Sword Dance (2 page)

The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that the lawyers had deliberately ignored their late client's wishes to provide for his illegitimate son. Lady Patricia probably bribed them into silence. The woman would never acknowledge that her husband had fathered a child out of wedlock – a child whose very existence could endanger the rights of her own son to Westmore and the vast McRae wealth.

What could he do to establish the truth? One way or another he had to know who he was.

The moon crept over the landscape, throwing its silver cloak onto the grounds, the woods and the distant sea. It was late. The orchestra had stopped playing, and most of the guests had left in their elegant carriages. He should go back inside. McRae – he couldn't think of the man any other way – had hinted that the dancers would give a performance for a chosen few after the ball, and invited him to join them in the music room. He didn't want to miss the chance to talk to them and the musicians about Malika – that's if he managed to communicate with them at all.

However the moment he entered the music room, his brain stopped working. He stood mesmerised, blood pumping thick and hard through his body, like the men around him. He'd never seen women dance like that before, never watched such a blatantly carnal display. Their every move was designed to take a man down, set his senses on fire and make him beg – from the way their arms undulated above their heads, slim and snake-like, to the fast circling of their hips, reminiscent of lovemaking, and the playful, seductive manner they wrapped and unwrapped their silk scarves around their breasts like a caress.

‘They're incredible, aren't they?' A young man next to him groaned. ‘I just want to get my hands on one of them, any of them.'

‘Same here,' replied an older man whose face was so flushed it was the colour of beetroot.

‘McRae said we could take our pick later, if we were discreet,' the young man started again. ‘He said he'd had them all, and they were just as good in bed as on the dance floor.'

He went on to describe the crude acts he intended to get the woman to perform for him, and on him, and it was enough to yank Bruce out of his trance. He'd never force or debase a woman, and he certainly wouldn't stand there discussing lustful fantasies as if the dancers were slaves provided for his pleasure.

The music slowed right down as two of the women removed their tops, their movements slow and lascivious, and let them fall to the floor. Their breasts wobbled when they shook their shoulders, then jutted out when they leaned back, as supple as willow branches.

‘Good grief! I think I need another stiff drink.' The old man turned to the console table behind them where Bruce and he had left their whiskies. He grabbed a glass at random, lifted it to his lips with a shaky hand and drank a long gulp.

The atmosphere in the room changed. It became heavier, darker, more threatening. Bruce threw McRae a glance and frowned. The man's lips were twisted in a sardonic smile, the light from the fire made his eyes shine with a wicked glint.

Two more girls took their shirts off but didn't remove the veils that covered their face.

‘Don't you just want to get a handful of that luscious female flesh?' the old man sputtered, the beetroot flush now spreading onto his tubby neck.

‘I heard they get completely naked, you know,' the young man breathed out next to him.

By now, only one dancer remained fully clothed. He had hardly noticed her before. Although as graceful and skilled as the others, she was somehow more restrained. There was something a little strange about her – something familiar.

He shrugged. He was just imagining things. Besides, the light was dim and she was veiled. Now he looked more attentively, he saw that that her eyes were closed. Was it because she was afraid, or ashamed, of being the object of so much male lust? Or was she just too engrossed in the music and her dancing to care?

The more clothes the other girls took off, the more she stood out. Soon she was the only one remaining who was fully dressed, and somehow she was the focus of all the attention.

‘What is she waiting for?' The young man sounded impatient, angry even.

‘Maybe she's shy!' Someone shouted. A few men cheered and clapped.

‘Clothes off!' someone called.

Bruce's blood simmered. He tightened his fists, hardened his jaw. Never before had he been so ashamed of being a man.

‘Shut up and leave her alone,' he growled.

‘What's the matter with you?' The young man next to him shrugged.

At that moment, two of the dancers unfastened their belts, their skirts slipped to the floor and they were naked. Now only their chains and necklaces covered their bronzed skin. One of them approached McRae who grabbed hold of her arm to pull her closer before stroking her heavy breasts and sliding a hand between her legs.

