All the blood drained from her head.
‘R-Ross,’ she managed. She stared at him because, well … there was nowhere else to look. He’d changed out of his usual chunky sweater into a torso-hugging black T-shirt that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Someone might as well have drawn arrows – abs here, pecs here and deltoids here. He was also wearing a kilt! And man, did he make a kilt look sexy. The sudden flutters in the bottom of her stomach made her realise that every nerve ending had gone on red alert and she was very aware of him, her body responding to him in an unseemly, totally inappropriate manner. She also had a feeling her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth in classic cartoon manner.
‘I thought I’d come to the ceilidh with you,’ he said in a soft voice that set off flutters in her chest.
‘I-I thought you were here for peace and quiet,’ she stuttered, still stunned by the sight of him.
‘It’s not very nice being stood up,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like some moral support.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said faintly because she still couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.
‘I couldn’t bear to see Duncan’s disappointment.’ He smiled at her. ‘Neither could you. I decided if you could man up, then so could I.’
She looked at him, touched and surprised by his perceptive observation. She’d never really understood the term ‘heart-melting’ until that moment because despite his words, she knew that he was also doing this to help her save face.
‘He has been looking forward to it,’ she agreed.
‘And so have you.’
‘Thank you.’ She stepped forward and placed a quick kiss on his smooth cheek. ‘You’re a very nice man, Ross Strathallan.’
He smiled at her. ‘Don’t tell everyone.’
Again. That heart-melting thing. She lifted her shoulders in a wary shrug, not willing to admit how much it had hurt to be stood up. Not because she especially liked John but just being dumped at the last minute brought back a few too many memories. Ross appeared to have seen that too but was, it appeared, too kind to point it out.
‘Come on, let’s round up the others before Mr Peace and Quiet changes his mind,’ he said with a quick grin. ‘Would you like me to drive?’
They could hear the rousing music of an accordion and fiddles as they approached Balacluish Village Hall. Xanthe, rocking the Flora MacDonald look draped in a tartan scarf over a taffeta dress, began dancing as she walked up the path to the front door. Next to her, Duncan’s face was alight with anticipation, which made Izzy doubly glad she’d come. ‘I have nae been to a ceilidh for a long while,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
Izzy glanced at Ross, still a little tongue-tied. The man scrubbed up well and was just too handsome for his own good. Her mouth a little dry, she swallowed as she watched the heavy pleats of his kilt flare out, revealing strong, muscular legs covered in dark, silky hair as he strode along beside her. Who knew well-defined calves could be so sexy?
‘You came,’ said Mrs McPherson, who was collecting the ticket money.
‘Aye,’ said Duncan, as Xanthe hooked her arm through his and dragged him through the door, leaving Izzy to sort out payment.
‘Nice to see you here, Miss McBride, and you too, Professor Strathallan. You make a fine pair.’ She nodded with satisfaction, almost as if she’d organised this turn of events.
‘Thank you, Mrs McPherson,’ Ross replied with sweet-voiced charm as if she’d paid them the greatest compliment, instead of assuming they were a couple when they were no such thing.
Impressed by his aplomb, Izzy shot him a grateful smile as they headed into the main hall where a dozen couples were already dancing.
Duncan was at the bar while Xanthe was watching the dancing, tapping her feet, whooping enthusiastically and clapping along to the music, drawing quite a few openly curious stares. Perhaps it was the hat,thought Izzy, with a wry twist to her mouth. A blue velvet affair, the tiny top hat was perched on top of her bright crimson curls.
‘Oh this is such fun,’ she screeched as Izzy approached her. ‘It’s been so long since I’ve been out.’
‘Do you want a drink?’ asked Izzy with a benign smile. She was quite used to Xanthe drawing attention to herself, although her mother always seemed blithely oblivious.
‘No, darling. I want to dance.’ She looked around the room and over at Duncan who visibly shrank as if he were trying to merge into the bar. But it was no use.
‘Duncan,’ she called in her piping tone that made all heads whip her way like compass points drawn to due north. ‘Come and dance,’ she said as she waded through the group of men surrounding him.
Izzy could see him duck his head. Luckily one of his braver friends stepped forward and offered his arm in a gallant gesture that had Xanthe cooing all over the man.
Izzy heaved a sigh and sent a smile Duncan’s way. He shot a scowl back and turned back to his beer, clearly grateful for his reprieve.
She felt Ross’s presence next to her. ‘Does the poor sod know what he’s let himself in for?’ he muttered, watching Xanthe tug the man into the group of dancers waiting for the next song to strike up as the caller – Mrs McPherson’s son, Izzy recalled – put down his drink, got up onto the makeshift stage with the three musicians and began to call out the instructions for a trial run.
‘Join right hands on the lady’s shoulder, left hands in front.’ Most people knew exactly what he meant and got into position. ‘Four steps forward and then pivot, so that the gentleman’s hand is on the lady’s left shoulder and the right is in front. That’s right, you’ve got it. Then four steps backward.’
