After several more rounds, Mary was picked, and no one was surprised when she selected Sir Cameron. She bestowed her new favorite with a wet, smacking kiss.
Clarice was the only one who’d yet to be chosen. And it was Sir Cameron’s turn again…
But he’d no sooner tapped her on the shoulder when the piper quit the tune. Perhaps it was just as well—her face was likely as pink as her dress. But she heard Sir Cameron grumble, and it gave her an odd little thrill. If she didn’t know better…
But no, she did know better.
She didn’t believe in love at first sight. Long experience—as a young wife in an arranged marriage, and then a widow alone in the world—had taught her not to trust love at all.
And now she had Mary, and they were happy together. Alone together.
But she was at the castle for this one night… Just this one night, could she not live a fairytale fantasy? Even ever-so-practical Clarice Bradford was entitled to a harmless fantasy now and again, wasn’t she?
“A kissing dance!” Her red curls glimmering in the light of the dining room’s fire, Lady Kendra, the groom’s sister, breathlessly made her way to a chair. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”
“There’s much kissing at Scottish weddings.” The bride winked at Sir Cameron, who was still hovering close by Clarice. “A kiss can be claimed at the beginning and end of each and every dance.” That announcement made Clarice’s stomach flip over. “Now, get up, all you lazybones. We’ll have a strathspey next, and a hornpipe after that.”
The strathspey was energetic, a sort of line dance with much weaving in and out—no easy opportunity for kisses there. And the hornpipe was wild. After those, the piper played some lively English tunes, country round dances, until they were all worn out.
Mary curled up on a chair and promptly fell asleep. Finally, when Clarice was certain she’d collapse, the piper launched into a slow, unfamiliar tune.
Sir Cameron took her by both hands and swept her into the dance. But not before claiming one of those before-dance kisses his cousin had mentioned. He darted in, fingertips skimming her cheek, and lightly touched his lips to hers. It was so fleeting, she couldn’t be certain it had happened.
What had they put in the spiced wine?
Her lips tingled as Sir Cameron led her into position, a funny, secretive little smile on his face. She knew her own face wore an expression of shock, not only because he’d kissed her—the tingling proved it—but because she wanted him to kiss her again.
Clarice Bradford, who had never really wanted a kiss from anyone.
Her heart pounded with new and not entirely welcome feelings. “Wh-what is this dance?” she managed to stammer out.
“A galliard. All the rage at King Charles’s court. Or so I’ve been told. Kendra taught it to me yesterday.”
He danced courtly dances, and with the likes of Lady Kendra. Clarice rarely found herself tongue-tied, but she couldn’t think of anything proper or significant to say. Not a word. Besides, she was busy watching everyone’s stockinged feet as she mimicked their steps.
Sir Cameron’s hands felt very warm in hers. She’d never danced a dance designed for a couple—all the country dances she knew were done in lines or a circle. She had to concentrate very hard, and she always felt a beat behind. Step forward on the toes with the left foot. Bring the right to meet it and lower the heels.
“Just repeat on the other foot,” Sir Cameron whispered.
So far, so good. She was almost enjoying herself.
He squeezed her hands. “Now the same, but twice forward. That’s right.”
They came close and then pulled back again. It struck her that the dance was rather provocative, its movements mimicking courtship. Once more her cheeks betrayed her thoughts.
She hated that.
“Do you like it, Mrs. Bradford?”
“It’s…difficult.”
“You’re doing beautifully.” He flashed a broad smile that creased his faintly stubbled cheeks and made her heart stutter.
Dimples. Sir Cameron had dimples. Her lips curved at the sight.
“Is something amusing?” he asked.
“Ah, no. It’s just…” The dimples made him look even younger. But she couldn’t tell him that. “You’re doing beautifully yourself, having learned the dance just yesterday.”
“I’ve many to learn before Friday.”
“Friday?”
“Jason—Lord Cainewood—will be hosting a ball to celebrate his marriage. All the local gentry are expected, and some from London as well, I’m told.” He sighed theatrically. “Three days to learn a host of dances.”
She wished she could see the ball. Not attend it, of course, but just see it, perhaps hiding in the minstrel’s gallery. She remembered noticing a minstrel’s gallery in the great hall last Christmas Day.
The castle was centuries old and terribly romantic. But other than the great hall, she’d never been inside it before, and odds were she’d never be inside it again. Clarice Bradford did not belong in castles. Which was perfectly all right with her. Tonight was a dream, though, a lovely dream…
“And a week from today I’ll be gone.”
“Gone?”
The music ended, and the single word seemed to vibrate in the beautiful chamber.
Gone…
Why did the thought make her suddenly sad? She’d only met the gentleman tonight, so surely she wouldn’t be missing him.
“Aye, I must get back to Leslie. The harvest approaches.” He held on to her hands for a few extra moments before dropping them. “I shouldn’t have been away this long, but I couldn’t think of missing Caithren’s wedding. And then the ball, just a few days more…but after that I must leave.”
“Oh.” Surely it wasn’t proper for her to care about him leaving. She certainly wouldn’t admit it.
But he was looking at her hopefully, as if he wanted her to.
Impossible. Wishful thinking was leading her to see something that wasn’t there. And regardless, he was too young.
It was past midnight, and the music hadn’t resumed. With a lot of final kisses and good nights, the wedding party were stumbling off to
