Page 7 of Captured By the Highland Devil
CHAPTER FOUR
The feasting and drinking continued late into the night; the wine coursing through the guests’ veins lowered almost any inhibition the guests had. The men got rowdy, the women, lightheaded.
“Can ye hand me the platter of fish, please,” Paige said quietly.
“Finally, ye’re makin’ sense,” Ruben muttered while reaching for the platter.
Outside, a violent storm battered the hall, the rain splattering on the walls, the wind made the shutters vibrate and snap. Yet with the music and chatter, no one inside, no one seemed to notice.
When Galan left the dais to dance, Ruben kept his eyes on his sister: Norah had settled herself into a corner with a platter of sweet tarts and wine. Most of the men, warriors, were getting rowdy but he could see Galan was keeping to his word and between dances, was watching over her.
It was his wedding night, Ruben knew he was expected to be as drunk as any of the men here, yet he refrained; he wanted to be lucid. He was a warrior first, a laird, so he knew he had to keep his head about him. Moreover, he was in enemy territory, and the tentative peace they had brokered was still as fragile as flax rope.
Near midnight, the men and women rose to their feet, pushing the tables to one side as the music got louder.
“Do ye dance?” she asked.
“Nae much,” he said as the men and women began a lively reel. He cocked his head, assessing her body stance. “If ye want to dance, ye can go.”
She drew in her bottom lip and gazed at the people around them. When she released her lip, it glistened wet under the light from the chandeliers. His blood heated again.
“I think I will,” she said while pushing away from the table.
Now, he had two lasses to keep his eyes on. His gaze flittered to Norah, she was still in her place and he reminded himself to go and talk with her before she went to bed.
Relieved to get away from the intensity that was Ruben Miller, Paige had barely descended the dais’ stairs when someone claimed her hand.
Alick Fell was an older man, a retired warrior and a part of her father’s council. His hair touched with silver at the temples and his brown eyes gleamed in the light.
“May I have the honor of yer first dance, me lady?” he asked.
Paige smiled, “Aye, Alick. Ye can.”
Alick limped slightly as he danced, though that did not slow him down. She put her hand in his and let him lead her into the middle of the group as the tune turned lilting.
In place to dance, the villagers began to clap in time, Alick caught her hands in his and they spun around together. The beat was catching, and she matched his steps.
She’d loved dancing from childhood, always felt the music as alive as the air she breathed and the river that rushed pell-mell in the woods behind the manor house. As the dance got wilder, she found herself laughing aloud with the pleasure of it.
As she spun, she caught sight of her new husband’s assessing gaze—turned away. He was not even looking at her.
“Is McKinnon as bad as they say he is?” Alick asked as they spun.
“I—” she had to pause. “I daenae ken him that well yet.”
As much as she had called him a murderer and despised what he had done to her home, Paige did not want to badmouth him to anyone else. Her umbrage with McKinnon stayed between her and McKinnon.
The touch to her backside startled her but she dismissed it as a mistake. The first time. After another spin it happened again and she wondered if it was intentional.
By the third time, Alick was brazen enough to cup her backside. She was ready to push Alick away and leave the floor—when Alick was ripped away from her.
Ruben’s order to Alick was bone-chilling. “Enough.”
Alick looked to argue but the expression on the warlord’s face chilled Paige to her bones, even though she was not in the wrong. Wisely, Alick bowed and scurried away like a wounded mutt with its tail between its legs.
With how angered Ruben was, she expected steam would shoot from his ears any moment. As ridiculous as it sounded, such a display would ruin the glee of the celebrants, who were already circling the hall in their joyous, foot-stamping dance.
“Me laird?—”
