Scottish Brides (39 page)

Before he could question the propriety of doing so, he bent his head and kissed her. He heard the collective mutterings of his clan, the sound of approval, a masculine laugh—then nothing more as he seemed to spiral down into the kiss. He had wished for a taste of her and instead had become enchanted.

He pulled away, wondering if the ceiling tilted or if it was only him. Nor did Ealasaid seem immune to the power of that kiss. Her fingers pressed against her lips; her eyes were wide, but not shocked. Wondering, perhaps, but not horrified. He smiled, thinking that they were a pair, indeed. One of them too knowing, yet feeling acutely naïve at this moment. The other, truly innocent, but with the aplomb of a born enchantress. Hardly fair, but decidedly interesting.

Instead of introducing her, which would have caused no end of interruptions that he did not want to tolerate at this moment, he walked with her to the middle of the room, then signaled to the fiddlers to begin a reel.

She shook her head vigorously and would not take his hand.

“What is it, Ealasaid?”

“It's been forever since I danced, Lachlan, and in truth, I've no skill at it.” Her voice was a husky whisper that seemed tied to his loins somehow. Had she always sounded so alluring, or had her effect upon him tripled with their kiss? If that were the case, he doubted the ride back to her home would be as uneventful as the journey here. He would have to stop at least three or four times to kiss her again.

“I doubt that, lass. You seem light on your feet. Shall we not try it?”

“Must we?” She looked around at the crowd eagerly watching the two of them, then sent a helpless look in his direction.

“I'm afraid we must,” he said.

Five minutes later, he wanted to laugh but refrained from doing so in case it hurt her feelings. Ealasaid had not lied, nor had she exaggerated in order to solicit a compliment. He held her hand and showed her where to turn, the reel being danced in a lively fashion with no regard to steps. But even so, she stepped on his feet twice and stumbled upon her own on one occasion at least. With each aching moment, her flush seemed to accentuate, and her discomfort become even more unbearable.

Finally, the dance was over. He pulled her into his arms and without regard to those who crowded around them, kissed her again. It was neither to make her feel better or to take her mind from the disaster of her dancing. It was that he could not bear another few moments to pass without tasting her again. Strange, how the thought of a month had seemed too quick, and now seemed eons away.

“You cannot sing, either, can you, Ealasaid?” he asked with a smile. The words of the prophecy came back to him.
She'll be claw-footed and have a voice like a banshee, but she'll save the clan Sinclair.

She shook her head.

He leaned his forehead against hers and smiled. “Still and all, there are other things to wish for in a woman.”

Her face bloomed with color again, a fact that made his smile grow larger. It was a strange thing, but he felt like laughing at this moment, or holding her in the air and twirling with her.

He nodded to Coinneach MacAuley, who looked pleased with himself. As well he might, Lachlan thought. So far, every one of his prophecies had come true. But there were things Coinneach had never mentioned. He had never said, for example, that the Glenlyon Bride would be a lovely woman with a laugh that made Lachlan smile, that she would have a voice that was as soft as raindrops, and that her form and her walk would give him dreams.

He twirled her into another reel, uncaring that his feet were at her mercy or that she cringed each time she took a wrong step. Some things were important. Others were not.

He could always teach Ealasaid to dance, but no one could incite a woman to be charming or to lure him to her through miles of darkness. He estimated that he'd had less than three hours of sleep in each of the past few nights, yet he felt more enlivened than at any other time in his life. Why was that? The very same reason the ceiling tilted, he suspected.

Nine

 

 

 

Lachlan whirled her in such a tight circle that the
room spun, but she didn't care. Even if she had been standing still, the world would be rocking. Her heart was beating almost too loud to hear her thoughts; her stomach rolled in glorious wonder.

He had kissed her, and that alone was shocking enough. But to do so in full view of the clan was a momentous thing. At least, she thought it was. There were so many rituals and customs of her country that she'd never learned; the last seven years felt as if they had been stolen from her. But discounting the significance of it, the kiss had been momentous enough. Her first, and with such a man as Lachlan Sinclair. But then, to say such a thing to her. Was she awake? Or was this just one of her Dover's Powder dreams?
Please don't let it be a dream. Please.

The dance was finally and blessedly ended. Lachlan led her to the corner, deliberately faced away from the center of the room—a repudiation or a warning to others to keep clear. It seemed a strange thing to do, until he slowly walked her back against the wall, grinning at her the whole time. He might not wish to indulge in thievery, but in all other ways he was a rogue. She knew it by the sparkle in his brown eyes, by the way his lips turned up at the corner. The last thought she had for several moments was that he should not look so self-assured.

When he raised his head, she sighed, and kept her eyes closed. Surely something so wickedly fine should be outlawed. Lachlan kissed very well. Even in her innocence, she could recognize talent. A kiss from Lachlan Sinclair was almost as strong as the spirits her father had made in Tarlogie.

The man who stepped between them smelled of peat smoke. His hair was long and white, and he carried a staff nearly the equal of his height, gripped in one hand. A long cloak covered his trousers and frayed shirt, and his boots were no more than flapping pieces of leather, laced together.

