Page 31 of The Swindler’s Daughter

I leaned close to Nellie. “See. He does know your name.”

She shushed me as her hand fluttered at her throat. I grinned.

Lanterns hung from every available peg, giving the space a warm and bright glow. Pryce and Mr. Kenton sat on hay bales at one end of the barn, their pipe and drum at the ready.

It was Rowan’s laugh that made me lift my head and look for him. Pryce’s children, Ansel and Lindy, appeared to be weaving quite the tale for him. Ten-year-old Lindy’s arms were raised above her head as she stretched on her tiptoes. Perhaps they were retelling one of Cecily’s old stories. She had a knack for spinning grand adventures, and I’d heard that Ansel and Lindy were among her first devoted listeners. Cecily still told stories on occasion, though now she did so in front of her own cottage instead of in the stables.

Rowan listened to their story, his attention never wavering. The way he smiled down at them, the lantern light reflecting off his eyes, left me entranced. Laws, he was a fine-looking man. The pull of attraction left me so distracted that I failed to notice Lindy had finished her story. Rowan looked up, and fate led his eyes to land on me.

His grin turned just a little smug. I looked away and tried to act as if he hadn’t just caught me leaning against a barn pole and staring at him unabashedly.

Would he come over and talk to me? Half of me wanted him to and the other half didn’t. Speaking to him now would be embarrassing and he’d probably tease me for staring, but the pull I felt was strong enough that perhaps the embarrassment would be worth it. My anxiety spiked as I waited to see if he would or if he wouldn’t.

Johnny stepped into the middle of the little crowd and lifted his hands. “Shall we strike a beat and kick up our heels?” he asked the group at large.

I cheered along with everyone else as Mr. Kenton started a beat on his drum and Pryce joined in with his pipe.

Johnny waved Gretchen over. “Come on, Gretchen. Let’s show them how it’s done.”

Gretchen bounced right over to her brother. They faced each other, hands on their hips, and at the da-dum of Mr. Kenton’s drum, they each stepped forward and to the left, turning so their right elbows touched. Then they stepped to the other side, their knees high with each step. Their movements grew bigger and Gretchen took her skirts in hand, adding a wide swish to her steps. As they continued, there were turns, claps, and kicks. At one point, Johnny even picked up his sister by the waist as she jumped from one side of him to the other. Gretchen’s smile grew, her face becoming more animated, and the swish of her skirts got bigger and bigger.

Ansel stood in the corner, leaning against a wall. His face became more entranced as he watched her. The twelve-year-old looked positively smitten.

I felt a warmth at my side and a prickling sensation ran down my spine, prompting me to turn and find Rowan standing just behind my shoulder, watching the dancers.

“Have you watched long enough?” he asked.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning”—he looked down at me—“will you dance with me?”

My chest fluttered, but I think I managed to keep the utter delight from bombarding my face. “Yes,” I answered.

He grinned, grabbed my hand, and pulled me onto the dance floor. I’d been watching long enough that I was able to quickly pick up the steps. Rowan didn’t follow the exact pattern that Johnny and Gretchen had demonstrated, but his variation was easy enough to follow. And even though I knew it was coming, each time he wrapped his hands around my waist so I could jump from one side to the other, my stomach would swoop and my ears would heat. It was nerve-racking and wonderful.

I’d only barely gotten into the rhythm of the dance when it ended, and my disappointment was keen. The opportunity to dance with Rowan had been much too short. We stood side by side and clapped for the tiny little band that was playing for us—though a piper and a drummer could hardly be called a band. When they started up another song, I intended to step to the side and make room for others, but Rowan caught my hand, tugging me closer and then urging me into a spin.

“Do you mind?” he asked as he escorted me around the floor with his right hand holding mine and his left arm wrapped around my lower back.

“Not at all,” I assured him as heat stained my face.

He pulled me around to face him. I recognized the tune. This dance wasn’t about high steps and footwork. It was about spins. We started with our right hands pressed palm to palm. Each time the music crescendoed, Rowan pushed on my hand, propelling me into a full turn and then catching me, palm to palm, with the opposite hand. From there, we stepped together, one, two, three, in a broad triangle across the floor, then he pushed against my hand again and I would spin, skirts flaring out then wrapping around my legs as I came to a stop.

My breathing was soon labored, not only from the exertion of dancing but from the way Rowan’s gaze burned into mine each time I came around to face him again.

When the aching pleasure in my heart became too much, I looked away, distracting myself by noting the other dancers. Gretchen was just pulling Ansel onto the floor. He looked awkward and nervous but eager to please. Gretchen was bouncing, her excitement and energy too much to contain. She threw herself into the dance, leaving Ansel to flail as he tried to keep up.

When our dance ended, I was disappointed. That one opportunity to twirl around the floor with Rowan still didn’t feel like nearly enough. Suddenly my body felt that the only right place to be was in close proximity to him, and that was most disconcerting. I didn’t like the feeling of needing someone, wanting someone. I didn’t like it…did I?

But then he asked me to dance again. And again still. Each time he led me onto the dance floor, my relief was so thick that it was difficult to ignore my growing attraction to him. He, too, seemed to grow in confidence with each dance. He was more relaxed and more willing to pull me closer. Was it just familiarity? Or did the way he pulled me in mean something more?

When we weren’t dancing, he and I were often standing off to the side, speaking of silly things, commenting on the coordination of the dancers and the way that Johnny never seemed to slow down.

“Is he ever going to take a break?” I asked with a laugh as we watched Johnny twirl his mother across the floor.

Rowan leaned closer, resting a hand on the small of my back. “Why take a break when there is fun to be had?”

Warmth seeped into my back from where he touched me. “There’s more to life than fun,” I pointed out.