Page 85 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“And ye’ve been learning?”
“Elspeth has been teaching me every day.”
“Sothat’swhere ye’ve been disappearing to.”
He placed a finger under her chin and tipped her face up until their gazes met.
“Ye’ve no idea how much it pleases me that ye’ve learned our dance, lass.” Then he glanced down to where his hardness pressed against her thigh, and a wicked glint glimmered in his eyes. “Or perhaps ye do. Ye’re a true Highlander now.”
He turned to the ghillie as the music struck up again.
“Duncan, forgive me for cutting in. I’d like to dance with my wife now, unless she prefers to sit this dance out.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I wouldn’t want ye tired out by the end of the evening—not with what I have planned for ye.”
Tempering the spike of desire, Clara nodded. “Perhaps I’ll sit out this dance.”
The laird approached, and Clara’s husband tightened his hold on her, almost as if he wished to protect her.
“Where’s yer brother, Murdo?” the man slurred. “He’s supposed to be dancing with the McCallum lass, the steaming lump of shite.”
“Da,” Murdo growled. “Not in front of the guests.”
“I’lllook for him,” the ghillie said, and the laird wrinkled his nose.
“Ye’re going nowhere, Duncan.” He gestured about the dance floor. “Find one of yer own kind to dance with. Murdo, go find yer brother.”
Clara placed a hand on the ghillie’s arm. “Duncan, why don’t you ask Marsaili to dance?” she said, gesturing toward the young maidservant standing on her own. “She could do with cheering up.”
The ghillie nodded and approached Marsaili, but she shook her head and ran out of the hall.
Her heart aching for the girl’s distress, Clara followed her into the passageway, but Marsaili was nowhere to be seen. Then she heard movement behind the door to the laird’s study.
“Marsaili, are you in there?”
Clara pushed open the door to see her brother-in-law sitting at the desk, a glass of deep amber liquid in his hand. He gave her his usual scowl.
“James, you’re not dancing,” she said.
He drained his glass. “Aren’t ye a perceptive wee lassie?” he sneered.
“Aren’t you an angry man?” she retorted.
He reached for the whisky bottle, but she snatched it from his grasp.
“I guarantee that no matter what you’re suffering,” she said, “the solution to your problems won’t be found at the bottom of a glass.”
“Ye know nothing of my problems.”
“Don’t I?” she said. “You think I don’t know how it feels to be an outsider here? For my very existence to be an insult to those who’d rather not accept me for who I am?”
His eyes widened and she set the bottle down.
“You may think I’m a savage,” she continued, “a cursed Sassenach, but I’m not completely lacking in wits.”
“I don’t think ye’re a…” He hesitated and gestured toward her. “My da said—”
“I know exactly what your father said about me,” Clara said. “He continues to say it, and there are many here who listen to him.”
He picked up his glass, then, realizing it was empty, set it aside.
