brothers.
Perhaps she could at least give this handsome warrior one dance. It would be her chance to find out what it felt like to be admired. To have fun. If her sire caught her, she would pay. In fact, her palms broke out in a sweat just at the thought of it. But that feeling of awakening was tantalizing—as if something inside of her had burst open, like the very first bloom of spring peeking through the snow. It begged to be given the opportunity to be something new.
Perhaps it was worth the risk.
Perhaps he was worth the risk.
She whispered, “Just one. Teach me how to dance.” She held her hand out and said, “But we must be quiet, if you please. Are you a Grant?”
“I’m the son of Finlay MacNicol and Kyla Grant. And I’m the best dancer you’ll ever meet,” he said with a wink. “Come along, Branwen, and you’ll see.”
She followed him, but he brought her much too close to her brother. She leaned in, his pleasant scent beckoning her to come even closer, and said, “Over there. I don’t wish for my sire to see me.”
He nodded, tugging her along behind him, elbowing a few dancers along the way. When they stopped, he took a moment to demonstrate the steps. They seemed simple enough, so she started moving with the music, feeling the ache of self-consciousness as she did so.
“You have it,” Alick said. “Dance with me.”
The music was lively and quick, and Alick showed her more steps until they were twirling and laughing together, her heart filled with the joy of the beat, the movement, and Alick’s wide grin. His hair fell to his shoulders, straight with just a touch of a wave, and his green eyes danced as much as his feet. They had a glitter that held a promise of a joyful heart. Oh, how she wished this moment could last forever.
For a few moments, it was as if they were the only two in the hall, just Alick and Branwen twirling to the music, feeling the beat, gazing into each other’s eyes. This would be a moment she’d never forget. So joyful she almost forgot where she was and, more importantly, who was around her.
And then the worst happened. The booming voice of her father, Arnald Denton, carried across the hallway from the door on the opposite end. “How dare you!” His bellow halted all the dancers mid-step, and even the lutist stopped playing.
He marched across the hall, shoving others out of his way in his haste to get to her, and when he reached her, he raised his hand for a slap. His short frame shook with a violent anger she knew all too well.
Branwen closed her eyes because she’d learned watching made it worse. So did crying out. When she did that, he’d only hit her harder the next time.
Only it didn’t happen at all. She opened her eyes to find Alick with his hand on her father’s wrist, stopping the brutal slap before it could connect.
The fire in Alick’s gaze warmed her insides.
She’d found her hero.
“How dare you. Let go of my hand,” her sire ground out through a clenched jaw.
“I will once you promise not to strike your daughter. I’m assuming she’s your daughter, but I don’t know that for certain.” He towered over her father, but it didn’t seem to frighten the man she’d begun to hate.
“She is my daughter, and I will treat her as I wish.” The fury in his brown eyes intensified.
“You treat your own blood so cruelly? And for what, having a dance? You’ll not do so in front of me.”
Her brother appeared behind her father. “She was dancing and laughing, Papa. I heard her. Her skirts were flying up, too.”
“Who the hell are you?” Alick asked, turning abruptly toward the voice.
“Do not speak to my son in such a way. You will respect him,” Father warned, doing his best to tug his hand out of Alick’s tight grasp. “Release me at once.”
“You respect your son but not your daughter?” he asked with distaste. “I’ll be happy to release you once you promise not to strike your daughter and swear never to do it again. Because if you do, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and toss you out through our gates. I can see in her eyes that you’ve done it before. She closed them to keep from watching your blow hit flesh.”
“Release me at once,” he repeated, his snarl growing.
“Papa, I