The woman smiled and slid away in a sleek, willowy motion, to retake her place in the centre of the room. Her companion approached the old man next to Bruce. She rolled her hips, faster and faster, lifted her arms above her head and shook her shoulders to make her breasts sway and quiver. Her long necklace moved on her chest, touched her dark, tight nipples, and snaked down towards the triangle of black hair at the top of her legs. She was so close they could smell her hot, musky scent.

The old man's eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. He let out a strangled cry, dropped his glass of whisky to the floor where it shattered. Clutching at his chest, he fell backwards with a thudding noise.

‘Someone get me some brandy or a glass of water! Quick!' The young man cried out in a panic.

Bruce knelt down beside him and loosened the man's cravat. The man's breathing was fast and raspy, on one side his face had fallen and a streak of saliva dribbled out of his mouth.

‘I think he has suffered a stroke,' Bruce said.

‘What happened?' McRae asked, standing next to him.

‘Too much excitement, I would guess.' Bruce pointed to the pieces of broken glass and added. ‘And far too much whisky. Actually I think he drank his glass as well as mine…'

McRae hissed in annoyance, raking his fingers through his brown hair.

‘Blast, he certainly chose his moment.' He sounded more angry at the disruption to his soirée than worried about his guest's sudden illness.

‘We'll have to move him, of course. Can you help me take him to a quiet drawing room while I send one of my people to fetch the village doctor? I don't want to alert anyone, and certainly not his wife, who's probably enjoying a cup of cocoa with the other ladies right now. We don't want any of them to find out how Sir Colin's
malaise
came about, do we?'

‘Don't you think they will, anyway?' Bruce said as he grabbed the man under the armpits while Cameron took hold of his feet.

Together they carried him to a nearby drawing room where they lay him onto a sofa. By the time Bruce returned to the music room, most guests had left. The musicians gathered their instruments, while the girls got dressed. If he wanted to talk to them, now was his chance.

He walked towards the men first and introduced himself. They muttered what he supposed was a greeting in their language. As he started talking about Malika, they waved their hands, palms up, as if to signal that they had no idea what he was talking about.

Bruce said Malika's name again, but the men only shrugged and shook their heads. Letting out an impatient sigh, he turned to the dancers. Maybe they spoke a little English. The girls stood at the back of the room, and took a few steps back when he approached.

‘I want to talk to you about Malika Jahal,' he started very slowly. ‘Can you tell me what happened before she left?'

One girl started crying, another said something very fast in a shrill voice but he had no idea what it was. It was hopeless, they couldn't understand each other. He was about to give up when he noticed that one of the dancers was missing – the girl who had kept her clothes on.

‘Where is your friend?' he asked.

He gestured to the back of the room where the girl had been dancing. Maybe that one understood a little English. Although unlikely, he had to try.

The girls glanced at one another. An uneasy, almost scared look flickered in their eyes and they all started talking at once. He caught a name,
Ourida
, that they said over and over again. He guessed it was the girl's name.

‘Can Ourida speak English?'

One of the girls nodded. ‘English, English,' she repeated.

‘So where is she?'

This time the girl cast a sideways glance towards a half-open door partly concealed behind a black curtain. Bruce frowned. So the girl had slipped out of the music room. The question was, why? Perhaps she had a secret assignment with one of the gentlemen present tonight.

A more sinister thought made him frown. What if one of McRae's guests was so aroused he'd decided to take the woman by force?

He lifted the curtain, pushed the door open, and followed an empty corridor leading to an orangerie. One of the tall patio doors was ajar. The woman they called Ourida must be in there. He stepped into a hot and humid jungle, filled with exotic fragrances of vanilla, sandalwood and jasmine.

‘Hello?' he called. ‘Ourida, or whatever your name is… are you in here? You have nothing to fear from me, I only want to talk to you.'

