The droning of the two sets of pipes merged into one, Mr. Mackenzie tapped his foot a few times, and the men launched into a jaunty tune. Mr. Mackenzie’s fingers flew and fluttered, whilst Lachlan’s moved slowly, playing the harmony, most likely.
The music filled the air, thrumming through Cilla’s chest.
“Rhona!” Mrs. Fraser nudged Mrs. Mackenzie, and everyone applauded.
With a demure smile, Mrs. Mackenzie went to the center of the room and hitched up her skirts on one side. She curved her free arm up in the air and danced, light on her feet, hopping, circling, pointing one foot to the side, to just below her knee, front and back and front again.
How fun it looked, and Cilla’s feet tapped the floor in mimicry.
The tune finished in a long drone, and Mrs. Mackenzie smoothed her skirts back in place and laughed. “I’m not as quick as I used to be.”
From the glow in her husband’s eyes, he found her as lovely as the day they’d met—if not more so.
Cilla’s heart squeezed from the beauty of a longstanding love.
“Come, come.” Mrs. Mackenzie tugged the hands of two younger women, who came to the center of the room and performed a similar dance, with more height and bounce but no less joy.
Then came a trio of little girls, with little polish but plenty of charm.
All the while, Lachlan played, his eyes bright as he watched dancers and guests. Whenever his gaze landed on Cilla, her heart squeezed in a different way, a new way, an aching—splendidly aching—way.
Mr. Fraser took two swords from their mountings on the wall, approached Lachlan with a heft to his chin, and laid the swords, crossed, upon the floor.
Cilla’s breath halted, and she leaned closer to Irene. “Is he challenging him to a duel?”
“No.” Irene chuckled. “It’s the sword dance.”
With his pipes droning, Lachlan tilted his head and shrugged, declining. But his father poked him with an elbow.
Lachlan rolled his eyes and set down his bagpipes, which squawked in protest.
Cilla pressed her hands together and restrained a squeal. The man was not the dancing sort—this could be great sport.
With his hands on his hips, Lachlan bowed to the swords, his red hair glinting in the lamplight. His father played a military tune, and Lachlan danced, one arm curved upward, the other on his hip.
He ... was the dancing sort.
He hopped from side to side, and his feet flashed among the quadrants formed by the crossed blades. He flung up both arms, returned them to his hips, and his kilt swung around his muscled legs in a mesmerizing way.
He smiled, relaxed and joyful.
Cilla’s breath faltered, and her cheeks warmed.
The tempo picked up, and Lachlan stamped out a quick pattern around the blades, agile yet entirely masculine.
Cilla’s heart picked up tempo too.
Lt. Lachlan Mackenzie, serious and dutiful and honest—she’d come to respect and admire those traits in him. But he was also kind and loyal and humorous and extraordinarily attractive.
The ache grew, the splendid ache, and she knew what it was.
She loved him.
24
Lachlan drew his heels together and bowed to the room, his chest heaving. He hadn’t performed the sword dance for years, but the steps were ingrained in his mind and his legs.
His gaze sneaked to Cilla, watching him, smiling and bonny and flushed from the warmth of the room. He dragged his gaze around the gathering before the gossips could notice his attention.
