Page 48 of Love Bomb

All at once they were assaulted by the sensory overload that made up a cèilidh. Dougal had placed several small tables around the outskirts of the room for people to sit, drink, and eat, while still leaving plenty of space in the middle for dancing. Up on the stage, at the far end of the hall, was a lively band, sporting two fiddlers, an accordion player, a guitarist, and a guy on the bodhrán drum.

“No bagpipes,” Bain muttered with relief.

He would rather scrub his eardrums with steel wool than listen to somebody try to strangle a tune out of a sheep’s stomach.

The right-hand wall of the room had been transformed into a bar and kitchen simply by opening the shutters between the conference space and the back rooms. By the looks of things, Dougal was having a great night. The bar was three deep with people waiting to order and bowls of steaming chips were flying out of the kitchen.

On the left side of the conference area, movement caught Bain’s eye and he turned to find his brothers waving at him. He pressed his hand to Rona’s back.

“The boys have a table,” he said.

She nodded, making her abundance of hair bounce excitedly.

As they made their way through the throng, Bain scowled at every guy who smiled at Rona. To his disgust, some were undeterred. For a second, he worried he’d lost his touch and had become less intimidating with age. Then he realized that it’d been a long time since Invertary had seen him in protector mode. They’d just forgotten how dangerous he could be.

Rona greeted his younger brothers like they were long lost friends and squeezed into a seat between Darach and Conall. Bain glared at Conall until he got up and shifted to another spot, then he took his place beside Rona.

“Oh, you’ve got pakora,” Rona exclaimed as she helped herself to the deep-fried Indian snack. “You know, pubs in England don’t have pakora on the menu as standard,” she said. “Weird, eh?”

“Remember Da talking about that pub in Glasgow he used to visit back in the day?” Conall asked Darach.

“Murphy’s Pakora Bar!” Darach said with a grin. “They had banana pakora.”

“Wonder if it’s still going,” Kade said. “We should check it out next time we’re there.”

Rona, meanwhile, was working her way through the basket of vegetable pakora that sat in front of her. It reminded him that they hadn’t eaten yet, and his stomach rumbled in agreement.

“I’ll go get us some more drinks and food,” he said to her. “What do you want?”

“Beer and pakora and chips and onion rings…” she trailed off.

He nodded. “If it’s beige, buy it.” With that, he got up and made his way through the room.

The dance floor was packed with people who showed more enthusiasm than skill. And, as usual, you could split the crowd down the middle by what they were wearing. There were those in jeans and jumpers, who’d made absolutely no effort at all to dress up for the dance. And then there were the ones who’d kitted themselves out to the nines with kilts and tartan sashes.

As the evening progressed, the jumpers and sashes would disappear, and most of the room would be dressed in T-shirts and unbuttoned dress shirts. Although Bain hadn’t planned on attending a cèilidh, he was still glad he had a T-shirt under his sweater, because the temperature was already rising. The room was packed, the music was loud, and the food was hot. Nobody was complaining about the cold outside.

As he jostled his way to the food window, he passed a couple of tourists, shouting in each other’s ears to be heard over the music.

“No,” the man said, in a North American accent. “Kay-lee, there’s no D in it.”

“I’m staring at the poster,” the woman shouted back. “There’s definitely a D, and a random H as well.”

“You don’t pronounce any of it,” the man replied.

The woman looked annoyed. “Then why is it there?”

Bain grinned as he gave the server his food order. While he waited for them to deep fry his evening meal, he turned to watch the dancing.

And froze.

Rona was on the dance floor.

And she wasn’t with one of his brothers.

No, she was tripping her way through The Dashing White Sergeant on the arm of Darren Shaw.

For a second, Bain thought the top of his head might blow off and embed itself in the ceiling above. Darren Shaw? The guy was a worse womanizer than Bain had ever been. And he was a weasel along with it. Bain might have bedded more than his fair share of women, but he’d never bragged about his exploits. And he sure as hell never shared details with his friends. Whereas Darren Shaw had no bloody class and was known to gossip about his conquests over a beer.