Page 70 of The Moorwitch

If she hears me, she doesn’t show it, for she only spins away and laughs, lost to the crowd. Another faerie steps in and sweeps me away, and my head fogs once more.

How long can I keep this up? How much more can I endure before I collapse? Does she mean todanceme to death? It is a curious way to die, and not the worst, I suppose.

Like a bird trapped beneath a heavy blanket, panic sparks in the back of my mind. The past, only hours behind me, recedes like a shoreline in a sea fog, and the harder I try to define it, the less tangible it becomes. I forget how I came here; I forget what I came herefor. And the need to remember dims; these questions—who, what, why, when—become meaningless and silly.

All that matters is the dance.

All I want is todance.

I am drowning, and I relish the waves closing over my head.

I whirl from one faerie to another and feel a hand close on my waist, another slide against my palms, our fingers entwining. Unlike the others, this one’s skin is warm.

“Wake up,” whispers the faerie. “Damn it, lass, keep your head.”

Not a faerie.

Conrad.

His face sharpens in my vision: human, gloriously human, his skin sun-warmed bronze, his tiger eyes reflecting the glowing lights all around us. His tailcoat is black, the lapels and shoulders crusted with dark jewels and silver embroidery; his cravat is white silk chiffon tied in an elaborate knot; his dark hair is dusted with silver. Lacy cuffs cover half his hands, and a sprig of elderberry and juniper is stuck on his lapel with a raven pin. He looks like a groom, or a faerie prince.

We are a matched set.

I smile dreamily, reaching up to twist my fingers in his hair the way I’ve been dreaming of doing. Just as I’d imagined, the dark locks are luxuriously thick and buttery soft.

“Dance with me, laird.” I tilt my head, smiling coyly up at him.

He curses and disentangles my hands from his hair. “You should not have come here, you daft wee menace. What were youthinking?”

I sigh and rest my cheek against his chest, feeling him tense. I imagine cracking through that gruff exterior of his, breaking through his wall of secrets and finding the soft center of him. The real Conrad. My hand plays across his shoulder and then down his arm, tracing the magnificent curves of muscle beneath the sleeve.

His voice turns ragged. “Rose ... you’re not thinking straight. Stop that.”

“Why should I?”

“Aren’t you a Moirene sister? Don’t you have celibacy vows or something?”

I giggle. “That’s the stuffy old Edgithans you’re thinking of. My order makes no such vows. I don’t have to be celibateat all.”

For emphasis, I rub my hand down the front of his coat.

His heart thumps against my ear, racing faster and faster. I feel a rumble deep in his chest, a suppressed groan, as if he is fighting against himself. He pushes at me, but the effort lacks conviction. I lift my eyes to his again and drag my finger along his jaw, finishing with a tap of his lower lip.

“Always so grumpy,” I pout. My gaze remains fastened on his lips, as heated visions fill my head and tingle through my veins. I imagine his mouth closing on my throat, his tongue dragging over my skin ... finding my lips. With a moan, I shut my eyes and nuzzle into his neck.

Only to feel his fingers tug at something in my hair. They pull away a tangle of spider’s thread, destroying the spellknot.

All at once, clarity bursts over me like a splash of cold water. I freeze in place, gasping.

“There you are, lass,” Conrad murmurs. “Welcome back.”

I blink at him, heat flooding my face as fragments of sensual fantasies still swirl about my head. Fates, if he hadn’t stopped me, I might have ...

“What happened?” I whisper, rigid with mortification.

Fae cavort madly about, the music higher and more feverish than ever. Conrad and I blend in with the immortals. His hands, I see, are whole and healthy again. Someone has healed him. But then my eyes wander away, back to the fae, their whispers and glances and whirling bodies reeling away my every thought.

“Stop looking at them,” Conrad says. “’Tis their spells that are muddling your head, the threads they’ve woven into their hair and clothes. Do not look, and they’ll have no power over you. Keep your eyes on me, Rose.”