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“WHY DON’T YE take to the floor, Brodie?”

Out of breath from dancing with his wife, Iver returned to the laird’s table and sank into his carven chair. Once the music had started, and the women, except for Sheena, had joined the revelry, Brodie shifted position so that he sat next to Iver.

Cradling the cup of ale he’d been nursing for a while now, Brodie snorted. “I think not.”

“Go on … the lasses outnumber the lads down there.”

Brodie shook his head, even as his gaze traveled to the swirling dancers. The cèilidh was in full swing. They’d formed a ring, holding hands as they skipped right, and then left.

Both Lennox and Kerr were among them, foolish grins on their faces.

Brodie’s lip curled. There had been a time when Lennox was the most reluctant of all the brothers to dance at celebrations. But Davina had changed all that. These days, she hardly had to drag Len out onto the dance floor. He went willingly.

“I’m not in the mood,” he replied grumpily. That wasn’t a lie. Restlessness churned through him. He longed to slip outside, saddle Brèagha, and make for Ceann Locha. They didn’t need him here anyway.

Iver gave a rueful shake of his head yet didn’t push further. None of his brothers did when Brodie started brooding. They read him well.

“Ye’ve been busy in the forge, of late,” Iver said then, tactfully changing the subject. “We aren’t working ye too hard, are we?”

Brodie shook his head. “I like to keep busy, ye know that.”

“Aye … but ye would tell me if anything was bothering ye, wouldn’t ye?” Iver asked, his brow furrowing. “I don’t want any resentment to fester.”

Brodie slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, brother … I’m happy at Dun Ugadale. Why would I resent ye?”

Of course, he knew why Iver worried. Iver had only recently healed a rift between himself and Lennox. Unbeknown to the others, Lennox had nursed a grudge against his elder brother—and Iver didn’t want Brodie to take a similar path.

“I would hope ye don’t,” Iver replied softly as their gazes met. “But I know life hasn’t always been easy for ye here.”

“Aye,” Brodie said, favoring his brother with a rueful smile. “But those days are behind us.”

Of course, they both knew that wasn’t quite true. Iver had done his best to make Brodie feel included over the years—yet Brodie had always felt as if he carried a brand upon his forehead.

His illegitimacy was a stain that could never be removed.

Iver’s gaze shadowed, and his lips parted as if he wished to say something else. However, a moment later, he thought better of it and shut his mouth.

Feeling a gaze upon him then, Brodie glanced past Iver, to where Sheena sat.

Like him, she nursed her drink. His stepmother sat with her usual rigid posture, her mouth slightly pursed.

It was her typical expression. Brodie wouldn’t have been surprised if the woman slept with a look of disapproval upon her face.

It irritated him though that they were both outsiders looking in this evening, almost as if they had something in common.

Sheena’s dark-blue eyes were slightly narrowed as she observed him—as someone might study an unwelcome rodent.

Brodie stared back in a direct challenge. Anger ignited in the pit of his gut, burning there like a smoldering coal. It was an irony that Iver had just alluded to his difficult childhood—for this woman was largely responsible for it.

He’d never let his stepmother’s icy stare wither him, and he wasn’t about to start now. Nonetheless, any interaction with Sheena made his temper quicken. It vexed him doubly that she still provoked such a reaction in him, even after all these years, yet she did.

Noting the standoff between them, Iver cleared his throat.

“I received word from Niel earlier today … he’s traveling down to Kilchurn next month.”

Brodie inclined his head. “Why is that?”

“The king wants support from the north … and he’s asked Colin Campbell to help rally it.”

Brodie glanced back at the dance floor, where Davina swung around Lennox. She laughed as her husband lifted her off the floor as if she weighed nothing.

He shouldn’t have been surprised by this development. Davina’s father, Colin, the Lord of Glenorchy, was doggedly loyal to the crown and had connections with the powerful Highland clan-chiefs as well.

“Who else is going?” he asked, shifting his attention back to Iver.

