The Laird's Forbidden Lady

As the music finished, Lord Carrick took up a position on the dais in front of the orchestra.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have a special treat for you before supper. If you will please follow me out onto the terrace.’ A buzz of excitement circled the room and people moved towards the French doors at the far end of the hall.

Ian Gilvry, she noticed, left by way of the arch through which he had entered.

With no choice but to follow the rest of the company, she pushed to her feet.

Chrissie and her father joined her. ‘What is going on?’

‘I have no idea,’ Selina said.

A woman standing nearby turned to them. ‘It is a contest. The local lads will compete for a prize for our entertainment.’

‘Not boxing,’ Chrissie said with a shudder.

‘Och, no. Something better. Wait and see.’ She disappeared into the crowd.

The Albright party joined Lord Carrick, who indicated they should sit in the front row and guided Selina to a chair beside Chrissie.

Chrissie gave her a sweet smile. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Excited about the coming spectacle,’ she said, deliberately misunderstanding Chrissie’s true meaning.

Chrissie leaned closer and whispered something in her husband’s ear. Her father smiled down fondly, murmuring something that made Chrissie giggle.

Feeling like an intruder, Selina averted her gaze and pretended not to notice.

Lit by torches and a full moon, the flagged courtyard looked positively medieval. Lord Carrick seated himself on a thronelike canopied chair carved with symbols of his clan. Clearly he was to be judge and jury of the coming contest.

To the skirling sound of bagpipes five kilted men marched into the open area from beneath a shadowing arch, holding swords across their chests. Among them, taller than all of them, was Ian. Two of his three brothers accompanied him.

The men bent and laid their swords on the flagstones crossed at right angles. The music ceased.

Lord Carrick rose to his feet and the five men bowed. Their chief signalled for them to begin and the piper played the opening bars. The men were going to dance for a purse.

It was a magnificent sight. Strong young men in their plaids and white lace leaping lightly over their swords, jumping higher and faster in ever more complex patterns. Ian’s heavy kilt swung high, revealing strongly muscled thighs and … nothing more. Too bad.

That thought brought heat to Selina’s cheeks. How could she be so wicked?

But the sight of Ian dancing, the controlled wildness in his movement, the demonstration of his male strength and grace, called to something primal inside her. The iron control in the lightness of his feet caused her to hold her breath in awe and fear. A man touched his sword, knocking it askew with a clatter. He ceased dancing immediately, bowed and walked away defeated. She could scarcely bear to watch in case Ian also failed, yet could not look away.

The music’s tempo increased. Another man dropped out. And another, until only two of the older Gilvry brothers remained.

Ian and Niall. Of Andrew there was no sign. Ian leapt without effort, his feet so close to the blades he barely moved from the centre of the cross. What held her transfixed was his intensity, the hot blood of battle expressed in the position of his arms, the proud angle of his head and the fire in his defiant eyes.

Impossible as it seemed, she felt their eyes lock and in that moment, it was as if he danced only for her.

Nay, not for her, she realised. At her, rejecting all she stood for. War declared. The final leaps caused an indrawn breath from the assembled company. Yet they landed lightly, clear of the swords, each man holding position until the last note died away.

The connection snapped.

In unison the two men bowed and stood stiffly, waiting for their chief’s judgement while their audience applauded and cheered.

Even Chrissie and Father leaped to their feet, clapping.

Selina had no doubt Ian would win. Yet she still felt anxious until his chieftain beckoned him forwards. He ran lightly up the terrace steps, shook the Carrick’s hand and took the purse presented with an incline of his head. He did not once glance her way.

There had been no connection between them. He probably couldn’t see her on the terrace in the dark. It had all been her imagination. It wasn’t the first time she’d been mistaken in his interest. The only connection they had was one of mutual dislike.

Deep inside she felt a twinge of sadness. Perhaps because whoever he had danced for, he had expressed himself through movement—a freedom and grace she could never accomplish.

The two men spoke a few words, then Ian ran back down the steps and walked away. Only when he was out of sight did the sorrow inside her lessen.

She thought she had resigned herself to the future she’d charted, but for some reason, now she felt thoroughly unsettled. She rose to her feet with a slight wince.

‘Is your leg paining you?’ Chrissies asked.

Dash it all, the woman watched her like a hawk. ‘I am just a little stiff from sitting, that is all.’ And from the tension of watching Ian.

Chapter Two

Ian joined his clansmen clustered around the piper in the shadows of the gate leading out of the courtyard to the kitchens. His breathing had slowed, but his blood still ran hot—battle fever aroused by the music. There had been a time when he danced for the pure joy of it. Now he felt like little more than a performing bear on a chain performing for these Sassenachs. He swallowed the anger. It had pleased Carrick and the coin would bring much-needed relief to his people. Lord Carrick could easily have spent his money on entertainment elsewhere.

He emptied the prize purse into his palm, first paying the piper his due, then dividing the spoils equally. ‘Well done, lads.’

‘What is that?’ Logan, his youngest brother, asked, gesturing to the other pouch Carrick had slipped into Ian’s palm.

‘You’ve sharp eyes, young Logan,’ Ian grumbled. ‘Carrick wants us to make another run to France.’

‘I thought we had all the salt we need,’ Niall said, glancing up from the pamphlet he’d been reading by the light of the torch.

‘He wants brandy,’ Ian said. ‘He will have used up most of his supply by the end of this ball.’

‘Brandy is asking for trouble,’ Niall said. ‘It is bad enough running the whisky over the border to England.

Ian quelled him with a glance. ‘How could I refuse after all he has done for us? Besides, his money will help pay for this autumn’s barley.’

Niall shook his head. ‘Admit it, you like the danger.’

Did he? Long ago, he’d wanted to be a soldier, but when his father died, he’d shouldered the duties of Laird without a second thought. It was his responsibility.

Straying from that duty had never resulted in anything but trouble, for him or his family. And smuggling was a necessary evil. Part of the job, if he wanted the clan to survive. And he did, desperately. It was all he thought of, day and night.

‘What say we go down to the tavern and celebrate?’ Tammy McNab said, jingling the coin in his hand.

Ian jabbed at Tammy’s shoulder. ‘Would you spend your money on drink when your babes are hungry?’

A red-haired man of twenty-five who already had three children to his name, Tammy hung his head. ‘Just thought to have a wee bit of fun.’