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‘She’s wearing Lochmore colours.’
He turned at his aunt’s raspy voice. Her scent of whisky usually warned him she was within hailing distance, but he had been distracted.
‘She is part of Bella’s family.’
‘Aye, but she isn’t a Lochmore any more than that spoilt piece of spun sugar was.’
He laughed at the absurdity of calling Bella anything so whimsical. Morag grunted.
‘Fair enough. She was hard as nails, your countess. But still spoilt. The McCrieffs won’t like another of your Englishwomen wearing orange, you know.’
‘Since when do you care about clan politics?’
‘Since Hamish died. He never had the nerve to dislodge me from my tower, but a new mistress might. Not a McCrieff, though—she would respect Lochmore heritage and not try to clear out the inconvenient womenfolk like your previous wife would have done had she outlived Hamish. So if you must wed it might as well be a McCrieff. Your English widow will have to go, though. Lady Aberwyld won’t like another young woman living here once her daughter is made Duchess, especially not if she sees you watching her that way.’
He resisted the urge to move away from Morag and her bitterness. She was and had always been ruled by her fears.
‘Mrs Langdale never intended to remain at Lochmore beyond a month. She has her own plans. When I wed...’ The words ran dry, soaked up by a throat as parched as any of Jamie’s deserts. It was inevitable, it was already in motion. Every movement of the guests in this great grey room was a testimony to that wedding-to-be. The melding of the tribes, the burying of hatchets, the creation of a new future for Jamie. It was as unstoppable as any Greek fable told—running from your fate served no purpose but delaying the inevitable.
‘Aye. When you wed. That bone is sticking in your gullet, isn’t it?’ Morag said, her voice ripe with spite.
The music began again and he moved away from Morag. Hell was not always fire and brimstone. Sometimes it was a well-appointed ballroom with the music spinning you closer to the rest of your lonely life.
He deserved a little escape from his fast-approaching fate, he told himself as he approached Jo. He was almost upon her when Malcolm and Donald nodded in his direction and she turned. The fairy-light fabric spread and gathered again about her legs and gold glinted in the embroidered stars along her bodice. He already had a very fair impression of her breasts from their interlude on the beach path, but under the warm glow of the candlelit chandeliers he could see how perfectly they curved above her bodice. They would be warm and soft and fit into his palms and... God in heaven, he had better stop now or his erection would pitch a tent in his kilt.
‘You promised me a waltz, Mrs Langdale.’
‘Unfair! I was trying to convince her of the same, Lochmore.’ MacGregor laughed.
‘You’ve already had a dance and that orange clashes with your tartan, MacGregor,’ Duncan McCrieff said with ponderous joviality. ‘Besides, I’m the better dancer.’
‘Nevertheless, as host I claim precedence. Mrs Langdale?’ He held out his hand and, though her smile was a little forced, she came to him. He wondered if perhaps she was interested in either of those foppish fribbles. She had every right. Perhaps it would even suit her to secure herself a husband here rather than attempt to strike out on her own as a schoolmistress. It was certainly a more sensible choice and he had no right to object, certainly none to feel such a burn of jealousy.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ He tried to keep his voice level, but she noticed the edge, her hand twitching under his where he held it to his arm.
‘Very much, Your Grace.’
‘I gather from your becoming colour they have been plying you with compliments.’
‘Everyone has been very kind.’
‘Was that kindness on exhibit there just now? It looked like something far less uninterested.’
She tried to draw her hand from his arm, but he pressed it there more firmly. He was being an ill-tempered idiot, but it was beyond him. He did not like those men fawning over her and he did not like not liking it. Perhaps if he said nothing...
‘Why are you angry, Your Grace? Is something wrong?’ She spoke softly, with real concern, which only fed his self-disgust.
