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G ripping her wineglass, Clara gazed about the great hall. She had always believed that a Society ball was where she felt most out of place.

Until tonight.

Earlier that evening the great hall had looked warm and welcoming—a fire blazing in the hearth, plaid ribbons adorning every surface, and garlands of fir and heather that Clara had spent the past day fashioning under Elspeth’s gentle tutelage.

Then the people arrived.

Some of them spoke in thick accents, which, though musical in their articulation, were as incomprehensible to her as if they’d spoken in Latin. She could only ask them to repeat themselves so many times before their cordiality turned into hostility.

“Cursed Sassenachs,” she heard one guest say.

Others were less hostile, but they made no attempt to disguise the fact that in taking an Englishwoman for a wife, Murdo had acted against the good of the clan.

“I daresay ye must think our festivities extraordinary compared to yer English Society parties,” a voice said.

Clara turned to see the woman who’d been introduced to her earlier as “the McCallum’s wife.

” On their introduction, she’d given Clara a polite smile, then pulled Murdo into an embrace and kissed him warmly on both cheeks, declaring how much she wished for their two families to be united—while her prettier, more elegant daughter stood by her side.

The McCallum himself hadn’t deigned to speak to Clara, merely giving a nod of acknowledgment before clapping Clara’s father-in-law on the back and steering him toward the edge of the hall to indulge in a glass of whisky.

“Extraordinary in appearance only, Lady McCallum,” Clara said.

“But our Society here must be very different to that in England.”

“In essentials, I believe it’s the same.”

“I cannot accept that,” the woman said. “What say ye, Shona?” She turned to her daughter standing beside her.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Shona always agrees with me.”

Her daughter blushed. The poor girl likely understood the consequences of not agreeing.

“All societies are the same,” Clara said.

“At the top sit those who set the rules by which everyone else must abide—what to say, how to behave, whom it’s acceptable to associate with.

In the center are those who abide by the rules, acquaintances seeking to maintain their position.

And at the bottom are the outsiders, newcomers or those who don’t conform to the rules.

They are treated with suspicion merely because they’re different. ”

“What an extraordinary notion!” the woman said. “It’s as if ye’re describing a herd of deer, not men and women.”

“We’re all animals, aren’t we?”

The woman wrinkled her nose. “What a dreadful notion—where did ye gain such an opinion?”

“From my mother,” Clara said, recalling Mama’s advice the night of Lady Cholmondeley’s ball.

“And yer mother is…?”

“The Duchess of Pittchester.”

“Oh!” Lady McCallum’s hostility seemed to drain from her. “Is she here tonight? And…the duke?”

“They’re in England, Lady McCallum.”

“What a shame! I’d have liked to meet them. Wouldn’t ye, Shona?”

“Yes, Mama.”

The girl cast her gaze down, and Clara suppressed her smile at Lady McCallum’s sycophancy. How might the woman have reacted if Clara said she was the illegitimate daughter of a doxy?

Then her stomach churned as she spotted her father-in-law striding toward them, his eyes already glazed.

“Lady McCallum!” he said. “And young Shona, ye’re looking more beautiful each time I see ye. Why are ye hiding in the corner with”—he cast a glance at Clara—“with her ?”

Would he ever be able to refer to her as his daughter-in-law?

But then, her was better than that slut .

“Come, lass,” he said, offering Shona his arm.

“The dancing is about to begin, and a true Scotswoman doesn’t hide in the corner.

Lady McCallum, my son is eager to dance a reel with ye.

” He threw Clara a look of contempt. “The principal guests dance the first reel.” Then he steered Shona toward the center of the hall, Lady McCallum following, and Clara resisted the temptation to poke out her tongue at his retreating back.

A fiddler played an air as the dancers lined up. Clara saw a man bow over Lady McCallum’s hand, but it wasn’t James. Her heart sank as she recognized her husband.

Would he rather spend the evening with anyone but me?

“Does Master Murdo not know what ye’ve been doing, lass?”

Clara turned to see the ghillie, his usual crumpled clothes replaced by a plaid and jacket.

“What I’ve been doing?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said, a broad grin on his face. “I know yer secret. Ye’ve kept it well hidden.” He offered his hand. “Would ye like to test yer new skills on the dance floor and partner me in a reel? Or I could ask yer husband to cast Lady McCallum aside in yer favor.”

“I-I don’t think that’s wise,” Clara said.

“Quite right, lass.”

“Why, because Lady McCallum is a better partner?”

“Och, no, lass. It’s because Master Murdo can admire ye better from a distance, while that flat-footed matriarch stamps on his toes.” He winked, then lowered his voice. “Elspeth tells me ye’re the best pupil she’s ever had, and she doesn’t give praise lightly.”

