Page 14 of The Highlander's Auctioned Wife
“Have ye given up on the dance, M’Laird?” she taunted with a smile, as she leaped into a vigorous Sword Dance, minus any actual swords.
As she kicked out with a flourish of her foot on the first diagonal, her shoe caught him in the shin. A second later, she was leaping gracefully backward again, performing the robust dance with every bit of strength she had left.
Gordon hadn’t moved, his expression unchanged, showing no sign that he’d even felt her kick or strikes.
Is he truly made of stone?
Undeterred, she continued the dance, waiting until she leaped that first diagonal again so she might kick him in the shin a second time.
She was mid-air, ready to plant her foot and kick out—harder, this time—when Gordon suddenly darted forward. He moved so quickly that she had no chance of altering her course, the breath abandoning her lungs as he caught her around the waist and spun her around, ending her Sword Dance before she had managed to gain another hit.
The force of his arm against her ribs winded her, the spin leaving her dizzy, but he wasn’t at all done with her. As he whirled her around, his powerful hands settled on the curve of her waist and, before she knew it, she was in the air again, held up by the sheer might of his muscle.
“I ken what ye’re doin’,” he said quietly, as he turned around and around, holding her up like that as if it was nothing. His breathing hadn’t altered and there was no hint of strain upon his face, his demeanor almost relaxed.
Staring down at him in breathless shock, she feared he was punishing her, and wouldn’t let her back down until she apologized… or agreed to let him have her hand in marriage.
“I’m just… dancin’,” she wheezed, still winded.
“It willnae work,” he continued. “I’ve been to war, lass. Did ye think ye’d injure me?”
She blinked, unable to speak.
“Yer wee hits are like a kitten pawin’ at me,” he said, his arms bulging through the thin fabric of his léine. “It willnae bruise, and it willnae send me away. I dinnae come here to leave empty-handed.”
Anna swallowed thickly, reaching down to brace her hands against his impossibly broad shoulders. She needed to pretend that she was balancing herself, though he wouldn’t have let herslip; his grip was too firm, too solid. But it was better than feeling like a fish on a hook, held off the ground, writhing in… In truth, she couldn’t explain the sensation that coursed through her.
Part of her wanted to carry on doing everything within her power to chase him off, while another part of her was almost intrigued to discover what might happen if he stayed. And a tiny, whispering part of her was just a little bit curious to see if she could break his stony façade to uncover the man beneath.
“Put me down,” she gasped.
He lowered her slowly, bringing his arms in as he did, so her body had no choice but to brush against his as she came back down to earth. The fleeting contact struck a spark that crackled across her skin, making her flush with a sudden and feverish heat that left her twice as dizzy as all that spinning.
“Neverdo that again,” she murmured, flustered.
He leaned in for a moment. “I daenae like bein’ told what to do.”
The tickle of his breath against her neck made it hard to breathe, the usual flow of air getting stuck somewhere between her mouth and her lungs. Indeed, the room was beginning to swirl.
Fearful that she might faint in front of this man, she glanced hurriedly at her mother and father. “If ye’ll excuse me,” she said in a rush to her family and Laird Glendenning, “I daenae feel so well, all of a sudden.”
Not daring to look at Gordon again, uncertain of what manner of blaze might burn across her skin if she did, she ran from the room, wishing she hadn’t insisted on a dance at all.
CHAPTER 8
Gordon marchedacross the shadowed landscape, his cloak flapping out behind him like a giant pair of bat wings. The night was bitter, but he didn’t mind the sting of it. Needed it, in truth, to get rid of the memory of dancing with Anna.
He flexed his hands as he walked, eager to chase away the sensation of holding her waist. Upon setting her back down, he’d noticed that he’d smudged the writing beneath the gauzy fabric, and knew he would never find out what it said. That realization irritated him far more than it should have done.
It was a silly game of hers—what do I care what it said? It likely said nothin’ and that was probably the point.
Yet, the frustration lingered as he strode on through the darkness, leaving the confines of the castle that wasn’t his behind him. Since his capture, he hadn’t slept well, and the change of scenery wouldn’t help matters. Walking to the point of exhaustion was the only way he’d rest at all that night.
He headed down the slope of the hill where Castle MacTorrach perched, and jumped a fence to wander through a fallow field, uncertain of where he was going or where he would be by the time the sun came up. Nevertheless, he was not abandoning his mission; he was merely leaving it in the distance for a while, to clear his head.
Over another fence, across a swift-moving brook, and through a thinned-out stretch of woodland, he blinked in surprise as he stumbled upon the moon. Rather, the reflection of it, the true moon coming out from behind a raincloud to shine its full glory down on the mirror-still surface of a loch.
“Aye,” he murmured, making his way to a flat boulder at the edge of a pebbled shore, “that’s better.”