There was no answer. Silver moonlight poured from the high glass ceiling and cast ink-black shadows onto the ground. He took a few steps in the central alley, paused, his body tense, and all his senses heightened, heard the rustling of leaves and the soft metallic clinking of the dancing girl's bracelets and necklaces, and smiled. Now he'd got her. He directed his steps towards her.

A metallic object fell to the ground with a loud noise, followed by an impatient cry.

‘Bedbugs!'

His heart skipped a beat. Now he had really gone mad. He could have sworn it was Rose's voice uttering her silly, inappropriate, but wonderful curse. But it was impossible. Rose was miles away, safe on Wallace's farm.

A slim woman's silhouette cast a long shadow on the moonlit slate floor in front of him. As she retreated behind a tree, the silk of her dress rustled, and her bracelets and necklaces rang in the silence. There was something in the way she walked, something…

Snapping out of his daze he strode towards her. And there she was, standing behind the broad leaf of a palm tree, bathed in moonlight in her exotic costume.

‘Rose? Is that you?' He grabbed hold of her slender shoulders and pulled her to him.

She tilted her face up. She had taken her veil off and her eyes appeared unusually dark and large. She was wearing the dancing girls' heavy make-up.

‘What the devil are you doing here?' He put his hands on her delicate shoulders, unable to decide whether to shake her senseless for disobeying him or draw her against him and smother her in a tight embrace.

‘I could ask you the same question. How come Cameron didn't throw you out once you threatened to wreck the
Sea Eagle?'

‘I changed my mind about that,' he replied, shortly. ‘But don't try and turn the tables on me. I asked first.'

‘Very well. If you must know, I was hiding in case that horrible man came to take us back to the hunting lodge.'

‘I meant what are you doing here, at Westmore? All dressed up and dancing like a – like a…'

Words failed him as he looked up and down her body. She looked exquisite in the moonlight – an enchantress, and a creature from a man's wildest dreams.

‘I had to get inside the castle and it was the only thing I could think of.'

‘Why did the other girls call you Ourida?'

She smiled. ‘It's my name in Arabic. It means little Rose. It's what my friends and family usually call me.'

‘Where is Wallace? Is he waiting outside?'

She looked down, bit her lower lip.

‘No… The thing is… I kind of lost him this morning during the riots at Porthaven.'

Anger flooded him, coupled with an incomprehensible but irresistible urge to kiss her – a desire so potent he didn't trust himself. He let go of her and stepped back.

‘Lost him? You did it on purpose, didn't you? You are still chasing after the dream that McRae would want you back if you begged him.'

He paused to draw another breath. Of course she was hoping to change McRae's mind. It was only natural. She had been used and deceived by the man.

‘It's too late, you know,' he added in a softer voice. ‘He announced his engagement at the ball tonight. Everybody knows he's marrying Lady Sophia now. I am sorry, Rose, but you must try and forget you're in love with the man and think of - '

‘I'm not in love with him,' she protested. ‘I don't think I was ever in love with him. Malika was right about him.
You
were right about him. He is a cruel, despicable man. That's why I came, you see – to confront him and warn Lady Sophia off. The poor woman mustn't marry him.'

He hesitated. ‘You mean you don't want him?'

She shook her head and her chains jingled and glittered in the moonlight.

‘Of course I don't want him. If you had let me talk yesterday evening, I would have told you that.'

Something shifted inside him, a great, oppressive weight he didn't realise was there.

‘I need to tell you something,' she said. ‘It's important. It's about -'

The clumping of boots echoed in the orangerie, and a gruff man's voice called.

‘Who's there?'

She stared at Bruce, panic making her eyes wider.

‘It's that guard again. What am I going to do?'

‘You're going to kiss me.' He pulled her into his arms, bent down and covered her mouth with his.

He knew he was being too brutal but he was unable to stop himself. What started as a pretence to hide her from the prying eyes of Cameron's henchman became an irresistible torrent of passion sweeping through him, far too strong to curb. He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground. Her lips were soft, her body pliant, the silk covering her so thin she might as well be naked, and he could feel her every curve.