Fia could smell scented soap and the sweet-sick odor of his half-healed wounds, but stronger than both was the waft of whisky on his breath. Her spine stiffened at his audacity. He was drunk, unfit for company. It was one of her father’s strictest rules—no man came to his table worse for drink, not in front of his daughters. In the eyes of the Fearsome MacLeod, it was the worst possible insult a man could offer a woman.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she muttered.
He grinned at her, a baring of gleaming teeth. “Because I’m drunk? I’ll have you know my chief commanded me to make an appearance—for your benefit, not mine. So here I am.” He spread his arms wide. “I dressed for the occasion, and yet you will not agree to dance with me.”
“Your buttons are fastened wrong, and I cannot dance,” she said tartly, running her gaze over the exposed V of tanned skin at his throat. She could see the pulse point beating there, and she stared at it. Was he as tanned everywhere? She felt her cheeks fill with hot blood.
“Yes, you did say you were injured as a child,” he said blithely. “If you cannot dance, you might at least come and help me with my buttons.”
The way he said it suggested he’d prefer to have themundonerather than done up. No one had ever made such a suggestion to Fia before. She felt a thrill in her breast. The shocking idea of touching his golden chest made her gasp, look away. She pretended to watch the dancers, ignoring him, though his nearness made her breathless, made every inch of her body quiver. John Erly kept glancing at her, as if to ensure she was safe—or perhaps he was afraid of what she might do to Alasdair Og.
Her father had once tossed a tipsy clansman into a horse trough, dunked him thrice, and left him on the ground to sober up. She wondered if that was the standard treatment for it. She wished she had the strength to . . .
“It’s your right leg, is it not?” he asked.
“What?” She glanced at him. He’d set one elbow on the table, cupped his chin in his palm, and leaned closer. Close enough that she could look into his eyes, see blue flecks amid the gray, measure the length of his dark lashes. It was like finding herself trapped in a whirlpool. He was looking at her too, his gaze moving over her brow, her nose, her cheeks. His gaze paused on the scars that lay half-hidden under her hair, remained fixed there. She felt the stare like a touch, too probing, too intense, and she tried to turn away, to hide the damaged side of her face, but he put his hand under her chin and held her in place. The gentle warmth of his fingers on her skin was surprising. She held very still, a mouse caught in the sights of a predator, bewitched.
“I mean, if you limp on the left, my bad leg would be opposite to yours. We might stand up together well enough after all. I shall hop to the right, you to the left, and we could manage most of the steps, don’t you think?” Was he as affected by her nearness? He was calm, in command, his voice soft and sure, while her senses were in disarray.
She didn’t reply—she couldn’t even breathe, never mind think. What he suggested was impossible—she’d never learned any kind of dance. He looked so serious, she feared he truly meant to drag her out onto the dance floor . . .
Then he smiled, and that smile banished the harshness from his countenance, softened the hollow planes of his face, made her insides turn to butter under the sweet charm of it. Men did not smile that way at Fia MacLeod. Ever.
Well, until now.
“What’s the matter, mistress? Do you not like to flirt? Has the cat got your tongue?” He chuckled at the jest, a warm, deep sound that vibrated over her nerves like a harp string plucked by a master. Was this flirting? She had no experience with flirting, She picked up her goblet and gulped. He took it from her hand, caressing her fingers as he did so, and put his mouth where her own had been, his eyes never leaving hers, and finished the rest of the wine. She watched his throat work, and her body turned to flame. She stared at the empty cup, wondering where all the air had gone, why she could not breathe.
No, Dair Sinclair most certainly was not an injured animal, or a monster. He was something she’d had no experience of at all—a man, handsome and bold and dangerous to a woman’s senses. She looked desperately for Meggie, but her sister was dancing, happy and rosy cheeked. She’d forgotten Fia entirely, and she was on her own.
“I must go,” she said, gripping the edge of the table to steady herself as she rose.
