Round and round the two circles went, the women lingering in front of Ian, the men pushing him on.
Lyssa tried not to pay attention to any of the games. After all, what did she care who danced with whom?
The music stopped. She found herself in front of a thin man with legs like walking sticks that made him appear comical in his kilt.
Then, suddenly, one man bumped another, and Ian was shoved to stand in front of her.
The men looked at each other in triumph. “Sad news,” one of them said to Ian. “Looks like you’ll be dancing with your sister.”
His announcement met exultant shouts from the men and miffed mews from the women. The plump girl next to Lyssa walked off in a pique of temper rather than dance with the man in front of her.
But the music didn’t wait for anyone. Immediately the music of a Scottish reel filled the air and everyone’s feet started moving…save for Lyssa’s and Ian’s.
She looked up to him. Not for the first time was she struck at how tall he was, except this time was different. There was music and laughter in the night air and somehow, being with him seemed more intimate.
He made a wry face. “Shall we?”
Lyssa had no choice. Everyone was dancing, and they were watching. Reluctantly, she placed her hand on the tips of his long fingers. His hand came down at her waist and she knew he felt as awkward as she did, because he barely rested it there.
They started dancing, joining the skipping line, and were surprisingly very compatible as partners. They moved together well and within heartbeats, Lyssa forgot the charade of being brother and sister, and even class distinctions. Instead, she enjoyed dancing with a man who did it well. A man who was attractive enough to command everyone’s attention. A man who, when he laughed as they missed a step like he just did, made her stomach go fluttery.
Her stomach had never fluttered before. For anyone.
And she sensed she was not the only one affected. His hold at her waist had grown more possessive. He pressed her closer to him and did not shift when her breast brushed against the side of his chest. At one point, when the dance called for her to lean in to him, was it her imagination or did he hold her close for a moment? Very close.
She didn’t question these intoxicating new feelings. She didn’t put up barriers or walls. She accepted…and lost herself in the music, the night, and the presence of this man.
And when the music stopped, neither one of them moved away from the other.
Except that all of the men had come up to clap Ian on the back and laugh at him for the joke they had played. The women crowded in, too, wanting to win his attention…and Lyssa, still caught in a haze of bewilderment at her uncertain sense of longing, found herself pushed back and out of the way.
That was fine with her. She needed a moment to sort things out.
She wandered over to Maggie, who was busy comparing notes with friends on the births of her children. Jean giggled with some other women. Lyssa would have crossed over to her except that an older gentleman took that time to ask Jean to dance, much to the amusement of her friends.
The next set started and Lyssa drifted over to the whiskey table feeling very much alone. For a second, she was tempted to have another nip, but decided what she really needed was to take a bit of a walk to clear her head. Whiskey fumes were obviously putting her in a self-pitying mood. After all, what did she care who Ian danced with?
She checked to make sure Mr. Anderson was occupied dancing. She had no desire to run into him in the dark. He was…but she didn’t see Ian. She decided to search him out and moved toward the edge of the torchlight.
Groups of people stood around, their laughter adding to the music. One or two men called to her, a sign the drink was getting to them, too. She ignored them.
Away from the house, the village was quiet. In the full moonlight, she easily found a path that led down to the millstream. She’d not followed it far when she heard the sound of whispering and recognized the low timbre of Ian’s voice.
Lyssa started to call his name, but then some inner sense warned her to hesitate. In the silence, a woman giggled and there followed the rustle of clothing.
She should have stopped there. It would have been polite and prudent. But there was whiskey in her veins and a woman’s curiosity to be satisfied.
Quietly, she moved closer until she could look around a bend in the path. There in the dark shade of a tree, Ian had his arms around the Widow Potter—or, to be more correct, she had her arms around him. She’d already removed his jacket and was laughingly trying to pull his shirt from his breeches, which he seemed to be trying to avoid even while they were both very involved with a kiss.
Lyssa didn’t know what to do. To think that only moments earlier she’d been attracted to him to the point of confusion. Now, a part of her wanted to march over and pull the brazen widow off of him. Another part wanted to turn tail and run as far away from him as possible, especially when his hand came up to cover the widow’s right breast. Lyssa could see where it was as plain as day in the moonlight!
The widow moaned like a cat in heat, her leg coming up to wrap around his thigh—
“Ian?”
The girl’s voice on the path above Lyssa not only startled her, but also caught the lovers. Ian pulled away to put on his jacket while the widow hurriedly rearranged her clothing. “I can’t be seen like this. Not tonight!” she said with belated worry.
Ian merely grunted a response and pushed a hand through his disheveled hair. Lyssa wondered if she’d been wrong about his sobriety. He didn’t quite seem himself and there was a frown between his brows as if something bothered him.
