The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,6
let me stand in your way.”
Placing his cup on a tray, he wove his way through the bystanders toward the door while the dancers applauded at the end of the piece.
“Dunollie, where are you off to?” asked Grant, his sister on his arm.
Ciar couldn’t help but notice how a lock of long, auburn hair had escaped from the lass’s chignon. He rubbed his fingers together, longing to feel if it was as soft as it looked. “I was about to step out for some air.”
Emma pulled a fan from her sleeve and cooled her face. “’Tis rather warm, is it not?”
“Would you care to join me?” Ciar asked, arching an eyebrow at her brother, who appeared agreeable.
The lass smiled brightly enough to match the glow from the chandeliers above. “That would be lovely.”
“I must rejoin my wife,” Grant said, beckoning a maid from her perch along the wall. “Have you met Betty? She’s my sister’s lady’s maid and an excellent chaperone.”
Ciar’s jaw twitched as he bowed. “My pleasure, madam.” Odd. The invitation had been extended to them both. Grant was so overly protective, it wasn’t like him to let Emma take a turn around the courtyard with a man, even a fast ally. What was he up to? Perhaps his friend’s priorities had changed since he’d married Janet.
Betty had a square but affable face and wore a linen coif atop her head that bobbled when she curtsied. “M’laird.”
He gave Grant a pointed look over his shoulder before he took Emma’s hand and placed it in the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”
The lass’s skirts swayed as she walked with her face turned to the skies. “I love this time of year.”
“The long daylight hours?” he asked.
“Ahem.” She coughed a bit. “I wouldn’t notice if it were day or night, but the weather is fine. Even in the evenings I scarcely need a cloak.”
He could have kicked himself. She was bloody blind. Of course she didn’t notice the fact sunset hadn’t occurred until after ten. “Are you chilled?”
Her bottom lip quivered with her next inhalation. “Not terribly.”
Even in July, Scotland’s night air most likely cut through the silky fabric of her gown. Fortunately, several braziers dotted the courtyard, their fires providing not only light but warmth. He led Emma toward one not surrounded by people. “This ought to help. But we must stand far enough away to ensure your gown isn’t ruined by a spark.”
Inclining her ear toward the fire, she stretched out her hand. “’Tis nice.”
“Aye,” he mumbled, not paying a lick of attention to the flames. That blasted lock of hair glistened like copper with the dancing of the fire. Ciar slid a finger beneath the curl and let it slide across his palm.
Softer than silk.
She smoothed her hand over her head. “Is there a breeze?”
His gaze flickered to the curl. The night was oddly still. “Aye,” he fibbed. Ciar spotted Betty sitting on a bench a good fifteen paces away.
“Lochiel’s gathering is planned for a sennight. Ye ken everyone must travel so far for a wedding. We certainly did,” the lass continued. “And Robert intends to stay for a fortnight on Janet’s behalf. She misses her kin ever so.”
“That’s understandable. Do you enjoy visiting the Cameron lands?”
The corners of Emma’s eyes crinkled as she scraped her teeth over her full bottom lip. “May I be forthright?”
“Please.”
As she released a long sigh, her shoulders relaxed. “Visiting anywhere is quite an ordeal.”
“Oh?” he asked. “You always seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“I try to make the best of circumstances, though in truth I’m forever bumping into things. And I cannot go anywhere without clinging to someone’s arm. It is annoying.”
He reached out to give her shoulder a squeeze, his hand stopping halfway. He was a single man, standing in a courtyard late at night with a marriageable woman. Embracing her, no matter how well-intentioned, might be misunderstood. “I can only imagine. But you do manage quite well at home.”
“As long as Mrs. Tweedie doesn’t move the furniture, I’m able to move about as I wish.”
Ciar busied himself with checking his pocket watch while he envisioned the lass walking straight into the rear of a settee, tumbling over it, and landing on the seat, sprawled on her back. “How inconsiderate of her.” As he returned the watch to his waistcoat pocket, a sparkle of silver caught his eye. “Och, you’re still wearing the medal of Saint Lucia.”
Smiling, she grasped the medallion around her neck. “Always. It was a gift from my mother,