He closed his hand over hers, sent more sparks flying along her skin.Fireflies.“Och, I am not at my best this evening, I fear. Do sit down, and we’ll begin again. I’ll politely ask after your health and comment on the weather. I’ll tell you how well you look tonight, that your gown becomes you and the pearl is exquisite.” He reached out and stroked the pearl with the tip of one finger, caressing it with a long, slow stroke. His hand was an inch from the edge of her bodice, the naked slope of her breast . . . “I should know—I am a collector of pearls.” His voice had dropped an octave, grown as dark and thick and sweet as molasses. “Did you know pearls symbolize innocence and purity? Fitting, that.” She met his eyes, saw something flare in the gray depths. “And beauty of course. Pearls symbolize beauty as well.”
She could feel his breath on her mouth. Hot blood filled her face. “Stop,” she whispered.
He raised one lazy eyebrow. “Stop, you say? Most ladies like compliments. Do you dislike them, or are you simply unused to them?” He sat back, slumped in his chair with easy elegance, and regarded her, his eyes heavy lidded. “Very well. I can converse on any topic you’d like—science, architecture, poetry . . . Or we could simply discuss the sights you saw on your journey here. Now, just how long did it take to travel from MacLeod lands to Carraig Brigh?”
“Five days,” she murmured. She was still standing, and he raised his brows and waited until she sank back into her chair. She perched on the very edge. “We saw the Highlands, passed cotts and farms, and stopped for a pint of ale or a cup of water when we thirsted.” It came out in a rush, a dull comment.
“It would have been faster if you’d come by ship. You might have seen dolphins and whales, stopped on islands for fresh-caught fish steamed in seaweed, or devoured sweet cockles plucked fresh from the sands. Have you ever eaten fish on the seashore?”
Her mouth watered, longed to taste such things. “No, and I’ve never been on a boat.” Her father refused to allow it, even in the placid confines of the loch, fearing his clumsy daughter would fall overboard, drown herself, and take others with her. He still blamed her . . . She forced the thought away. “What’s it like to sail?” she asked.
His gaze shifted, and he stared into the distance. “It’s freedom. Like riding a powerful horse with a gait like silk. You speed over the waves, carried on the wind, held up over an unknowable depth of water beneath you, with the entire sky above. And that sky is a different color depending on where on earth you are. There are a thousand shades of blue. You can look up and know where you are, just by the color. And the stars at night—there’s indescribable beauty in the stars, like a woman’s eyes, flashing, shining . . . And yet, they are tools, enabling navigation, a map to follow . . .”
She stared at his profile as he spoke, at the scars that marred his brow and cheeks, the crooked line of his broken nose, the elegant, aristocratic line of his jaw, half-hidden under the shadow of stubble, and the soft, sensual curve of his mouth. She saw the sea in his eyes, smelled the wind, tasted the salt, and she felt her chest tighten with a longing to sail, to experience speed and adventure. Breathless, she felt the presence of the man in the portrait, the rogue, the bold captain. Her heart twisted as she imagined him in prison, beaten, chained, tormented to madness. He was still a prisoner, trapped inside the cage of his injured flesh, his damaged bones, his memories of unspeakable horrors.
What would it take to set him free?
He suddenly turned to look at her, as if he’d read her thoughts. Something dark passed over his features. “You must promise you will never go to sea, Fia MacLeod,” he muttered, his voice so low she could barely hear him over the music. “Stay safe on land, at home.” His rapt expression faded to gray, and the shadows thickened again in the hollows of his eyes, cheeks, and throat. He scanned the room as if he’d only just realized where he was.
Abruptly, he rose to his feet and bowed. “You are quite correct. I am unfit company. Good night, mistress.”
She watched as he made his way around the periphery of the room, keeping to the shadows, leaning on his stick like an old man, slipping through a door at the far end of the hall.
The dancing went on without him, merry and gay, and no one but Fia even noticed that Dair was gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
