed.
They spun with the set, and his palm brushed her fingers. He did not look at their hands. He watched her mouth form the next sharp question instead.
