Page 43 of Seductive Scot
~ Emily Dickinson, “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers” (314)
“Dance with me, Deirdre.”
Deirdre forced herself to look away from where Reikart had disappeared into the crowd and toward the voice. She nearly groaned at the sight of Fearghas standing in front of her. It was on the tip of her tongue to decline, but she didn’t want Reikart to think she didn’t want to dance if she wasn’t dancing with him, which was, she realized with dismay, annoyingly true.
Rescuing herself surely did not include developing a tendre for a man who had made it perfectly clear he was not at all interested in her, not to mention who happened to be from another time, to which he would be returning. Rescuing herself included such things as finding a way to take care of herself when she no longer had anywhere to live because her sister was gone and Lochlavine was given to someone else by the Scottish council.
She wasn’t foolish enough to think they’d bestow it upon her. They’d only done so previously because they’d assumed Algien would take control. They’d likely bestow it upon someone who could provide great strength or coin to the council. Someone, well, like Fearghas. Dread filled her. A woman’s lot was vastly unfair.
Fearghas was one of the commanders of the warriors. The Irvine men were loyal to him. If she was smart, she would dance with him. She would not think upon the fact that he had declined the match Yearger had proposed between Fearghas and Deirdre when Cedric had broken their betrothal after her father had killed himself.
She had to be canny. Women who were rescuing themselves did not dwell upon the fact that their hearts were not engaged. She set her hand in his, telling herself to ignore that he’d not asked her but commanded her. Yet her mouth refused to listen.
“I’ll dance with ye this time,” she said, “but next time, ask me. Do nae command me.”
“I like yer newfound boldness.” He smiled.
She glared at him. “’Tis nae newfound.” He did not really see her. He never had and likely never would. “Ye simply did nae like it enough when there was nae a promise of power attached to it any longer.”
“Well, I like it verra much now,” he said, clutching her hand in his big, sweaty palm. She preferred Reikart’s hand, warm but not damp, his hold firm but not grasping. As they moved through the motions of the dance, she found herself comparing Fearghas to Reikart. They were both very tall, but Fearghas had a thicker build than Reikart. She liked Reikart’s long, sinewy muscles, which were much easier to see now that he’d exchanged the odd clothing he’d worn since she met him for the braies, tunic, and plaid he now wore.
She also preferred his dark stubble and hair, even cropped short as it was, as opposed to Fearghas’s light, shoulder-length hair, and she thought Reikart’s turbulent gaze much more interesting than Fearghas’s overly confident one.
She found herself searching through the crowd for Reikart as she danced with Fearghas, and when she finally found him, she sucked in a sharp breath. He was standing beside his mother, but he was staring at Deirdre. A frown set his handsome features, and when Fearghas grabbed her around the waist to hoist her up in the air for the moves of the new dance, Reikart’s mouth dipped into an even deeper frown. Was his irritation due to something his mother was saying or was it because she was dancing with Fearghas?
She was ridiculous! Why was she even allowing such thoughts? She danced down the line, then faced Fearghas once more. Perhaps her problem had been that she’d dutifully let men choose for her all her life—her father, her brother, her king. Maybe she needed to figure out exactly what she wanted, who she wanted, and then try to attain her desire. Was that even possible?
Fearghas grasped her around the waist once more and lifted her high, and she glanced down at him. He looked up at her with such smug sureness that she knew, without a doubt, that she did not want to settle for Fearghas. That’s what marriage to him would be: settling.
“Put me down, Fearghas. I do nae wish to dance with ye anymore.”
The moment his eyes narrowed, she realized her mistake. Fearghas was the sort of man who could not accept being denied. “Well, let me change that for ye,” he said, and before she realized his intention, he slid her down his body, locked his arms around her, and covered her mouth with his.
It was a moist, garlicky invasion and her very first kiss. Outrage filled her that he would dare such an intimacy and in the great hall for everyone to witness. Just as she was bringing her hands up to shove him away, he disappeared. He was yanked around so that his back was to her. The music stopped, and it seemed as if silence fell the very moment that Reikart appeared in front of Fearghas. He sent his fist into Fearghas’s nose. The crack of knuckle against bone made her wince. Blood spurted from his nostrils, but Fearghas was not the sort of man to be stopped by a bit of blood. He charged at Reikart, and they went flying backward, the crowd of dancers gasping and scattering.
Reikart came up on top of Fearghas, and landed one more swift punch before his brother and uncle were there and pulling the two men apart. “What the hell is going on here?” Rhys roared.
Reikart, now on his feet, shrugged off his brother’s hold, and his gaze found hers. “She didn’t want him to kiss her, and he did anyway.”
“How the devil do ye know if the lady wanted my kiss or nae?” Fearghas growled.
“Because I see her,” Reikart said, his voice hard and cold. “And everything about her from her eyes, to her mouth, to her outraged expression was telling you no.”
He saw her.That’s what she wanted—a man who saw her. She had to bite her lip not to smile. She knew what she wanted. She wanted to get to know Reikart McCaim, and maybe once she did, she’d know if she wanted him. She couldn’t let a little thing like a bunch of centuries stand in the way of the possibility of unexpected love.
Fearghas shook his head. “I do nae know what nonsense ye babble about seeing the lass. I see her, too. She’s got on a green dress. Aye?”
Deirdre nodded, not because she wanted to hear Fearghas talk but because Reikart’s expression was fascinating. He looked as though he wanted to murder Fearghas. She’d never had a man instinctively protect her like this, and she had to admit it was nice. “She’s got green eyes,” Fearghas continued, to which several people around Deirdre nodded but not Reikart.
He scoffed. “Her eyes are not simply green,” he bit out. “Her eyes are the color of the grass after it rains and the sun first comes out—deep emerald with streaks of golden sunshine.”
Oh, she quite liked the way he described her eyes, and she could see Shona, Maggie, and Grace, who’d gathered near like many people in the great hall, nudging one another as if they appreciated Reikart’s description of her eyes, too.
Fearghas shrugged. “Wet grass, dry grass, what difference does it make? The result is her eyes are green and her hair is the color of the straw in the barns.”
She frowned at that description of her hair, Maggie giggled, and Reikart made a derisive noise from deep within his chest. “You’re a blind fool,” Reikart snapped. “Her hair—” he looked to Deirdre, his gaze an intimate caress of her face and body “—is a combination of honey and daffodils, warm and rich, inviting a man to—”
Rhys cleared his throat loudly, which ground Reikart’s words to a halt. Deirdre wanted to smack Rhys for interrupting his brother. She desperately wanted to know what her hair invited him to do. “I think the music can safely be restarted,” Rhys called out, and the instruments immediately began. At first, no one moved, Deirdre included. She was hoping Reikart would continue. His gaze came to her once more, and her breath snagged in her chest at what she saw—desire and anguish. He wanted her, but he did not want to. She didn’t know whether she should be flattered or offended, but she did know she needed advice.