His bright blue eyes stared at her; his mouth quirked beneath his beard. Janet had the oddest feeling that he was laughing at some hidden jest that had her at its center. She frowned in response, which seemed to only amuse him further.

He turned to Lachlan. “So, lad, you've softened, then.”

It was a question that demanded an honest answer.

“Aye,” Lachlan said, smiling.

“You'll promise, then?”

Lachlan studied the old man in the silence. The room seemed to have stilled, as if waiting for something. He knew only too well what the clan anticipated: his acceptance of a marriage, but not just an English union. That would take place in its time. They wanted to see a Scots wedding, one here and now, amidst the music and the laughter.

He looked down at Ealasaid. There were many sacrifices he'd make for his clan, but he was truly blessed in the knowledge that this was not one of them. She was his own true love.

He smiled broadly. “You're a schemer, old man, but I'll concede to you this victory.”

“It is not mine, lad,” Coinneach said. “It's ordained by Fate.”

Lachlan stepped aside, reached for Janet's hand and held it solemnly between the two of his. He smiled down into her eyes. “I'll be yours, lass, if you'll have me. This I promise.”

Janet stared up at him, bemused, then over at the old man who seemed as happy as a proud father at this occasion. She nodded, and the room erupted in cheering and laughter.

 

One moment, she was approaching there holding Lachlan's hand; the next, she was being pushed from person to person, her cheeks being kissed heartily. Once she was pinched; another time, enfolded in the arms of an old woman who was nearly toothless. She was like a leaf in a stream, incapable of doing more than being carried along. Words that she caught only pieces of seemed to float above her.
A bheil thu toilichte
—something about happiness.
Mi sgith.
Tired? It had been years since she'd spoken Gaelic. She was rusty with it, remembering only a few phrases, but she thought she could understand that much.

As quickly as they had entered the hall, they were out of it again. Instead of mounting Lachlan's tired horse, they slipped into the courtyard and down a path, barely illuminated by the torch mounted on the wall above them.

“Lachlan?” She stopped in the middle of the path and waited until he turned. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace where we can be alone, lass.”

“You're going to kiss me again, aren't you?”

“Well, I've thought of it. Have you any objections?”

She turned away, frowned down into the darkness.

“What is it, lass?” He returned to her. His finger traced a path from shoulder to bared elbow. She pulled her shawl down to cover her skin. He was so close that she could feel him breathe, his dark shirt moving against her back, his breath warm upon her neck. “I can't think when you kiss me, you know,” she said softly, the words a confession. One that pleased him, if his soft chuckle was any indication.

“It would be a pity if you could. It would mean I wasn't doing it right.”

“I think you do it very well indeed, Lachlan.” Her voice sounded cross.

His laughter should not have been so charming. He turned her in his arms.

She stared up into his face, darkened by shadows, lit by the faint sliver of moon. “Did you ask me to marry you, Lachlan?”

“Not exactly, lass.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed. Are you?” He bent down and kissed the spot in front of her ear. It made her skin shiver. She leaned into him.

“I've only known you for ten hours, Lachlan,” she mumbled.

“You've counted it, have you?”

She nodded.

“Too soon for declarations and kisses, is that it, Eala said?”

Again she nodded.

“Have you always been so proper, lass? So English?” The question preceded another kiss. This one was even more potent than the ones they'd shared in the Great Hall. The top of her head felt as if it was lifting. She could almost see steam behind her eyelids. It drifted up toward the stars, taking all her bones with it. She blinked, slumped against Lachlan, and blinked again.

The oddest sound penetrated the cloud that enveloped her. Plaintive and stirring, it seemed as if the earth itself had been given voice. She tilted her head and listened. It was a rough growl of unearthly beauty, raw and oddly sweet.

“ 'Tis the pipes, Ealasaid.”

She'd never heard the sound of bagpipes—they had been outlawed since before she was born—but sometimes she thought she might be able to imagine them, so pure and so true that the ache of them could be felt to her bones.

“Are they not forbidden?”

She felt, rather than saw, the shrug of his shoulders. “That's an English law, and an old one. Who is to know what we do here?”

“What are they playing?”

“The Sinclairs' lament. Would you like to know the words?”

She nodded.

“Here is my heart a-calling, now when the night is falling; all the proud Sinclairs greet you here in this glen. Home is the smile to meet you; home is this land to hold you; home is Glenlyon and the spirit of her men.” His hands pressed against her back, bringing her closer to him. “It's a catchy tune, lass, but there are some who say it's played a bit much. Still and all, it's our pipes, and we've a right to them.”

She was struck by a sense of loss so profound that it nearly defeated her. She reached up, blindly, and curved her hand around his neck. She laid her forehead against his chest; her other hand rested upon his shoulder. She would never be here again. And circumstance would send her far from Glenlyon, far from the border, perhaps even to London.

But she had tonight. It would have to be enough.

Ten

 

 

His fingers threaded through the hair at her temples;
his palms flattened on her cheeks. He bent until only an inch separated their lips. Her flesh beneath his hands seemed to warm as he waited, patient. Her breath caught, such a small sound to mark the moment. It was one of complicity more than surrender.