“Oh, dear.” Gelis started forward, but a firm hand held her back.
“Wait.” Ronan leaned close. “Torcaill can handle her.”
“Now, see here, woman,” the druid began, proving it, “it is not every day that I extend a hand in peace. This day I offer it in respect as well. Your wee friend knows that and is honored. Can you not —”
“I have been reaping respect since before you lifted your first wand!” Devorgilla’s chin jutted. “I’ve no need —”
“Then respect and admiration.” Torcaill sat back, stroking his beard. “And,” he added, his voice deepening, “I was wielding my wand long before the first bloom of girlhood ever touched your fine cheeks.”
The crone’s mouth formed a little O and she clapped a hand to her face as if to test his words.
“Aye, very fine cheeks,” the druid confirmed, nodding when the crone’s fingers strayed upward to pat her frizzed gray-white hair.
“I’m still not for dancing with you.” She huffed and lowered her hand. “My ears haven’t forgotten you called me foolish and unskilled.”
A particularly wild Highland reel started up then, the burst of screaming pipes and fiddles putting a glint in her eye all the same.
“Tsk, tsk . . .” She wagged a finger. “You were quite ungallant!”
“Then we are quit!” Torcaill sprang to his feet, pulling her up with him. “You cannot deny you called me an old goat and a buzzard.”
He stared down his nose at her until her eyes twinkled with mirth.
“I did call you that, right enough,” she admitted, letting him guide her into the center of the dancers.
“A lass can err . . .”
Her words floated back to Gelis as the two began to jig and twirl. “I did not make an error with you.” She leaned into Ronan, her heart filling. “I knew from the start that we — dear saints, look!”
She pointed at the whirling pair. “Do you see them?”
Ronan blinked. “I do, but I can hardly believe it.”
Even so, the night’s silver-cast light shone clearly on a tall, straight-backed young man so handsome and proud he could only be Torcaill. His beard and hair gleamed as dark as Ronan’s own and his shoulders looked nearly as wide. Gaunt and gray no more, he tripped the reel with more vigor than any other man dancing.
And the blushing maid in his arms laughed brightly, her own hair no longer grizzled and white, but auburn and glossy. Her eyes sparkled as he whirled her around, her flying skirts not black but blue, their hems lifting to reveal well-turned ankles and fast, perfectly stepping feet.
Until a cloud passed over the moon and the illusion faded, leaving them as they were before.
But still they twirled and jigged, smiling and laughing the while.
An uncomfortable heat swelled in Gelis’s throat. She swiped a hand across her cheek and blinked back the nontears no self-respecting MacKenzie would shed.
“ ’Tis said this is a festival of lovers.” She lifted her chin to counter the wobble in her voice. “If they leap over the bonfires later — I shall believe it!”
I believe it now — every e’en we share is a loving festival . . .
Gelis blinked, not sure she’d heard the words.
“You are as happy, my lady?”
That, she did hear.
But the uncertainty in the beloved voice took her by surprise.
“Tell me,” he pressed. “Are you as content as those two . . . as we saw them just now?”
He stepped closer, the intensity of his gaze scorching her.
