MacWatt bowed low to Daphne and gave a courteous nod to baby Evander before departing. He walked across the room and took a seat as far from them as possible.
Leah frowned. She was not accustomed to men ignoring her, particularly when they did not even bother to ask for her name. Usually, when she was introduced to a man, she enjoyed some lively debate and a battle of wits to ensure he was not a simpleton. Clearly, this Laird MacWatt had no interest in polite society.
She was irritated and even hurt that he would not wish to learn who she was. She felt angry for the first time in many weeks, and, for a moment, it overtook everything else.
“Barbarians probably don’t like women who talk,” she said loudly to Daphne, who gave her a warning glare that she ignored. “Perhaps he merely wishes to address the lairds in the company and leave the women to their children.”
She sniffed imperiously as she said the words, keeping her eyes on the dancing couples.
In her peripheral vision, however, she was focused solely on the shape of MacWatt across the room. As she spoke the words, and they carried across a lull in the music, she watched his shoulder tense up and his head turn back in her direction.
She could not help but look back at him—long enough for Oskar to notice.
“Dinnae even think about it,” he admonished.
She turned back to him questioningly.
Oskar fixed her with a knowing stare. “Nae for ye, lass.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, flicking her hair over her shoulder and raising her eyebrows at him.
“Ye do. Pay him nay mind, Leah.” His voice was low and heavy. “He’s a ruthless warrior.”
Leah cocked her head at him and narrowed her eyes. “Like you, you mean?” she replied boldly.
Oskar only shook his head. “Just heed me on this one. Ye dinnae want to catch his attention. It never ends well.”
CHAPTER 2
Magnus forcedhis limbs to remain still as he leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, wishing he had not bothered to come tonight and envying his host’s easy manners.
He glanced back at the raised steps at the side of the room, where Laird MacIrvin stood with his wife. They looked happy and content. He felt a twinge of sadness as he acknowledged the thought. Perhaps they deserved to be—that was more than could be said for him.
His gaze moved further along from Lady MacIrvin to the woman who had been smirking at him. Magnus attempted to drag his gaze back to the room so as not to be caught staring, but it was as though he were a compass and she was True North.
He had never seen a woman so striking in all his life. His wife had been a comely lady with a passionate nature, but nothing compared to the phoenix he had just laid eyes on.
Her hair was a kind of red he had rarely seen, tumbling over her shoulders in effortless curls. He likened it to the flash of a fox through the heather on a hillside or perhaps a forgotten ember in a long burned-out flame.
She had looked at him with something in her gaze he had not been able to place, a strange thread simmering between them like a reflection of a feeling he had forgotten.
But then she had called him abarbarian. An Englishwoman who did not know who he was or where he hailed from had the nerve to judge him on a first meeting.
He should have been angry. He should have felt the slight keenly. Instead, he found himself amused by it. It was a feeling so foreign that he questioned whether the occasion had muddled his mind.
He realized he was still staring at her when a movement to his left caught his attention. Laird MacIrvin was approaching him. His body briefly blocked Magnus’s view of the girl, and the sudden disconnect seemed to drag him from under her spell.
What witchcraft is this that has me staring at the lass like a green lad half me age?
He clenched his fists, trying to get his mind to focus on the reason he had traveled all this way.
“Thank ye for comin’,” Laird MacIrvin said cordially, coming to stand beside him as Magnus rose and they both turned to watch the couples on the dancefloor.
Magnus only grunted in response. He was far better at discussing clan business than feigning civility. He had no problem with Laird MacIrvin or his wife and newborn bairn, but he was here to negotiate terms. They were not friends.
“I believe we have things to discuss now that ye have showed yer face,” MacIrvin continued, his assessing gaze flicking to Magnus and back.
He was a little shorter in stature than Magnus but had the presence of a man used to getting his way.
