And then…no sound in the world, no image, no words could have prepared her for what she saw next. Lingering near the hall entrance stood a man. An exceedingly tall man. One eye patched, a tartan thrown over one just as exceedingly broad shoulder.
Maura froze.
Her heart thundered.
Her pulse lurched.
Their eyes met…and held. Held endlessly, she thought vaguely.
Yet in that mind-shattering instant their eyes caught, that same sizzling sense of certainty slid over Maura, the way it had the night her father died. She had felt it in her father’s blood—she felt it in hers.
By heaven, it was him. Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden. The man known as the Black Scotsman.
It spun through her mind that perhaps it was fitting that she had chosen her garb as she had…She stood as if anchored to the earth, unable to move, to even blink, as she watched him slowly make his way toward her…
Together they stood.
Face-to-face.
Toe-to-toe.
Pirate-to-pirate.
Chapter Three
Alec McBride, Duke of Gleneden, stood at the edge of the ballroom and scanned the crowd once more. It was quite a crush. A faint smile rimmed his lips. He’d never been particularly fond of masquerades. But as he was the guest of honor, he was obliged to work his way around the room, shaking the hands of those he’d met during his time here—despite the costumes.
He spied Lady Alicia McDormand, dressed as a vampiress. Another dressed as Marie Antoinette with her great white wig. A man sauntered by, enrobed in black, with a deep cowl that completely shadowed his face. The man paused, and when a hand with great claws emerged to bring the fingers of a gaily laughing witch to his lips, Alec chuckled. He was acquainted with the inspiration for the man’s costume. Tonight he was the Demon of Dartmoor, penned by his brother Aidan’s wife, known to the world as F.J. Sparrow.
They would laugh when they learned the frenzy had extended to Ireland. Of course now they were halfway around the world on their honeymoon.
Ah, yes, while he’d enjoyed his time in Ireland, he was chafing to be home. He’d remained in London in the spring for Aidan’s wedding. He’d visited Annie and Simon in Yorkshire and his mother in Bath prior to making his trip to Ireland. He wouldn’t forego the baron’s invitation, not when his father and the baron had been such great friends. But the thought of returning to Gleneden, sitting in the great hall in his favorite chair, his feet propped up and sipping a whiskey at his leisure, was appealing beyond belief. And—
The thought stopped mid-stream.
He was obliged to revise it.
Ah, yes, he decided. Appealing beyond belief…
His return to Scotland was forgotten. He stood some twenty paces distant near a tall fluted column when he spied her…a woman who gazed into the throng as if searching for someone.
The set of her shoulders was proud. She was tall for a woman, but small-boned. Brave of her to appear with her hair loose—and bold of her, he thought with a vent of admiration, to wear a skirt that clung to her hips, revealing the shape of her buttocks as she turned ever so slightly. Aware of a low simmer alight in his belly, he surveyed her, an admiring assessment.
She was exquisite. Indeed, there was much to appreciate about the lady.
And most fortuitous for him that her costume of choice was the same as his, for it provided him an avenue of introduction.
Almost before he knew it, Alec found himself standing before her. He had no memory of crossing the black and white tiled floor.
He executed a slight bow. As he straightened, he secured two glasses of wine from a passing footman and handed one to her.
“Good evening, my fellow pirate,” he said smoothly. “Are you expecting someone? Your escort, perhaps?”
He gazed straight into her eyes, eyes that were a startling, vivid shade of green. At his question, the lovely said nothing, but shook her head. The tip of her tongue came out to run over her lips, leaving them dewy and damp, the color of blooming heather after a misting of rain. Desire, sharp and swift, clamped hold of him. He was a little startled at its strength.
Alec’s gaze had already roved her from head to toe. Her skin was almost iridescent, and no doubt as smooth as a pearl, he was certain. And there was a goodly expanse of it revealed, he noted in satisfaction, battling the impulse to reach out and touch, to confirm his assessment.
As if he needed such an excuse. He was well aware he was right.
