The Reel

B y the time Niven finished playing several rousing tunes on the fiddle, members of the audience were clapping in time with the beat and feet were tapping. It was time for the dancing demonstration.

He was normally the fiddler who played the music while others danced, but he gladly relinquished his instrument to Jock Graham and introduced him to the crowd. This night, he relished the chance to dance with a woman who'd stolen his heart.

The couples took their places. Jock apologized in advance, explaining he wasn't as talented a player as Niven, then struck up the first notes. The men bowed to their partners. The women bobbed a curtsey—and they were off, circling to the right, then to the left.

Enthralled to be touching Willow and close enough to inhale her intoxicating scent, Niven spared only a glance at the gaping audience. Several cigar-smoking military types sniggered at the Three Trees. Niven didn't care and, apparently, neither did Rowan who whooped and hollered, clearly enjoying himself. Perhaps the Withenshawes did have a long-lost Scottish ancestor.

No one was out of step, so Niven assumed the others in the square were performing correctly. He had eyes only for his beautiful partner and she for him. He could drown in those mysterious hazel depths. He would die a happy man if the last sound he ever heard was Willow's infectious laughter.

Caught up in the wildly exhilarating dance, Rowan didn't care if his cronies thought him foolish. They were probably jealous—and with good reason. They had nobody for company but their jaded selves. He had Daisy Hawkins and he intended to keep her. Holding her, touching her, basking in the glow of her smile—all a thousand times more enjoyable than the company of bored men who smoked and drank too much. As for the kilt, he rather liked having his equipment unconfined and Daisy couldn't seem to take her eyes off his legs.

Having thoroughly enjoyed the reel and barely out of breath, he took his bow along with the others as the smiling audience applauded. The only thing that bothered him was his sister's loud laughter. Surely Willow was aware that a duke's daughter was expected to act with more decorum. She'd made a spectacle of herself, fawning over Niven King. Rowan would have to have a word with the cheeky Scot. Simply because he'd been entrusted with running the shipping company didn't mean a commoner could ever be part of the Withenshawe family.

Thorne had never danced with a duchess before. In fact, apart from yesterday's practice session, he'd never danced at all. Officers didn't take part in such frivolity. That was according to Rowan who obviously wasn't following his own advice.

Nervous at first, Thorne had quickly got the hang of the steps. Of course, his ducal partner was a Scot, so she'd kept him in line and was easy to follow. He tried to ignore the sniggers of some of his chums. He'd wager they wished they were dancing with a beautiful duchess.

Most people of his acquaintance considered Catriona Hawkins common and whispered that the duke must have lost his wits when he married her. Thorne found her charming and vivacious and could readily understand what the duke saw in her.

He wondered if there was woman out there somewhere who might someday love him—if he survived the coming war. He'd never forgotten the hollow boom of artillery and the gut-wrenching screams of men blown to bits—and he'd been in the rearguard on the Nivelle. He prayed the real men in his family never discovered what a coward he truly was.

Gripping Niven's warm hand, Willow took her bow along with the other performers.

Breathless and overheated, she'd loved every second of the dance—Niven's closeness, his smile, his musky male scent, the swirl of his kilt, the heart-pounding pace of the reel, the freedom.

Judging by the hearty applause, the audience had enjoyed the demonstration. Rowan was scowling at her, no doubt upset that she'd laughed out loud. He'd done the same. In fact, he'd hooted and yelled like a man newly escaped from Bedlam. As a woman, she was expected not to let her emotions show. Life was very unfair in so many ways. "My family will do their best to keep us apart," she whispered close to Niven's ear.

"Then we'll elope," he replied without a moment's hesitation.

His daunting proposition took her aback. Could she run away with Niven if it became necessary?

"I'll speak to yer father first, then we'll decide."

She nodded, but the lead ball of dread lodged in her belly acknowledged that an elopement might prove to be the only drastic way she and her beloved Scot could be together. "I want to be with you," she said.

The ramifications of eloping with Willow stuck in Niven's craw. Why had he been so quick to suggest such a thing? He would lose Withenshawe's favor. There'd be no place for him in any of the duke's businesses. The Kingdom Distillery might no longer enjoy free shipping for Uachdaran . Indeed, the brothers would likely be obliged to find an alternative method of getting their whisky to the southern markets. Withenshawe might even demand the return of his investment in the distillery. And what of the bonded warehouse? Who would take care of stocking it and organizing shipments if Niven ran off to Scotland?

And therein lay the biggest stumbling block of all. Willow was a gently bred English noblewoman. No matter how hard he might wish it weren't so, he couldn't envisage her adapting to life in a remote Scottish village. She might resent her brothers' strict control over her life now but, eventually, she would regret cutting herself off from her family. She might turn her resentment on him.

Worst of all, Tavish and Payton couldn't be faulted if they laid the blame for Withenshawe's alienation on his daughter's shoulders.

All things considered, it was vital he persuade the duke he was the man for Willow.