Page 2 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

A line of dancers swept between them before Isla could answer. Ceana stepped back with the passing bodies and let the crowd carry her toward the fires. She risked one glance over her shoulder and saw Isla searching for her through the masks.

She also noticed two unfamiliar men standing beyond her. One wore a gray half-mask and a dark cloak too heavy for the mild afternoon. The other had bare hands marked by scars across the knuckles. Their attention moved from one woman in Morrag colors to another. When the man in gray saw Ceana looking, he turned to his companion and pointed.

Her pulse struck hard beneath her jaw.

They could be Angus’s men, sent to collect his bride before the public ceremony. Her father might have ordered them to find Daphne. Either possibility would end the deception the moment one of them demanded to speak to her or even moved closer.

Ceana turned with the dancers and caught the hand offered by a masked stranger. He pulled her to the edge of the reel before she had time to reconsider.

Another dancer received her at the turn and placed a guiding hand on her waist. The required touch lasted only a moment, though the press of unfamiliar fingers reminded her how little control anyone possessed once hidden behind a mask.

Including her.

Especially her.

She moved through the pattern while trying to locate the two men between shoulders and raised arms. The firelight shifted across painted faces, and the music quickened as linked hands drew her further into the circle. When she caught another glimpse of the gray mask, the man was forcing his way through the dancers.

Ceana released her partner at the next turn and slipped away from the reel. She passed behind an ale tent, lifted the hem of Daphne’s fine gown, and hurried between two supply carts, trying desperately to ignore the way the thin shoes pinched her toes on the uneven ground. Her own plain dress and boots would have served her far better, though neither would have convinced anyone that she was the sister meant to marry Angus MacWatt.

What have ye gotten yerself into, Ceana?

She stopped behind a cart stacked with empty barrels and listened. A wave of music and conversation covered any footsteps that might have followed. For one sharp moment, she considered returning to her father and confessing everything. She could remove the mask, place Daphne’s ribbons in his hands, and admit that her sister had fled.

That confession would begin the search before Ceana knew whether Daphne had reached safety or not, and Angus’s clan would learn of the insult before she could prepare for their answer.

She tightened her hold on the cloak and stepped out from behind the cart. That was the moment a child cried somewhere beyond the festival fires.

She paused.

The sound came again from the quieter ground past the supply wagons, broken by a frightened attempt to call for help. She looked toward the crowded festival and searched for the men in gray and black. Remaining among the guests offered her the best chance of losing them.

The child cried again, and she knew she couldn’t ignore the sound.

Great. Just great.

She gathered up Daphne’s gown and followed the sound. Soon enough, she moved past the final supply cart and found the child crouched beneath a broad tree at the edge of the festival grounds.

He looked about five years old, with dark hair falling over his forehead and mud across the knees of clothes finer than most children wore to play. His shoulders shook as he stared at the exposed roots beside him.

She lowered herself to his height. “What is wrong, little one? Are ye in pain?”

“Nay, it is me goat.” He dragged one sleeve across his wet face and pointed between the roots.

“Yer what?”

A young goat lay trapped beneath the tree. One slender leg had slipped into a narrow space between two thick roots, and every attempt to pull free forced it deeper. The animal bleated and kicked against the earth while loose soil gathered around its trapped hoof.

Ceana laid her cloak on the grass and pulled off Daphne’s gloves. “What is her name?”

“Ness.” The boy crawled closer, though he stopped when the goat struggled again. “I think her leg is broken. Me faither said I must keep her away from the fires, and I tried, but she ran after something. If she cannae walk, he may have her put down.”

“Yer faither will do nay such thing until we ken what is wrong with her.” Ceana kept her voice level and reached carefully for the goat. “Ness needs ye to help her. Can ye stop cryin’ long enough to hold her still?”

The boy swallowed and wiped his face again. “Aye.”

“What is yer name?”

“Tommy.”