Page 84 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

“Of course,” Helena added, almost as an afterthought, “ye could always dance with her, if ye daenae think Laird Gordon is a good match.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “Daenae think I daenae ken what ye are doing,” he scoffed. “But I’ll nae argue with ye. Arguing with ye can drive a person mad, just like Skye.”

Helena beamed. “Why, thank ye, son.”

Once he was sure his finger had stopped bleeding, Hunter turned grimly to the dance floor. There was Daphne, darting here and there. Laird Gordon must be there too, but there was no sign of him.

Around them, the party was in full swing, even for those who weren’t dancing. The tables were piled with food, and servants weaved through the crowd, bearing jugs of wine and ale and bottles of whisky. There was cider, too, and plain water.

The cooks had prepared the most elaborate, mouth-watering dishes a person could think of. Fowls of every kind, cooked every way: boiled, braised, roasted, baked. Beef, pork, mutton, as well as cheese, fruit, cooked vegetables dribbled with meat drippings. There were gravy boats and bowls of dripping set alongside hunks of bread. Pies, savory and sweet, cakes, haggis, blood pudding, and more. Imported spices, sweetmeats, marzipan, gingerbread.

A person could eat all night if they chose to and still not sample everything.

But he wasn’t in the mood for eating. Instead, he set off at a stride for the dance floor.

Fresh rushes had been piled up on the floor, sweet and clean, with herbs and fragrant flowers scattered in between them. In the morning, all the rushes would be flattened and soiled. They’d have to be swept out, changed altogether. Green garlands hung everywhere, strung with wildflowers, adding color and a fresh, earthy smell to the Great Hall.

It was his mother’s favorite decor, simple yet beautiful. Real.

He stepped between spinning dancers. The ones who noticed him moved deferentially out of the way, shooting him curious stares.

And then, quite abruptly, Daphne was in front of him. She had her arms half lifted in the air, as if ready to spin. She faltered when she saw him, glancing around uncertainly.

“Looking for yer partner?” he asked.

She dropped her arms. “Nay, it’s nae that kind of dancing. Nae like the balls in England.”

As if to highlight her point, the music reached a crescendo, and the dancers let out joyful cries.

“Ye are avoiding me,” he noted.

She pressed her lips together. “I am trying to dance.”

“With another man.”

She flinched, her gaze flicking up to his. “Ye shouldnae say that to me here.”

“Nobody can hear with the music.”

“Nay, but they’ll notice ye standing so close to me, nae dancing on a dance floor while everybody else is doing so.”

He gave a grim smile. “Then dance with me.”

Her lips parted. He waited, wondering if she was about to move away. She could do it. She could dance away as if it were natural, and nobody would think otherwise.

She didn’t. She silently extended her hand. He took it, pulling her toward him.

The world narrowed. The other dancers vanished off the face of the earth, and the music stopped altogether.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. Her hand landed on his shoulders, a light pressure but so heavy at the same time.

“Ye have been avoiding me,” he breathed.

She tightened her jaw. “Nae deliberately.”

“Oh, nay? And here ye are, dancing with another man.”

“I can dance with who I like.”