Page 27 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

The moment they stepped into the hall, Marjorie was captivated.

Malcolm Forbes hailed from a well-to-do family, which his surroundings made no pretense to deny.

The great hall had been transformed into a grand dance floor, with torches, candelabra, and a giant fireplace all illuminating the scene with warm, amber light.

Musicians played in the corner, and knots of dancers whirled and laughed before her. It was like glimpsing a fairy tale.

Momentary panic clenched her chest. Their plan was to gather as much information as possible, which might make them conspicuous. She’d had occasion to meet folk who moved in Aberdeen’s finer circles—would anyone here recognize her?

But, looking around the room, she eased.

More than unfamiliar, these lords and ladies struck her as utterly foreign.

The men dressed in waistcoats more luxurious than Aberdeen fashion typically allowed.

And the women were downright flamboyant, with jeweled gowns and elaborate plumage sprouting from their heads.

She bit her lip not to smirk. Hopefully none of the ladies would have occasion to discuss said plumage with her allegedly bird-loving Hughie.

“The look on your face would frighten a lesser man.” She felt Cormac’s hand come to rest at her back. Marjorie glanced up at him and wondered at the strange light that danced in his eyes. Perhaps it was the exotic setting, but his guard seemed temporarily down.

“Remember, Ree, I’ll ask the questions. Don’t say it,” he added quickly, obviously seeing temper furrow her brow. “I know you are capable of more, but tonight you have only to look your bonny self.”

“Yes, we went over the plan.” She sighed. She’d reluctantly agreed that, while she should stand by Cormac, gleaning as much as possible, the moment would likely come when he’d go off with the men. He’d use the opportunity to learn as much as he could.

Davie. They were so close now. It was only a matter of finding out how to penetrate the Oliphant , and they’d find Davie. And so her own inaction was fine with her.

Just this once.

She pulled her shoulders back, adopting the mien of a wealthy lady set to embark to the Indies.

“That look again,” Cormac muttered. He brought his lips to her ear. “What wickedness are you devising now, Gormelia?”

Wickedness. The notion had her looking away, studying the dance floor with feigned intent. She blushed to think it, but she’d been devising all manner of wickedness since they’d shared their first kiss.

He’d slept on the floor, but she’d get him up and off that deuced pallet yet. Her pulse leapt at the thought.

“I’m imagining the fresh torments with which I can assail you.”

Cormac didn’t immediately respond, and so she looked back up at him, expecting to be met by his glower. But instead, he was watching her with hooded eyes.

“Torment me?” he asked, his voice husky. He had leaned close, and she felt his breath along her neck. The pleasure of it shivered across her skin.

Awareness of him shimmered to life. As if a veil had lifted from between them, she became keenly aware of the heat of him, the scent of him, the rhythm of his breath and heart.

She generally felt in control of situations, but this repartee had her scrambling. Feigning nonchalance, she scanned the room, taking in the swirl of strangers in shimmering skirts and velvet coats. “Aye, you. I intend on persecuting you mercilessly—”

“How I tremble.” His hand snaked down to her lower back, scandalously close to the swell of her bottom.

She would not let him gain the upper hand. Setting her shoulders, she continued, “Until either you concede my superior intelligence, or . . .”

“Or?” His voice was bemused.

Curse him, she could be just as casual. She forced her voice to steadiness. “Or you agree to a dance.”

“When will you learn, Ree?” He chuckled low. “You’re no match for me.”

She gasped as he took her hand and led her to the dance floor. As far as she knew, Cormac’s feet hadn’t seen a dance floor since he was a boy. And yet his movements were commanding, his hand on hers calm and assured. It was exhilarating.

“I challenge you to do your worst,” he whispered, finding them a place near the center of the floor.

She darted a quick glance around. Surrounded by all these outlandish strangers, she felt as though the two of them had become a single unit circumnavigating some strange new world.

The other men cut fine forms on the dance floor, and yet they seemed to define the term popinjay , all grand birds in their jewel-toned velvet coats.

They struck her as far inferior compared to Cormac.

He wore only a plain brown waistcoat, a simple shirt, and muted tartan trews, and yet he made all these men in their peacocks’ clothing appear weak and simply . . . less.

The reel was transitioning into a strathspey, and the music slowed, drawing couples closer together, the dancers gradually organizing into pairs rather than groups of four or more.

She and Cormac came together side by side.

He brought his arm over her shoulder, taking her right hand in his right, and left in left.

He stood so handsome and tall, held her so close, their real names forgotten amid this roomful of strangers, and it was a thing of magic.

Marjorie imagined she could be this other person, could be simply a woman enjoying a dance with her husband.

Her shoulders eased, savoring this brief respite from her worries, from her very reality.

There on the dance floor, all thought about the night’s goal faded from her mind.

The music began, and slowly they walked forward, their steps taking them across the dance floor. The heat of his thigh blazed along her own until it rippled slow and sultry between her legs, leaving her feeling agitated, breathless.

“Ease yourself, lass.” The edges of his profile caught the firelight—his strong jaw, the uneven line of his nose—and his bearing struck her as especially powerful in the shadows. And yet she saw an uncharacteristic lightness, too, playing in his eyes.

She managed a nod, pretending to concentrate on the dance.

He gave her hands a squeeze, and the heat between her legs spread to her belly, melting her from within. The floor was filled with couples, but for her, Cormac was the only other person in the room.

“You’ll want to breathe, aye?”

