Page 202 of Wicked Highland Heroes

He turned to them and said over the music. “Do ye dance the reel, St. Claire?”

“Of course, he doesna’ dance the reel,” Rhoslyn cut in. “He is not a Scot.”

“We do dance the reel in England,” St. Claire said.

Rhoslyn looked at him in horror. “Do you realize what ye are saying? My grandfather intends us to dance.”

“‘Tis tradition for the newlyweds to dance during the wedding celebration,” her grandfather said. “And St. Claire said he hasna’ had any time with ye.”

“Dancing is not spending time together,” she snapped.

Her grandfather lifted a brow. “Ye prefer to retire to your husband’s bedchambers?”

“Mind your own business, Grandfather.”

The music ended and the musicians struck up a reel.

“There is no sense in fighting,” St. Claire said. “It is best we follow tradition.” He extended his right arm and Rhoslyn wanted to box his ears.

“We canna’ dance just the two of us,” she said.

“Others will join once you begin,” her grandfather said.

She shot him a fulminating glance before placing her hand on St. Claire’s arm. He led her forward, and the guests parted. He stopped, took two steps away from her, then bowed as if he truly was in King Edward’s court. Rhoslyn curtsied, then rose as he grasped her fingers in time with the music. He surprised her by turning in a tight circle, then gliding gracefully to the left. St. Claire released her and they danced several steps right as if skirting other dancers. Guests took the hint and three couples joined them, Lady Isobel being one of the ladies.

Rhoslyn stepped back from St. Claire and the women fell into line alongside her with the men opposite. Lady Isobel, Rhoslyn noticed, had placed herself at the far end where, Rhoslyn estimated she would pair with St. Claire for a dance down the center of the other dancers.

They all danced forward to within inches of one another, then back. Rhoslyn glided to the middle where the man to her opposite left met her and grasped her fingers as they turned a tight circle. The ladies faced one another and bobbed around each other, back to back in a circle, then fell back into line. The men did the same and Rhoslyn caught St. Claire’s eye. A corner of his mouth ticked up and he shrugged. She couldn’t help a laugh and the smile reached his eyes.

A nervous flutter skittered across the inside of her stomach. This man was the Dragon. The dragon Duncan said would aid his king in bleeding Scotland dry. The same dragon who only this afternoon chased a goat and rescued a peasant’s wedding dress. Rhoslyn startled at the unexpected memory of his hips between her thighs when she’d straddled him.

Her stomach flipped as the men fell into line. St. Claire and Lady Isobel stepped back on opposite sides when the rest of the dancers clasped hands and began circling. From the corner of her eye, Rhoslyn glimpsed Isobel’s gaze pinned on St. Claire. Ire whipped through her. She took a step too wide, causing the dancer to her right to stumble. The woman righted herself, and they came to a stop full circle, then separated into two lines.

St. Claire grasped Isobel’s hand and they skipped down the center of the aisle formed by the other dancers. Isobel looked up at him from beneath her lashes as they separated in front of Rhoslyn and the man opposite her. Isobel’s gaze remained on him. Rhoslyn stuck out her foot beneath Isobel’s swirling skirts. Isobel pitched forward with a cry. St. Claire whirled amidst screams and scooped her up before she hit the floor. The other dancers rushed to surround them as Isobel wilted against him. St. Claire started toward the nearest table.

“Are ye all right?” one woman asked.

“Poor thing,” Margery Kincaid said. “That was well done, Sir Talbot. She would have had a nasty fall if no’ for ye.”

Rhoslyn stared, stunned at her actions, and furious with Isobel—and St. Claire—all in one. What had gotten into her? A woman brushed past her and hurried after the group. Rhoslyn forced her legs into motion and followed. St. Claire stopped at one of the tables. Isobel looked like a small, fragile bundle in his arms. Her sky blue dress a soft contrast against his frame. He surely couldn’t help but notice the dainty fingers that fisted his shirt.

He lowered her into a chair, but she shook her head and clung to him. Rhoslyn rolled her eyes. Isobel was acting as if he had saved her from falling off a cliff instead of a tumble to the floor. He settled her on the chair, but she didn’t release his surcoat and he was forced to crouch beside her. He pulled back and she looked at him with tear stained eyes.

Rhoslyn hurried to the far end of the table where sat pitchers of ale. She filled a mug, then pushed through the crowd gathered around Isobel and St. Claire.

Rhoslyn wanted nothing more than to splash the ale in Isobel’s face, but instead, thrust the mug toward the hand that gripped her husband’s shirt.

“Drink,” she ordered.

As expected, Isobel released St. Claire and reflexively grasped the mug with both hands. St Claire rose and Isobel’s gaze jerked up to Rhoslyn, eyes stormy. Recognition flickered and the pique vanished.

“Thank ye, Lady Rhoslyn.” She took a tiny sip of ale and Rhoslyn had to refrain from rolling her eyes.

St. Claire stepped back and the ladies closed ranks around Isobel, cooing as if she’d been snatched from death’s door. Rhoslyn turned and found St. Claire beside her. He slid an arm around her waist and started walking. Rhoslyn hoped he couldn’t hear the pounding of her heart.

“Are ye sure Lady Isobel will be all right?” Rhoslyn asked.

“She is well tended by the ladies,” he replied.