Page 89 of The Highlander's Auctioned Virgin
The man seemed to catch on almost immediately.
“Uh– ” He cleared his throat as Elinor stared at him expectantly. “Ye ken, I am nae exactly in the mood to dance anymore.”
Ciaran caught the mild frown on her face before the man did.
“Why?” she asked, her voice soft.
Even in her confusion, she managed to be polite.
“Nay particular reason. I think ye should dance with Laird MacTraigh instead. I shall get out of yer way.”
“But Sir,” Elinor called as the man made his way back into the crowd. “Sir, wait– ”
Ciaran smiled.
I suppose he is nae a fool, after all. Smart man.
“What did ye do?” Her voice broke into his thoughts, jarring him.
Ciaran’s eyes snapped up to her. “What didIdo?” he asked, lifting his hand to his chest in mock shock. “He’s the one who lost his confidence when ye stood up.”
“And how exactly did he lose it? Because ye willnae stop glaring at him. Ye scared the man off so bad. Now, I cannae dance with anyone.”
He shifted in his seat, feeling a pang in his heart upon seeing the frustration on her face. “Ye can dance with me.”
“Please,” Elinor scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Ye have refused to stand less than four feet away from me. How will ye ask me to dance?”
Ciaran’s lips curled into a smirk, and he rose to his feet. At that moment, the pipers started playing a jaunty tune. The smell of ale and chicken hung enticingly in the air . Ciaran watched the maids bring in the platters, steam rising from the glistening chicken skin.
He held out his hand to Elinor, his palm open. “Like this,” he replied. “Lady MacAdair, would ye like to dance with me?”
Elinor stared at his hand for a long minute, then looked up at him.
“Might as well,” he urged.
A bubble was growing in his chest. It felt eerie, and he could not exactly place his finger on it, but something was wrong. Something was happening in the background. Something he could not see.
He did not like it.
Elinor eventually nodded, giving in to him. She gingerly put her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet.
Elinor tried not to let her thoughts stray as he led her across the packed hall.
The music was fast, but his grip was steady, each step precise. She could feel the warmth of his hand seeping through her dress, and it did not escape her notice that he never let his eyes linger on her for long.
It made her stomach tighten, though she could not tell whether it was anger or something else.
They circled tables crowded with his people. The air smelled of food and smoke, and the tense politeness of strangers learning to share a roof.
A few of the women smiled shyly at her as she passed. Most of the men did not look up. Every time she turned her head, she caught Ciaran’s profile, stern and watchful. Even now, he was surveying the room as if he expected someone to stab him in the back or unsheath a sword.
“‘Tis such a lovely group of people ye have here,” Elinor commented in a low voice.
Ciaran only gave her a brief nod.
They started to sway gently to the tune, which had turned a touch romantic. His arm remained firm around her waist, her body almost brushing his thighs and chest.
“The music is great as well. I suppose ‘tis nae too bold to ask if ye have players in yer clan.”
