Alyson snickered. “Aye, and if ye fall, I’ll never let ye forget it.”
Liliane tried to hide her amusement, but a small smile tugged at her lips.
Tòrr caught it and narrowed his eyes slightly. “Ye find this funny, dae ye?”
“Only a little.”
“Then ye must join me,” he said flatly, pushing back his chair. “’Tis ye they want tae see. And the tradition is fer the laird tae dance with his new wife.”
Her smile vanished. “What?”
“Come,” he said, offering his hand. “If I’ve tae suffer the crowd, ye’ll suffer with me.”
“I dinnae dance.”
“Then today’s a fine day tae start. What dae ye say, lass? Want tae give them a show?"
Her heart stuttered. "I'm really nae much of a dancer."
"Neither am I. We'll be terrible together." He stood and offered his hand.
She stared at his outstretched hand, aware of every eye on them, every expectation pressing down. Then, before she could think better of it, she took it.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Tòrr led her to the center of the square, where the musicians had already shifted into a slower, more traditional tune. Around them, other couples joined, creating a circle that enclosed them in its center.
"I dinnae actually know the steps," Liliane whispered urgently.
"Neither dae I. Just follow me lead and try nae tae step on me feet." His hand settled on her waist, warm and steady.
They moved together as the music swelled, and despite her fears, despite her lack of practice, somehow, they found a rhythm. Hishand was sure at her waist, guiding her through turns she didn't know, catching her when she stumbled.
The world narrowed to just them, the warmth of his hand, the steady strength of him. The way he looked at her like she was the only person in the entire village.
“Ye ken what ye’re daein’,” she said breathlessly as he spun her.
“I’ve been forced intae enough festivals tae learn somethin’,” he replied.
The rhythm carried them, their steps finding a natural harmony. Laughter and music swelled around them, but slowly the noise began to blur — until there was only him, the weight of his hand at her waist, the steadiness of his gaze holding hers.
The warmth of his palm seeped through the thin fabric of her gown, steady and unyielding. She could feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the faint brush of his sleeve against her arm with every turn.
The scent of woodsmoke and ale clung to him, familiar now, grounding, somehow. Her pulse matched the music’s rhythm, quick and uneven, and for one impossible heartbeat, she forgot every reason she had to keep her distance.
“Ye surprise me,” she murmured.
“How so?”
“I didnae think ye’d agree tae this. Ye seem the sort tae sneer at dances.”
“I dae,” he admitted. “But I’ve learned sometimes it’s easier tae dance than tae argue.”
She laughed softly, caught off guard by the hint of humor. “Ye, admit defeat? Saints preserve us.”
“I didnae say defeat,” he said, voice low. “Only strategy.”
The closeness between them deepened. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her temple, the strength of his arm guiding her in time with the music.
