Chapter 12

12

“ H e cannae take his eyes off ye,” Ersie whispered excitedly, just behind Freya. “If he stares at ye like that for much longer, they’re goin’ to pop out of his head.”

Freya pulled a face, not daring to look in his direction yet. “I dinnae like the thought of that.”

“What are ye talkin’ about? This is perfect!” Ersie insisted. “Ye’re halfway to makin’ him as jealous as a buck in autumn—I can feel it. Can ye nae? It’s like there’s heat radiatin’ from where he’s sittin’.”

Warmth flooded Freya’s cheeks. “All I can feel is the heat in me face,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Please, stop sayin’ such things—ye’re goin’ to throw me off. I’d prefer nae to be so red that everyone thinks I’ve come down with a fever.”

Ersie cackled softly—a strangely encouraging sound, reminding Freya that she did not have to be small and insignificant and overshadowed anymore. People were already staring, her potential friend found her amusing, and she felt pretty.

At that moment, she felt like she could do anything.

“Kaiden Lawson,” Ersie suddenly said, a thrill in her voice. “Laird of Clan MacMillen. Comin’ toward ye.”

Panic knocked the rhythm of Freya’s heart off by a beat. “What do ye mean? What is he comin’ toward me for?”

“Dinnae fret, Freya. Ye dinnae have to do anythin’ other than accept to dance with him,” Ersie replied in a hushed tone.

Freya blinked. “Dance? Nay one said anythin’ about a dance… or other lairds.”

“How else did ye think ye were goin’ to make the Laird jealous?” Ersie asked, patting her gently on the arm. “Have fun, Freya. Enjoy yerself! Ye’ve earned it, and I bet ye’re as good a dancer as ye are an escape artist.”

Freya raised her nervous gaze to the approaching Laird. Tall and handsome, the man was light where Doughall was dark, his hair golden, his eyes a honeyed hazel, his sun-browned skin dusted with freckles, his jaw covered by a short, golden beard—well trimmed and very becoming. In truth, he had the look of a lion about him, whereas Doughall was more of a fearsome wolf, ready to bite at the first sign of a challenge. Her neck still bore the slight mark to prove it.

“I must ken the name of this goddess I see before me,” Kaiden said, his arms open wide as if he might embrace her.

Freya forced herself to hold his gaze and smile as brightly as she could. “Freya Kane. And who might ye be?”

“Laird MacMillen,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “But I insist that ye call me Kaiden. There shouldnae be formalities between friends.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We’re friends? A moment ago, we were strangers.”

“And in a moment more, we’ll be dancin’ so close that ye’ll feel like ye’ve kenned me forever.” He offered her his hand.

From across the hall, Freya could have sworn she felt the heat that Ersie had been talking about. It took all the restraint she possessed not to turn and look in Doughall’s direction. Why ruin things so soon into the evening before she had even attempted to have some fun?

He cannae be angry, can he? It’s nae as if this is real. Any of it.

Boldly, she took Kaiden’s hand, flashing what she hoped was a confident smile. “But how can we dance to music like this? Ye can barely hear it.”

Kaiden snapped his fingers at the musicians in the corner, who had been playing quiet ballads to accompany the feasting. In an instant, they leaped into a lively tune, at least half of the guests up and down the table joining in by clapping their hands to the beat of the tambor.

A yelp slipped past Freya’s lips as Kaiden caught her around the waist, sweeping her into an even livelier dance. His hand clasped hers, while her hand gripped his shoulder for dear life, her head spinning as he whirled her around the otherwise empty dance floor between the table and the door.

Digging deeply into her reserve of dancing etiquette, drummed into her from childhood, she matched her partner’s movements step for step, not faltering once… though she had never danced quite so fast before. Now and then, she caught sight of Ersie clapping along and grinning from ear to ear, which at least let her know that she wasn’t making a complete fool of herself.

Is this what it feels like to… have fun?

