Page 134
A Dance of Desire
Triona
Monday, 2 June 1823
Casa da Prímula
The door to the hall swings open, drawing my attention to Aunt Amelia stepping in with a man at her side. There’s something about his presence—so effortlessly commanding—that causes the room to fall silent. I barely register Amelia’s sly smile as she prepares to address the room. “Everyone, this is Mannie, a dear friend who has planned to stay for a short time.”
My breath hitches when his piercing blue-grey gaze locks onto mine.
His hair, a silver hue flowing freely down his back, catches the light like moonlight on water. His presence is an enigmatic force that fills every corner of the hall, demanding attention without a word. I can’t help but notice the fluid grace in his movements as he steps forward, dressed in a tunic of deep blue that shifts shades like ocean waves. The silver clasp of his cloak catches the light, and his boots gleam with a polished finish that reflects his meticulous appearance.
A faint smile plays at the edges of his lips, and when he finally speaks, his voice is smooth, and has an unmistakable Irish lilt. “Ah,” he murmurs, his eyes never wavering from mine. “You must be she, the one for whom this night is adorned. Tell me, do you always command such attention?”
My cheeks burn, and before I can respond, he strides toward me with singular focus, his every step confident and deliberate. The sound of my heartbeat pounds in my ears.
He stops just short of me, bowing slightly in a gesture that feels both respectful and intimate. His hand extends toward me, and before I fully understand what is happening, his cool fingers close around mine.
“Forgive my boldness,” he says, lifting my hand to his lips. “But beauty such as yours deserves to be honoured properly.”
His lips linger against my knuckles—a touch that feels both foreign and unnervingly familiar.
I’m acutely aware of every pair of eyes now trained on us. I swallow hard, unable to find words as confusion mixes with an unshakable sense of recognition.
A throat clearing from behind me snaps me from my trance. Callan stands rigid, his jaw locked so tightly I half expect him to snap. Every line of his face is carved with warning. His hand flexes at his side, as though ready to act should Mannie overstep in the slightest.
Near the hearth, Finn remains still, his expression unreadable, but apprehension coils in his frame.
“Who are ye?” Callan’s gruff voice cuts through the silence.
Mannie’s chuckle is soft, almost melodic, a sound that holds both amusement and subtle intrigue. Straightening, he meets Callan’s gaze with a calm, self-assured demeanour. “I have walked many paths with Amelia over decades past. It seems my steps have aligned to bring me here at this very moment. Amelia spoke of your arrival mere days past—a timely coincidence, it seems.”
Only then does he release me, his thumb brushing my knuckles one last time before his hand falls away.
“A lot of things seem to happen at just the right time these days,” Bran quips from the corner, his grin cutting through the tension like a flicker of sunlight on stormy waters. His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it, as though he’s testing those waters.
Aunt Amelia chuckles softly, her grin widening as her eyes dart between me and Mannie. There is a knowing look in her expression that makes my stomach flutter with curiosity.
“Well,” Amelia says, her tone light and teasing, though a subtle edge cuts through her words. “I trust you’ll all behave yourselves, properly, as gentlemen ought. Mannie is my guest, after all.” Her eyes meet all in the room, but linger on Finn.
Mannie inclines his head toward Amelia, his smile widening slightly. “It is an honour to be in such esteemed company—a privilege I am so rarely granted. We will all make such quick companions,” he says smoothly, but his attention returns to me, his voice softening as he adds, “And to gaze upon the exquisite beauty that is Amelia’s niece—a radiance not bound by mortal years, is a gift I had not expected.”
My flush deepens as I try to make sense of his words—of him. I’ve not met anyone quite like Mannie. There is a flamboyance to him, a deliberate, theatrical quality in the way he speaks and moves, as if he is well aware of the attention he commands, and revels in it. And something about him that feels… untouchable. Not threatening, but hypnotic, and utterly beyond comprehension.
“You flatter me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to charm me.” My voice is soft and teasing.
Mannie’s smile deepens, and he takes a deliberate step closer. “How could I not? A woman as radiant as you should hear what effects she has over men. Truly transcendent beauty.” His gaze flickers behind me for the briefest moment before returning to me, his expression laced with amusement. He glances down at my hand, and reaches out to brush over my bare finger, before he lifts his gaze to mine again.
“Yet no ring adorns your hand. No oath set in stone. A strange thing, for one such as you. Perhaps fate is merely waiting for the right hands to lay claim?”
Bran, ever the opportunist, lets out a low whistle. “Saints above, and here I thought I had all the allure in the room.”
I shoot Bran a pointed look, my eyes warning him to hold his tongue. He just grins, holding his hands up in mock surrender, though the dashing smile he flashes me makes it clear he’s enjoying every bit of my discomfort. I roll my eyes, exhaling sharply as I try to shake off the heat creeping up my neck.
Before the tension can stretch further, the door creaks open again, and Deidre steps inside, her gaze sweeping the room before landing on Callan. “Callan, could you assist me with something?” she asks, her voice cutting through the heavy silence.
Her timing isn’t just convenient—it’s deliberate. A well-placed hand on the reins before the horses bolt.
