Page 27 of Highland Fire

Glenshiel’s eyes narrowed as the Randal and his friend, Murray, approached Caitlin and bowed low over her hand. The fiddlers struck up for the “Dashing White Sergeant,” and Caitlin, flanked by the two kilted gentlemen, made her way to the center of the floor to make up one of the sets.

“What I am thinking,” said Glenshiel as to himself, “is that God works in mysterious ways to perform his perfect will.”

“What?”

“I said that God helps them that help themselves.”

The ball was only halfway over when it came to Rand that there were distinct disadvantages to being the host. His time was never his own.

He needs must be agreeable to everyone, and have a particular care for those timid souls who looked as though they would bolt if someone glanced at them the wrong way.

Next time, he promised himself, he would prevail upon Murray to do the honors.

Then he would be free to follow his own inclinations.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed his hostess of the evening, Murray’s married sister.

She was beckoning him over. There was no doubt in his mind that Maria had a wallflower all picked out for him to partner in the dance.

As a hostess, Maria was peerless. He knew that his mother would heartily endorse the way she shepherded his guests, just as surely as he knew his mother would reproach him for what he was about to do next.

Ignoring that raised hand as though he had never seen it, he let his eyes wander.

When he caught sight of Caitlin, he made his move.

It was like running an obstacle course. Circling the redheaded dasher who was making a beeline for him, the one who had pursued him relentlessly all evening, adroitly sidestepping those two august lords of the Gordon clan, Aberdeen and Aboyne, whose only interest was in getting up a game of cards, he stalked his quarry. Before she knew his game, he had her.

“A waltz?”

“I don’t know how to waltz.”

He loved the quaver in her voice. He wasn’t going to give up his one chance to put his arms around her. “I’ll teach you.” Among other things, but they would get to that later.

She caught on quickly after one sweep of the dance floor. When he sensed that she was no longer counting her steps, he said softly, “Until I saw you arrive, I wasn’t sure you would accept my invitation.”

“I received no invitation.”

“I distinctly remember—”

“What I received was a command, issued with all the authority of an oracle. ‘Thus saith the chief of Clan Randal. The Lord hath spoken.’ Yes, and as it was forcefully pointed out to me, hell hath no fury like a chieftain scorned.”

“I presume from that smile on your face that you are not sorry I forced your hand?”

Her smile slipped a little. “I assure you, Lord Randal, no one forces me to do anything I don’t wish to do.”

He was too shrewd to contradict her. He thought of her chaperone, Mrs. MacGregor.

His eyes absorbed the elegant gown and the modish coiffure, dark hair swept up in a coronet of curls, and he quickly dropped his lashes to veil his thoughts.

When he saw the light of battle flare in her eyes, he sighed resignedly, knowing he had betrayed himself.

Before she could launch them both into a full-scale war of wills, he tried to deflect her into a minor skirmish.

“You have already danced twice with the laird o’ Daroch this evening. Dance with him again and you will have all the tongues wagging.”

His ploy succeeded. Arrested, she stared up at him and promptly missed a step. When she had counted herself back into the tempo of the waltz, she took up where he had left off. “Why will tongues start to wag if I dance more than twice with Daroch?”

“I don’t know. It’s just one of those unwritten rules. Ladies may not partner the same gentleman for more than two dances. My mother dinned that precept into me before my first season.”

“Pooh!” she scoffed. “These are English modes. We know nothing of that here.”

Suddenly, the diversionary skirmish had all the makings of a full-fledged battle. Daroch had been hovering around Caitlin all evening. Rand remembered something else—the proprietary look in Daroch’s eyes when he had come upon him in Caitlin’s cottage. “What is Daroch to you, Caitlin?”

At the bluntness of the question, her eyes went very wide, then narrowed. “You are not thinking of picking a quarrel with Daroch over a dance?”

“If he insults one of my guests by dancing thrice with her, I most certainly will.” The notion was not a serious one, but he could tell from her expression that she didn’t know it.

Caitlin was thinking of pistols at ten paces. Daroch’s temper was unpredictable. He was also a crack shot. She didn’t know how skilled the Randal was with a pistol. “I won’t dance with Daroch again,” she said quickly. “You have my word on it.”