It was surprisingly liberating. Laughter spilled out of her with every wild turn, and Kaiden was smiling back at her, his hazel eyes twinkling with merriment. Between her brother and Doughall, she realized it had been a long time since she had seen a man who had no difficulty smiling, laughing, unafraid to show feelings.

“It’s rare to find a lass who is as fine a dancer as she is remarkably beautiful,” Kaiden purred.

“As rare as findin’ a laird who is so predictable with his flirtin’,” she quipped back, feeling more brazen than she ever had in her life, her veins alight with a giddy fire.

Kaiden laughed heartily. “Och, I like ye, lass. I like ye very much. I cannae recall the last time a lass didnae even blush at me attempts at seduction. I must be losin’ me touch.”

“Nay, I believe it’s somewhere above me hip,” she replied with a mischievous smirk, looking at Kaiden’s face but wishing it was Doughall’s. Wishing she could somehow do the impossible and get him to smile like that, to jest with her like that.

Kaiden grinned. “Ye’re a more fascinatin’ bird than I thought ye were.”

“Aye, well, when this dance is over, I hope ye dinnae feel too disheartened when ye have to watch me flap away.”

He opened his mouth, no doubt preparing another flirtatious remark, when he seemed to catch sight of something over Freya’s shoulder. His warm eyes narrowed, a puzzled look etched on his face.

She understood a moment later when a hand closed over her still-tender wrist and another came between them to shove Kaiden backward, pulling her away from him and into a sturdy, oddly familiar chest.

“Touch me betrothed again and I’ll break each of yer fingers,” Doughall snarled at Kaiden. “Slowly. One by one.”

Kaiden paled, his jaw slack. The threat seemed to be enough, as he walked away, dusting off his chest as if Doughall’s firm shove had left a mark. A few guests whispered behind their hands, a few others mocked Kaiden openly for not realizing who he had swept up into a dance, and the rest continued watching the entertainment, relishing every dramatic second with eager eyes. Maybe they were hoping for blood to be spilled.

“What do ye think ye’re doin’?” Doughall growled, taking up the stance that Kaiden had previously held.

But the dance that Doughall led Freya into wasn’t as lively as before. Either the musicians were tired from the jig or they did not dare to play the same tune, choosing something more sedate for their Laird.

“I was bein’ courteous to the guests that yer aunt invited,” Freya replied through clenched teeth, a smile fixed on her face. “Would ye have me refuse to dance with another Laird and risk insultin’ him? I might be mistaken, but I seem to remember that clan wars have been started over less.”

His lip twitched. “Do ye ken who that man was?”

“Laird MacMillen.”

“His reputation?”

She shrugged as they turned in slower circles, her feet welcoming the reprieve. “A terrible flirt, but an excellent dancer.”

Something dangerous flared in Doughall’s gray eyes, and Freya wished she had swallowed her words. Suddenly, she no longer felt quite as brazen. He did not wait for the music to end, looping her arm through his and pulling her out of the Great Hall.

A fiddle player caught the string wrong as they exited, a sharp note pursuing them out of the room, sounding exactly like the shrill jolt of concern that pierced through her chest.

She had taken it too far. He wasn’t jealous, he was just angry.

Ersie had too much confidence in me and him. He doesnae feel anythin’ but anger.

He dragged her down the hall, and when she tried to resist, he shot her a look that said, I’ll throw ye over me shoulder again if ye dinnae obey.

A cold gust of wind shocked her as Doughall opened a small doorway and led her out into a grassy courtyard, surrounded on three sides by ornate cloisters, the arches illuminated by candlelight. The beauty of it took her breath away for a moment. It was a shame she had to share such loveliness with a huffing, puffing bear.

“Ruse or nae, for one month, ye’re still me betrothed,” Doughall began, his hot breath pluming in the air. “Ye’ll do exactly as I say. Ye willnae just do as ye please. Ye’ll?—”

“Are ye jealous?” she interrupted, meeting his gaze with whatever lingering boldness she possessed.

She braced for angry surprise or angrier denial. She got neither. He stood there, breathing slowly, his eyes like two tiny, mirror-still lochs, as flinty as the shingle shore she had visited the day before.

