Page 132 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
“Ye promised,” Daisy reminded her with a mischievous grin. “One dance.”
Amara laughed and slid off the wall. “Aye, one dance. But ye’ll be carryin’ me after, I swear it.”
The little girl led her right into the dancing line before she could protest further. The ceilidh had begun in full, bodies forming sets, arms swinging and feet stomping in time with the fiddle’s frenetic pace.
Amara hadn’t danced like this in years, not since before her mother died. And yet, as she moved, spinning around the circle, gripping hands with strangers and loved ones alike, it felt as natural as breath.
She laughed, breathless, twirling Daisy between her and Myles, who had somehow landed himself in the line.
When he caught Amara’s eye mid-spin, Myles pointed dramatically with an onion and bellowed, “Somebody stop her before she spins a hole clean through the floor!”
Before the laughter even died down, he tossed the onion over his shoulder without looking, and Billy caught it midair with one hand without even blinking.
The courtyard erupted. Amara doubled over with laughter, gasping, “Ye’re both impossible!”
Daisy was howling with delight.
“Ye look like ye're about to faint,” Rhys murmured suddenly, stepping in behind her and stealing her hand mid-dance. “Come, wife. Let me save ye from Myles before he decides to tell them about the honeymoon plan he made up in the tavern last night.”
She let him pull her from the fray, her chest still heaving with laughter.
Rhys grinned and pressed a kiss to her temple. “What do ye say to takin’ a turn with me about the new gardens?”
She raised a brow. “Are ye tryin’ to get me alone, husband?”
Rhys tilted his head. “Is it workin’?”
She slipped her arm through his. “Lead the way.”
They strolled through the west gate, where the lanterns were dimmer and the soft scent of night-blooming flowers lingered in the air. The herb garden had been one of her favorite ideas during the reconstruction. It had been just a small space behind the old smithy, filled with herbs, lavender, and hardy blooms that could survive Highland frost.
The cool breeze stirred her skirts as they walked in silence, Daisy’s laughter still echoing faintly behind them.
It was only when they reached the stone bench by the sundial that Rhys paused. Amara turned to face him, her smile softening.
He studied her for a moment. “Are ye happy?”
She nodded. “Aye. More than I ever thought possible.”
Rhys brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Good.”
Then, he reached into his sporran and pulled something small from inside. A ribbon.
Amara blinked. “What’s this?” But she knew what it was. It was Daisy’s. One of the ribbons that Amara and Mabel had helped her to embroider months ago.
“She made me keep it,” Rhys said, his voice low. “Said I should wear it until we were wed. And now that we are…” He gently tied the ribbon around her wrist, letting his fingers linger on her skin. “It belongs to ye.”
Emotion swelled in her throat.
Rhys’s eyes darkened, heating her whole body. “Ye deserve everythin', Amara. Everythin' I have, everythin' I am. And I plan to spend the rest of my life makin’ sure ye ken it, lass.”
She exhaled slowly, pressing her forehead to his. “I love ye, Rhys.”
“And I love ye, Amara.”
Rhys stood then, and offered her his hand. “Come. Let’s go to bed, wife.”
“Aye, lead the way,” she said, taking his hand and letting her lead her through the keep, leaving the ceilidh behind.