“The Gunns, the MacLeods, and” —his brother pulled a face— “The Sutherlands.”

Brodie cocked an eyebrow. Relations between the Mackays and the Sutherlands hadn’t been good for a while, yet they had grown even more strained after Iver brawled with the clan-chief’s son, Malcolm, around a year and a half earlier.

They’d crossed paths at an inn after meeting with the king in Stirling.

Malcolm had insulted Bonnie, and a fight had ensued, one that Iver and his men won.

“Do ye want any company?” Brodie asked then. His offer surprised him. He didn’t usually go with Iver on trips regarding clan business, but with Lennox busy with his own holding, and Kerr occupied with the Dun Ugadale Guard, the laird might need some support.

Iver’s response was instant. His face split into a wide smile. “Aye … if ye can spare the time?”

Brodie nodded. He had several jobs to keep him busy over the summer—including the dirk for Lady Greer—but all of them could wait. Iver needed him.

“I’d also like ye to make a special dirk … for Niel Mackay,” Iver added then. “I have some pieces of amber I wish ye to put into the hilt.”

Brodie nodded. His brother knew he was a blacksmith rather than a weaponsmith, yet it was a compliment indeed to be asked to make a blade of any kind for his clan-chief.

“Brodie … ye can’t sit there nursing yer drink all night” —Bonnie was in front of him then, rosy-cheeked and hands on hips— “Why don’t ye dance with Greer? She doesn’t have a partner.”

Brodie grimaced. “Aye, she does … Captain Errol.”

It was true. Lady Greer had dragged the man onto the floor earlier, although he spied the captain now, taking refuge with the rest of the Forbes party on the other side of the hall, and pouring himself a welcome cup of ale.

Meanwhile, Lady Greer had moved back to stand with the watching crowd, clapping her hands as the dancers took off again.

“He’s done his bit … now off ye go and do yers” —Bonnie’s usually sweet expression hardened— “She’s my guest … and I wish to see her treated properly.”

“Then ask someone else,” Sheena spoke up, her sharp-edged voice carrying down the table. “It isn’t fitting for a clan-chief’s daughter to dance with the likes of him .”

Bonnie’s sharply indrawn breath followed this statement, while Iver’s dark-blond brows crashed together.

Brodie went still, his gaze slowly traveling to his stepmother.

It had been a long while since Sheena had insulted him so directly.

Years. Brodie wondered what had caused her to speak up now.

Of course, all three of his sisters-by-marriage treated him like a beloved brother, and that had to rankle.

It seemed to him that Sheena was losing her power here and lashing out in a fit of temper.

Nonetheless, Sheena’s comment was so cutting that he wondered if he’d heard correctly. The looks on both Iver and Bonnie’s faces told him he had.

Brodie favored his stepmother with a thin smile. “So, ye think a laird’s by-blow might taint her, do ye?” he drawled.

“Brodie.” There was an edge of warning in Iver’s voice. Nonetheless, his brother didn’t need to worry. Brodie wasn’t going to argue with or insult Sheena. That was what she wanted—to make him look bad. Instead, he was going to spite her.

Ignoring his stepmother, Brodie glanced over at Bonnie. His sister-by-marriage wore a strained expression now. “As ye wish,” he said, unfolding himself from the bench and rising to his feet. “Yer guest shall not be neglected.”

With that, he moved away from the table and stepped down from the dais.

“Ye are without a partner, Lady Greer?”

Greer glanced up to see the blacksmith looming over her. Dressed in a fine white lèine, loosely tucked into chamois braies, his tanned skin scrubbed free of ash and grime, he was a striking sight indeed. In contrast though, his expression almost appeared vexed, his hazel eyes veiled.

Greer’s pulse fluttered.

Irritable or not, she’d secretly hoped that Brodie would join in the dancing.

Of course, she’d noticed him from the moment she’d entered the hall earlier.

During the meal, her gaze kept straying in his direction, drawn of its own accord.

