“Yes,” she said. “So are you.”
She held out her hand. He eyed it as though she had offered him a live coal. “We have discussed my ineptitude at country dances.”
“We have not tried this one,” she said. “Besides, if you step on my toes, I shall know it was not malicious. Come.”
He hesitated just long enough to make her arm begin to ache, then stood, setting his tankard down.
“Very well,” he said. “If I make a fool of myself, I shall insist you share the blame.”
“I have every intention,” she said.
She led him to the cleared space. A few of the locals glanced up, curious. No one bowed or scraped, they merely shifted to make room.
“Watch,” Isla said quickly, as the couples turned. “It is simple. Four steps forward, four back, hands, turn. Like a country cotillion but with less showing off.”
“I dislike being told anything is simple,” he muttered. “It is usually a lie.”
She suppressed a smile. “Follow my lead. You survive tempests. You can survive my dancing.”
The fiddler marked the end of the current figure with a flourish, then nodded at them as they took their places. The reel began again. Isla moved. It came back as easily as breathing. The steps her mother had shown her on a wooden floor in Perthshire; the rhythm that had carried her through more harvest feasts than London had balls.
Edward missed the first turn by half a beat, nearly collided with a woman who only laughed and propelled him in the right direction. His second attempt was better; by the third he had found the pattern. His body remembered more than his mouthliked to admit. Isla laughed aloud when he spun her with unexpected skill.
“You said you were bad at this,” she accused.
“I said I was bad at balls,” he replied, a little breathless. “This is entirely different. There are fewer feathers.”
He caught her hand, his palm warm against her fingers, and for a moment the din of the room faded. She felt his grip, the surety of his movement, the shared, ridiculous pleasure of not tripping over one another. They turned, stepped, clapped with the others as the reel sped up. Henry and Elizabeth joined in on the next round, Henry managing admirably until he became entranced watching Elizabeth’s laughing face and forgot which foot was meant to go where.
The room blurred with motion. For a few bright moments Isla forgot Deverell, Glenmore, the burned stones of Strathmore. There was only the music, Edward’s hand in hers, the shared grin when they narrowly avoided collision. When the fiddler finally let the tune collapse into a flourished end, Isla was breathless and flushed. Edward, too, was breathing harder than usual. There was a light in his eyes she had never seen in London. He looked alive.
“Not bad,” she said, as they stepped back to the edge of the room to let others take their turn.
“I did not fall,” he agreed. “This is a victory.”
“Next time we will try a Strathspey,” she said. “If you survive that, even your mother will have to admit you have hidden talents.”
“She would consider this a hidden talent,” he said. “Unworthy of a Wexford.”
“Then we shall not tell her,” Isla replied.
Henry and Elizabeth were still on the floor, a tangle of arms and laughter. Henry had entirely surrendered to enjoyment. Elizabeth moved with unexpected grace, guiding him as much as he guided her. Edward watched them for a moment, something like fondness softening his features.
“They will be happy,” Isla said quietly.
“Yes,” he said. “I think they will.”
The room grew warmer. Edward tugged at his collar.
“I am going to take some air,” he said. “Would you care to …”
“Yes,” she said, too quickly. “I would.”
He blinked, as if he had half-expected a refusal. They skirted the dancing, slipped through the doorway into the narrow corridor, and stepped out into the inn yard. The night had cleared.
Stars pricked the dark, the air was cold enough to cut the heat from their faces in a single breath. The scent of peat and damp earth hovered. For a few moments they stood in silence, the muffled fiddle still audible through the wall. Isla wrapped her arms around herself, more for something to do than from cold.
“You did not take the York road,” she said.