She didn’t like his lazy grin. It smacked too much of an opponent who had outmaneuvered her in a game of chess. Her move. “Do the rules governing dancing apply equally to men and women?”

He wasn’t quite sure what the question meant, but he nodded just the same.

She rewarded him with a facsimile of his own lazy grin. “In that case, Lord Randal, look to your own conduct.”

“What does that mean?”

“The lady with the red hair? The evening isn’t halfway over and you have danced with her twice already.”

The flippant remark on the tip of his tongue died unspoken when he observed a certain something in her eyes before she looked away. It wasn’t jealousy. It was uncertainty. He had the strongest urge to kiss that look away.

Very seriously, he said, “Miss Burnett has all the grace and delicacy of Napoleon’s Imperial Guard.

Given half a chance, she sweeps everything before her.

Twice now, she has attacked when I least expected it.

If she comes within striking distance again, I promise you she is going to meet her Waterloo. ”

She shook her head and laughed. “Do you often express yourself in military terms? If you do, my lord, there must be few who understand you.”

“I think you understand me well enough. I’d go so far as to say that words between us are almost superfluous.”

He had not meant to seduce her in the middle of the dance floor, not for her sake but for his. He was wearing a kilt, for God’s sake!

With his hand over the center of her back, he angled her a little closer.

His eyes held hers, willing her to read everything that was in his mind.

Her breasts began to rise and fall rapidly.

His breathing became shallow. The atmosphere between them was charged with sexual tension.

Without volition, their steps slowed then halted altogether.

She swayed toward him. His eyes dropped to her parted lips.

“Caitlin,” he said. “Caitlin…”

Someone bumped into them, and the mood was shattered. Caitlin stepped back. He could see that she was completely disoriented. He wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms and carry her to his bedchamber to finish what he had begun.

And she would let him! By jove, she would let him! This girl was in no condition to deny him anything.

Triumph flashed in his eyes as he reached for her and swung her into the dance. Where he led, she would follow. A man could not ask more of his woman than that.

By the time she sat down to supper, Caitlin’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were sparkling. She no longer felt out of place in this exalted company. No one had asked her point-blank about her father. She was Glenshiel’s granddaughter. People were willing to let it go at that.

Daroch leaned over and snapped his fingers in front of her nose. “That’s better. You have been lost in a dream these last five minutes. Where were you?”

She dimpled and shook her head. “Do you know, Daroch, I was dreading tonight?”

“Oh? Why?”

Sometimes Daroch’s lack of sensibility could be exasperating.

Didn’t he know that she had felt like an impostor dressed up in her new finery?

Couldn’t he guess that even plain girls were prone to the sin of vanity?

She’d feared that she would be a wallflower, and that the only gentlemen she could rely on to partner her in the dance were her male relatives.

She had been sure that the Randal would be so busy fending off beauties that he would overlook her entirely.

None of those things had happened. In point of fact, she’d had the time of her life.

Looking a question at him, she said hopefully, “I wasn’t sure that my frock would pass muster.”

Daroch’s eyes swept over her indifferently. “You look fine to me. White suits you.”

Caitlin thought of the long weary nights she and Mrs. MacGregor had labored over the most beautiful and delicate gown she had ever had in her possession, and she bit into the meat pastry on the end of her fork and chewed viciously.

Coming up at that moment, Fiona and her escort seated themselves on the opposite side of the table.

Daroch’s indifference evaporated. He fawned over Caitlin like the proverbial lovesick suitor.

Fiona stared, then turned glowing eyes upon her companion.

Caitlin’s heart sank. When Daroch and Fiona were involved in one of their spats, it was best to give them a wide berth.

It was Daroch who made the opening gambit. As though suddenly conscious of the couple across the table, he said in a dangerously pleasant voice, “Mr. Haughton, is it not? We have met before.”

Caitlin recognized the handsome young man as the new tenant of Balmoral Castle. His father, as she understood, would be joining him almost directly, as soon as he had attended to some business in London.

“Mr. Gordon, better known as Daroch, is it not?” There was a twinkle in Mr. Haughton’s eyes.

Daroch took exception to that twinkle. “English, as I remember?”