Yet once the feasting had ended, he’d remained at the laird’s table, staring moodily into his ale as if he heartily wished to be elsewhere.

It surprised Greer he’d approached her—but he had.

“Aye,” she murmured.

He held out his hand. “Well then, let us put that right.”

Greer’s breathing caught. “This is unexpected.” Recovering swiftly, she took the hand he offered. It was large, warm, and strong, enveloping her much smaller one. His palm was calloused compared to her smooth skin.

His dark eyebrows drew together. “Why is that?”

“I didn’t think ye appeared inclined to dance.”

He flashed her an irritated look. “Well … ye were mistaken.”

Brodie led her out onto the dance floor, and an instant later, they were caught up in a lively circle dance, holding hands with dancers on either side as they skipped to the shrill notes of the pipes—around, and around.

For a big man, Brodie was surprisingly light on his feet. He moved with confidence and grace and kept a firm grip on her hand. Even so, the disgruntled look never left his face. Greer wondered why he’d asked her to dance if he looked so vexed about it.

A short while later, the music died away before one of the pipers called out. “It’s now time for the Highland Welcome … dancers, take yer places!”

Greer turned to Brodie. “Do ye know this one?” she asked breathlessly.

Brodie gave a curt nod.

Greer tensed. “We don’t have to continue … if ye’d rather not.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Worried ye can’t keep up?”

Greer raised her chin, her mouth curving at his challenge. “There’s no risk of that.”

“Come on then.” Keeping hold of her hand, he led her to where the couples were readying themselves in fours around the dance floor.

Greer cut Brodie another look. Hades, the man was mercurial.

His closeness made her feel a little light-headed.

The scent of clove and leather enveloped her.

She noted then the smoothness of his jaw, for he must have shaved earlier.

She liked the way his hair curled against his scalp and wondered what it felt like to touch.

The music started again, which was just as well, for it forced Greer to shift her focus elsewhere.

They circled to the left and then right, slowly at first, before catching the hands of the couples beside them and skipping left and right in a wheel shape. The music increased in tempo, and Greer found herself whirling around.

Brodie was a fine dancer indeed. He didn’t miss a single step, drawing her across the floor with masterful confidence.

They moved through each part of the dance until all the couples advanced in a line to form an arch.

Then, one by one, each couple moved under the arch—before the dance started again.

By the time the music faded, Greer was out of breath.

Deciding it was time for a gulp or two of wine, she turned right and collided with the hard wall of Brodie’s chest.

Lord, she hadn’t realized he was standing so close.

Their contact was fleeting, yet the feel of the hard, warm strength of his body against hers caused awareness to jolt through her.

Greer’s chin kicked upward, and their gazes met.

And for a few moments, their surroundings melted away. Brodie too was breathing hard after the lively Highland Welcome, his broad chest rising and falling sharply.

His expression had changed from brooding irritation to intense. And when their gazes locked, something flared in the depths of his hazel eyes.

Something that made Greer’s lower belly clench in answer.

Animal hunger.

Mother Mary. No one had ever looked at her like that. His gaze seared her. Suddenly, it felt as if they were standing in his forge before the roaring furnace. Heat rolled over Greer, and with it rose a desire that turned her veins molten.

He was staring at her as if he wanted to devour her, and she in turn wanted to be devoured. Lord, she wanted to fling herself at him, wrap her arms around his neck, and yank that sensual mouth down to hers.

Of course, she never would. As much as she wanted this summer to be about freedom, she wasn’t a witless goose. Greer knew what lines couldn’t be crossed, and Brodie Mackay was one of them.

Inghinn would be watching closely from the sidelines too. She didn’t want to be interrogated by her maid as soon as they retired later in the evening.

Yet that didn’t stop her from gazing up at him now, drowning in his fiery stare.

“It’s time for a rousing Haymakers Jig,” one of the pipers announced, shattering the moment. “Dancers, take yer places.”