The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,5
Now you are free to partner with whomever you please.”
He urged her to walk beside him. “Perhaps you misstepped a time or two, but you danced as well as everyone else if not better. And the tempo of a reel is fast.”
“But not unfamiliar. There were too many dancers and the floor uneven.”
“Which makes me all the more impressed.”
“Please. There is no need to fill me with false praise.”
“I assure you, lass. There is nothing false in a word I utter.”
Chapter Two
Ciar stood in the shadows beneath the hall’s balcony and sipped a frothing ale as he watched Emma Grant interact with the people on the dais. The bonny lass never ceased to amaze him, and tonight was no different. In fact, every time he set eyes on her she grew more radiant.
And he had no business noticing.
Presently, peril gripped the kingdom. Queen Anne had taken to her bed and wasn’t expected to rise. With no heir, the monarchy was in crisis. Or was soon to be. Every Jacobite loyalist stood ready to march into battle, including Ciar’s army.
He hoped and prayed this political unease would not erupt in war. When the time came to appoint a successor, surely people on both sides of the dispute would see reason. There was only one rightful king, regardless of his religion, and it was nigh time to own to it.
At any moment the MacDougall clan might be called upon to take up arms. Men would die, and Ciar certainly had no illusions of invincibility. His kin had lost their lives fighting for the cause. Until this matter was settled, his life as well as the lives of his men were in peril, and he could do no more than appreciate the courage of his greatest ally’s sister and admire her from afar.
Braemar Livingstone, Dunollie’s top man and closest friend, sidled beside him. “Are you enjoying the festivities, m’laird?”
Nodding, Ciar raised his cup. “Lochiel always entertains with a grand gathering, I’ll say.”
“No argument there.” Livingstone took a tankard of ale from a passing footman. “Any rumblings about…er…the state of the kingdom?”
“’Tis neither the time nor place. Lochiel’s heir was married but a few hours ago, though I reckon in the coming days I’ll be summoned to the chieftain’s solar.”
“I’d think no less.”
Ciar swilled his ale. Over the rim of his tankard he watched as Grant escorted his sister to the floor for a strathspey—a slower, more civilized dance than a reel. Moving like a swan, Emma wore a primrose-colored gown that accented her rich auburn tresses. In truth, he’d adored that mane of hair since the first time he had set eyes upon the lass.
She’d been no more than seven years of age when they’d been introduced, and even as a child, she was a sight to behold. At thirteen Ciar had considered himself far older, and in no way smitten. He had, however, instantly felt a need to protect the lass, though at Glenmoriston her malady never seemed to pose much of a problem. Blind since birth, Emma went about as if all of her senses were engaged. She brushed things with her fingertips to find her way. Her hearing was as acute as a doe’s. Indeed, she’d discerned the various dishes at tonight’s meal, demonstrating her keen sense of smell.
This eve she wore her coiffure pinned up in a chignon with soft ringlets framing her face and slender neck. Her curls bounced as Grant led her through the dance.
Pity those lovely eyes had failed her.
“I’m looking forward to the games,” said Livingstone, interrupting Ciar’s thoughts.
“I am as well.”
“You seem reserved, m’laird. Is something amiss?”
Ciar emptied his tankard. “Not at all.”
“You wouldn’t have eyes for the Grant lass, would ye?”
He arched an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, you were sitting beside her at the high table. You danced with her. And I clearly remember you danced with her last time we attended a wedding at Achnacarry as well.”
“Observant of you to remember, but Miss Emma is the sister of my closest ally. The host saw fit to seat me beside her, and it was the right thing to do to ask the maid to dance.”
“She’s bonny, except—”
A spark of fiery heat flashed up the back of Ciar’s neck. “Except nothing. You’ll do well to leave your observations at ‘bonny.’”
“Aye, m’laird.” Livingstone saluted with his tankard. “I believe there’s a lass across the hall who hasn’t taken a turn. Perhaps I’ll find someone to introduce me.”