Her eyes narrowed at the humor in his voice. “It’s merely the cut of my gown that restricts my breath so.”

“Ah, is that the only matter, then?”

The dancers began to pivot, and just as she wondered how her stunned body might manage to shift positions, he spun her, his movements sure and confident but gentle, too.

The only matter? Not nearly, she thought, trying for a deeper breath. “I had no idea you knew how to . . .” Her voice tapered off, thinking about all the things she had no idea about. She thought she’d known Cormac, until she’d experienced his skillful kisses, his confident dancing.

Had he been doing more than waging war in their years apart? Jealousy dumped into her veins like sour milk.

“No idea how to dance?” Cormac pulled her tightly to him. The tempo shifted, and couples came together, chest to chest, to waltz about the room. “We danced as children, do you not recall?”

He held her close, closer than was proper, and though her cheeks blazed red, she couldn’t bring herself to push him away.

“I remember,” she said, recalling the many playful reels danced at the adults’ heels. It had never been like this, though. Not even close. Even when her little-girl thoughts of him had turned to imagined smiles and kisses, she had never felt this. “But . . .”

But had he danced with other women? Had he held others in his arms like this?

“But . . . ?” he mused, crushing her chest closer to his. Cormac’s hand glided from her waist to rest low on her back. If not for the layers of skirts, his fingers would be splaying just over the crest of her bottom.

A peculiar urgency bloomed to life in her core, pushing thoughts of other women from her head. She knew better than anyone: the only mistress in Cormac’s life was the sea. But, in this moment, his body was hard against hers, and for now that was all she’d have a mind for.

As he swung her about the room, her breasts chafed against him until she thought she’d die from this feeling. This unspeakable, almost angry need for him simply to stop, for all the others simply to disappear, and for him to get on with doing everything his body threatened to do.

He must’ve felt it, too, for he managed to pull her even nearer, cradling his manhood against her. He looked down at her, his slate-blue eyes dark with lust, and she fought to stay on her feet in time to the music.

“But it was never like this,” he said, giving voice to her thoughts. “I’d always—”

The strathspey ended, and the guests cheered to hear the band breaking into the jaunty opening bars of “Strip the Willow.” They were forced to part, and the moment her hand slid from his, Marjorie’s chest felt hollowed.

She faltered, stunned from the intensity of their last dance. Reluctantly, they joined the others to form two rows, a line of men facing a line of women.

What had he been about to say? Always what ?

Her careening thoughts distracted her, and when their turn came to meet in the middle, linking arms to spin down between the lines of dancers, she was a beat behind. She skipped a step forward to catch up, and when Cormac laughed outright, the delight in his eyes disarmed her.

When was the last time she’d seen such easy pleasure on his face? The sight of it startled a carefree laugh from her.

Always what? she mouthed when next she caught his eye.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, but there was darkness in his eyes.

Her laugh stilled as that dark intensity wended its way straight to her belly.

How did he manage it? How could a simple look from him stagger her so?

Dancing with Cormac was by turns pure joy and utter disquiet, her body and heart experiencing such uncharted heights and wants.

Their turn came again to twirl arm in arm down the center column, and as he spun her, she fought to maintain composure. “Always what, Cormac?” she managed breathlessly.

“Always wondered . . .” They approached the midpoint, and he slowed their steps, prolonging their contact.

He canted his head down to hers. Instead of finishing his thought, the completion of an earlier conversation came out in a rush.

“You’d said you asked after me. Did you truly, Ree? Did you think of me, all these years?”

Their hands parted as they reached the end, and they returned to their rows, their eyes locked as they took their places in the lines.

He was asking for no less than a glimpse into her soul. It felt like a critical moment, a leap into the unknown, a moment to be reckless with her feelings or to tread with care.

There was nothing to consider. Had she thought of him? She’d done nothing but think of him. She nodded slowly, and a smile spread wide on his face.

A truly unfettered smile from Cormac. She hadn’t seen the sight in nigh on thirteen long years. She beamed back at him.

The dance became a blur around them, and soon their turn came again. His strong arm linked with hers. The smile was gone from his face now, his tone fierce and low. “I thought of you, too, Ree. Asked after you, too.”

Could it be? Could he care for her as she did for him? The mere thought made her tremble.

All the couples paired off as the dance approached its finale. And as the music sped, Cormac braced her elbow with a firm hand, spinning her faster and faster till she thought her feet would leave the ground.

He laughed aloud, and the exultation on his face made her heart soar.

The music stopped abruptly, and they fell into each other, their hearts pounding an erratic beat against their chests. He held her longer than was strictly appropriate, but the couples shifting and rearranging around them seemed oblivious to two lovers on the periphery.

Reality slowly pierced Marjorie’s consciousness, and she began to pull away, but Cormac gripped her arm, stilling her.

His breath stirred her hair, and she felt warmed utterly from within.

As she gradually caught her own breath, she realized Cormac stood frozen, his body seized, breathing measured, and every muscle tense and still as granite.

“Cormac?” she whispered, unlinking her elbow from his to run her hand up his arm.

He turned into her to hug her close, caressing his hand up the side of her torso. He stroked his thumb scandalously along the edge of her breast and shuddered in a breath, and she became aware of another aspect of his body grown terribly hard.

“Oh . . .” she gasped. She nestled closer, his manhood digging into her belly, and she felt wicked and free. “Oh.”

“Come, Ree,” he told her, his voice husky. Their eyes met, his blue-gray gaze turned dangerously intense in the shadows. “Come with me.”