Had he heard her? She felt like she had spoken loudly enough, but perhaps she had not.

“Is that why ye’re beratin’ me?” she said, a faint tremor in her voice. “Are ye jealous because Laird MacMillen asked me to dance and ye didnae? Or was it because he made me laugh? Because it wasnae… like squeezin’ blood from a stone with him?”

His deathly silence sent a shiver down her spine. She wrapped her arms around herself, pretending it was just the cold of the night that had her trembling so and not the anxious—and somewhat curious—anticipation that thrummed in her veins.

His boots crunched on the night-frosted grass, leaving imprints that twinkled beneath the moonlight that had crept out sometime between the library and the dancing. Stars hung like jewels on black velvet, winking a warning she had not cared to note.

“That tongue of yers has grown too wild,” he said quietly, but if he was aiming for menace, he had missed the mark and struck seduction instead. “Sounds to me like ye need disciplinin’, so ye’ll remember yer place. Remember who ye belong to while ye’re within these walls.” He lowered his head, his warm breath fanning her cheek. “I’ll give ye a hint—it’s nae Laird MacMillen. That bastard isnae fit to lick yer boots.”

She could not stop the gasp that escaped her throat, nor the way her neck decided to arch back, inviting another bite. Vampyres were a myth, but if they existed, if he was one, then she wanted him to sink his teeth into her flesh and drink his fill.

“ Now ye submit?” He tutted under his breath. “I didnae expect Laird Wilkinson to raise such a… wicked lass.”

“I’m nae wicked,” she gasped as his teeth grazed the soft flesh of her earlobe, sending a pinch of pain laced with pleasure to her chest… and lower still.

“There’s that wayward tongue again.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip and dragged it slowly, teasing her. Letting her know that it could be his mouth if she would just behave. “If it’s Laird MacMillen ye desire, this is yer one chance to return inside.”

She straightened her neck, meeting his powerful gaze. Whether he was testing her or not, she had no intention of going back inside.

“Did nay one ever teach ye that ye should never look a beast directly in the eye?” he said in a husky voice that melted whatever resolve she had left.

Maybe I want to be caught…

She continued to hold his gaze, unsure what he could see in her eyes. Defiance or desire?

“Silly mouse,” he growled, sliding his hand under the belt at her waist.

Worried about the beautiful belt snapping, she followed when he tugged her to him… though that was not the only reason. As her body hit his, and his other hand captured the nape of her neck, his lips were quick to find hers in a searing crush. She whimpered in his mouth, lost in the ravenous kiss.

While trying to put what had happened in the library out of her mind, she had not realized that, inadvertently, the anticipation had been building to feverish heights. With that kiss, he had poured potent whiskey on an already raging fire, sending the flames to the sky.

She grasped fistfuls of his pale yellow shirt, tugging him closer, uncertain of when he might take her by the wrists and stop her from touching him. Slowly, her fists flattened out, her palms running over his hard chest and up over his shoulders, looping behind his neck as his other hand slid around the small of her back, pressing her hips against him.

Breathless and dizzy with passion, a moan caught in the back of her throat as she felt something straining against her, hard and demanding.

She slid her fingertips into his dark hair, convinced that he would stop her, certain that he would tie her hands with her belt if he felt his punishment wasn’t being respected.

Punishment? Let me never behave again. I’ll dance with every man in that hall to feel this, to feel his discipline all night.

He mirrored her movement, his fingertips easing into her copper locks, but he was not so gentle, pleasure and pain mingling as he tilted her head back and kissed her harder, his tongue gliding against hers.

Unwilling to let him have complete control, and determined to let him know that, she kissed him back just as hard, grabbing a handful of his silky, dark hair.

If the gates of Hell had opened in that very courtyard to take back their King, neither would have noticed. As such, Freya did not hear the approaching footsteps crunching the grass.

But she did hear a familiar voice as it barked, “I hope ye have a good explanation for this.”