“Doona worry, lass.” Gavin leaned down to murmur in her ear, eliciting a pleasant chill that raced along her skin. “No one remembers they’re married on Samhain, and Beltaine is even worse.”
“Gods bless that decadent fertility holiday.” Russell crowed lustily and lifted his glass, and Gavin met it with a merry cheer of slàinte mhath.
For lack of else to do, Mena touched her glass to theirs and drank deeply, though the unhappy thought that the laird was not among the crowd dampened her spirits.
Masked and cloaked or not, he’d have been unmistakable, and his tall, broad form was conspicuously absent. Had he drifted into the woods with someone to take advantage of the bacchanalian holiday?
In-between some willing tart’s thighs?
The unbidden thought drew her brows together with a surprising rush of displeasure.
“Would ye care to teach me a reel, English?” Gavin asked, his green eyes sparkling with mischief from behind his mask. “Be it Hampshire or Dorset or wherever ye hie from?”
Mena placed her hand in Gavin’s outstretched one, thinking that his grip didn’t elicit the thrills of awareness in the places that Liam’s did, and so a dance with him was safer. Permissible. If everyone else was drinking, dancing, flirting, and … carrying on, why shouldn’t she join in? The witching hour was almost upon them, and it seemed that the later the hour, the more steeped in debauchery the evening became.
And if no one remembered they were married on Samhain here in the Highlands, then neither would she.
* * *
Finding Mena in the teeming crowd of people wasn’t at all difficult for Liam as he stalked the periphery of the dancing ghoulish Highlanders. She was unmistakable. Her glinting auburn hair had been swept up into a prim do, but was now in shambles. The front of the coiffure was still intact, but the rest tumbled down her back, nearly reaching her waist in a riot of loose glossy curls. Firelight glittered off the emerald satin ribbons threaded about the bit of black lace that passed for a bodice. Her alabaster breasts were splashed with golden light as she danced about the fire in a circle of forty, a man on each side vying for her attention as they taught her the steps.
His children had been right, she was a beautiful dancer.
She laughed gaily when she stumbled; her throaty, lilting sound of amusement evoking the lusty smiles of the men around her. Their hands went wherever they could as they helped her regain her footing.
Torturous black daggers twisted into his gut as he watched her enjoy the masculine attentions. Who’d have thought that his sweet, proper governess could move her body with all the sumptuous grace of a succubus?
The operative word here being his.
Hadn’t he made it clear enough to her, to his clan, that he meant to claim her?
Eyes glued to her voluptuous shape, he prowled around the edges of the firelight, stalking her prancing, laughing form and watching the glow from the fire set her hair ablaze with color.
Gavin came up behind her and cut into the circle, grasping her hand and smiling at her as if he were perfectly enchanted. Mena’s smile was just as brilliant as she turned her head to acknowledge him. The circle broke, and everyone grabbed a partner as the liveliest part of the reel had couples swirling about, their bodies only just managing to keep up with their flying feet.
His blood pounded through his ears and he had to crush the idea of murdering his brother and dragging her home by her luxurious hair.
This was the age of enlightenment, and the modern woman required a more deft seduction.
She needed to be wooed.
Lurking on the outskirts of the encampment, Liam snatched a mask from the table and fastened it to his eyes, letting it rest on the bridge of his nose as he made his way toward the musicians. A piper, a drummer, and two fiddlers played in the near darkness, careful not to get their instruments too close to the heat of the fire. Bending his head toward them, he gave a request for the next dance, and then bided his time until the reel wound down.
He still wore no cloak or shirt, proudly displaying the runes painted in the ancient wode on his skin. He felt like a Druid. Like the mythical Stag King about to claim his mate.
The crowd parted for him as the slow, writhing waltz emerged from the instruments, replacing the dizzy reel. His clan whispered their exclamations as he reached from behind Mena, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
She turned to him and her brilliant smile dimmed, then faltered.
“May I have this dance, my lady?” He bowed to her with all the deference of a disciple to his master.
Or mistress, in this case.
The infinitesimal widening of her eyes told him she didn’t miss his not-so-subtle emphasis on the possessive word.
The increasingly drunk and cheerful crowd delighted in this turn of events, heckled and crowed, nudging her forward until she was nigh shoved into his arms.
“I don’t see how I can refuse,” she muttered.
Liam tensed as their bodies connected at many electrifying points, as did she. Every place his heated skin pressed against that infernal dress pulsed with awareness. The tips of her incredible breasts rubbed just beneath his chest. Her thighs pressed to his, the folds of his kilt meshing between her skirts.
Gripping her hand, he slid his other around her waist to span the small of her back and pressed her closer. They would have been hip to hip had he not been so tall, but still she fitted into his arms as if she’d been made for them. Her every generous curve and dramatic dip gave to the jutting angles and hard swells of his own body.
They began the rhythmic steps, their bodies moving seamlessly even though he could tell he’d put her more than a little off kilter. Her hand fluttered over the bare skin of his arm like the wings of a butterfly unwilling to land.