“She told you?”

“Aye. Now, lass, shall we dance?”

“The laird told me it was for the principal guests only,” Clara said.

“As Master Murdo’s wife, ye’ve as much right to dance as anyone. Ye also have a right to show yer husband what he’s missing.”

“Very well.” Clara took Duncan’s hand, and he steered her toward the line.

As they drew near, Murdo raised his eyebrows in question, while his father’s eyes darkened in anger.

“Duncan, what are ye—”

“He’s partnering me , father-in-law,” Clara said. “I wish to dance a reel, and my husband isn’t available.”

“Clara—” Murdo began, but Lady McCallum interrupted.

“Come now, Murdo,” she said. “We should commend her efforts. I shan’t be offended if she doesn’t know the steps. She must learn somehow.”

“I’m most grateful for your condescension, Lady McCallum,” Clara said, giving her a cold smile.

The dancing began, and Clara’s apprehension lessened as she recognized the tune Elspeth had taught her.

She followed the steps, twirling in time to the music with Duncan, who proved an adept partner.

When it came to Clara’s turn to lead, Duncan smiled encouragement and clapped in time to the music as she danced the steps she’d memorized.

Then she glanced up to see Murdo staring at her, open-mouthed in astonishment.

Their eyes met, and her heart soared with joy as the astonishment turned to admiration.

The rest of the party joined in the clapping, and the noise of merriment filled the hall. Duncan spun her around as the music increased to a crescendo, then ended with a flourish, to the sound of cheering.

As Clara caught her breath, her heart pounding from the exercise, her husband released Lady McCallum, then, his emerald eyes glittering with desire, strode toward her, hands outstretched. She took them, and he laced his fingers through hers and pulled her to him. She clung to his jacket, panting.

“A reel’s a strenuous dance for those unused to it, lass,” he said, his voice reverberating against her body. “I didn’t know ye could dance like that.”

“I-I couldn’t until a week ago.”

“And ye’ve been learning?”

“Elspeth has been teaching me every day.”

“So that’s where ye’ve been disappearing to.”

He placed a finger under her chin and tipped her face up until their gazes met.

“Ye’ve no idea how much it pleases me that ye’ve learned our dance, lass.” Then he glanced down to where his hardness pressed against her thigh, and a wicked glint glimmered in his eyes. “Or perhaps ye do. Ye’re a true Highlander now.”

He turned to the ghillie as the music struck up again.

“Duncan, forgive me for cutting in. I’d like to dance with my wife now, unless she prefers to sit this dance out.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I wouldn’t want ye tired out by the end of the evening—not with what I have planned for ye.”

Tempering the spike of desire, Clara nodded. “Perhaps I’ll sit out this dance.”

The laird approached, and Clara’s husband tightened his hold on her, almost as if he wished to protect her.

“Where’s yer brother, Murdo?” the man slurred. “He’s supposed to be dancing with the McCallum lass, the steaming lump of shite.”

“Da,” Murdo growled. “Not in front of the guests.”

“ I’ll look for him,” the ghillie said, and the laird wrinkled his nose.

“Ye’re going nowhere, Duncan.” He gestured about the dance floor. “Find one of yer own kind to dance with. Murdo, go find yer brother.”

Clara placed a hand on the ghillie’s arm. “Duncan, why don’t you ask Marsaili to dance?” she said, gesturing toward the young maidservant standing on her own. “She could do with cheering up.”

The ghillie nodded and approached Marsaili, but she shook her head and ran out of the hall.

Her heart aching for the girl’s distress, Clara followed her into the passageway, but Marsaili was nowhere to be seen. Then she heard movement behind the door to the laird’s study.

“Marsaili, are you in there?”

Clara pushed open the door to see her brother-in-law sitting at the desk, a glass of deep amber liquid in his hand. He gave her his usual scowl.

“James, you’re not dancing,” she said.

He drained his glass. “Aren’t ye a perceptive wee lassie?” he sneered.

“Aren’t you an angry man?” she retorted.

He reached for the whisky bottle, but she snatched it from his grasp.

“I guarantee that no matter what you’re suffering,” she said, “the solution to your problems won’t be found at the bottom of a glass.”

“Ye know nothing of my problems.”

“Don’t I?” she said. “You think I don’t know how it feels to be an outsider here? For my very existence to be an insult to those who’d rather not accept me for who I am?”

His eyes widened and she set the bottle down.

“You may think I’m a savage,” she continued, “a cursed Sassenach, but I’m not completely lacking in wits.”