CHAPTER EIGHT
“Lass?” John whispered as the revelers passed by, barely nodding to him. “Lass?” But there was no reply. He searched the bushes, but there was no gleam of pink silk, no rustle.
She’d gone, vanished. He ran his hand through his hair and sat on the edge of the well, trying to catch his breath. Why the devil hadn’t he asked her name? Because he’d been lost in kissing her, oblivious to all else, that’s why. He couldn’t remember a simple kiss setting him afire the way that one had. She tasted of . . . what was it? Of flowers—sweet, heady, and utterly divine. The scent of roses hung in the air around him.
The Scots were superstitious folk. They told tales of men bewitched by fairies, held in thrall. He ran his thumb over his lip. He could almost believe it was true. He’d swear to it if asked.
He found her mask on the path, almost tripped on the empty white shell in the dark. It smelled of her perfume, her skin. He hurried back to the hall, past other couples who were trysting in the garden now, clutching each other in the dark foliage and giggling. “Get her name,” he almost called to one lucky lad who glanced up at him, but he was in a hurry.
Inside, he scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of a pink and gold gown, a saucy white cap, but she wasn’t there. He circled the room twice and was on his third circuit when the clock rang midnight.
A cry went up and masks came off. He scanned the newly bared faces, the laughing mouths, the sparkling eyes. He’d know her, he was sure. He’d recognize the tilt of her chin, the shape of her jaw, the elegant lines of her body, and that mouth . . .
But the clock sounded the final chime, and he knew she wasn’t here.
He wondered again if he’d imagined her, or if he was mad. Or perhaps it was his own past catching up with him and punishing him once more for his sins.
He stuffed the mask into his shirt and went home to bed. Alone.
