Chapter 20

It wasn't towards Ulla. But that was all right. As was the pair of heavy brown boots that had invaded the periphery of her vision. So long as he hadn't seen her spit the biscuit bread.

"Ah don't believe Ah've had the pleasure."

"Me neither. Not yet, anyway."

Or that when it came to such matters as pleasure, it would fall into that category, although really, what was the problem here? Unless he knew about the bread? He wasn't exactly likely to paw her in front of his guests. The wine flagon was probably in far more danger. And pawing her was what had caused the problem the other day. Yet her gorge rose at the sight of those boots. The desire not to be the evening's chosen one, too--bang, bang, bang, the memories punching her head like steel fists.

Why? When she was dead inside? Because this should have been over by now? Would have been were it not for the man in the alcove, saying whatever he was saying to Archibald Kelty? Well, she couldn't afford to let it trouble her.

"Whit do ye say tae a bonnie wee jug?"

"I'm sorry?" She raised her chin. "A--a dance, my lord?"

"Is that no whit Ah just said, madam?"

No it wasn't but she wasn't going to say so. She swallowed. The last thing she needed was him barking so his guests gaped, the serving girls gaped. Even the Wolf turned his head, his sea-green eyes glinting silver beneath his lowered brows.

"Whit Ah mean is—mah lady," Ewen's breath rushed down his nostrils, as if he was also aware of that fact and struggled to lower his tone, "would ye no like tae dance?"

This wasn't just a question of keeping her expression neutral, when no, she really would not like to dance.Had she really thought Ewen barking was the last thing she needed? No. The last thing was the Wolf striding over here and taking further issue with her betrothed. Not when she clung to the notion he owed her the reprieve with steadily slipping fingertips.And she'd no damned idea what the blazes was being said in that alcove there. About her. About her father.

Ewen wanted to make a show. But the crippling thing was that her father's dungeon wasn't the place for jigs. She hadn't danced in years. A jug would be much better. At least a jug would not leave her looking like an idiot when she was meant to have lived in Edinburgh for five years jigging nonstop, because she was good at jugs. Whiskey. Ale. The things that had landed her in this mess. She could do these things.This though? Her throat tightened.

"Me? My lord?"

"Weel, Ah dinnae see onybody—" He glanced round, cleared his throat. She was willing to bet she wasn't the only one whose palms were sweating. "Whit Ah mean is, is the music no tae yir satisfaction? Perhaps? Mah lady?"

"Oh, no, not at all my lord. Oh no, no, no. The music is lovely. Quite beautiful. In fact, the most beautiful I've probably ever heard, at my father's castle or anywhere else. Yes. Edinburgh … "

"Weel then?"

"Well? What? Oh, I see. A jig?" He stood there and she saw there was but one way to nail this. She lowered her eyelashes. "Well, the thing is, you do me great honor. Very great actually. But I could not help noticing the very fine dancer you are."

"Aye. Ah ken. It's no' exactly difficult."

"For some perhaps. But you see, how can I possibly say this, without giving offence. Ajug, as in a jug, you know?" She directed her gaze to what Ulla, her eyes like saucers,clasped in her hand. "Now that would be much more—"

"Something slower for mah bonnie, bonnie lass o' a bride." Ewen clapped his hands. "D'ye ken she has been learning in Edinboro and will show us ah the latest steps?"

Right. Not what she was hoping. The wild skirling, like rats trapped in the gutter, tailed off, as if those same rats had all just dropped dead. And no wonder. She only wished she could too. What floated out on the air, behind the second of stunned silence while dancers stood frozen in chaotic poses in the center of the floor was so slow, a Clydesdale horse with three legs would have no difficulty cloppinga few steps. Probably dancing an eightsome reel come to that.

"Noo then."

He extended his arm. A few slow steps with her betrothed. And not just her betrothed. If she was to convince the Wolf, should he be busily telling Archibald she had a son, or that Edinburgh would be as surprised as she was to learn she had ever set foot in it, he should be her beloved.Ewen wasn't even being unreasonable. Wolf, or no Wolf, as lord of this particular gathering, he could drag her onto the floor. My God, what was she going to do here? Cause a scene by sitting here, or rise to her feet and pray something would come to her in the time not yet lived? It would surely? These steps didn't have to be brilliant. They just had to be steps. Well? No-one here had been to Edinburgh. How would they know what was danced there?

She pushed the chair back. "But of course, my lord."

"Tak mah airm."

"Yes, of—"

Before she could finish—finish, or move--Ewen McDunnagh splayed his clammy fingers against the base of her spine and yanked her against him.

A shudder ran like a rat up her spine, then down again. She wanted to turn and run. She couldn't. For God's sake, if she couldn't take his hand on her spine, his beer barrel body against hers, how the hell was she going to climb into bed with him, as she was going to have to do in a few days time?

She must. Or she must leave now and in some disarranged part of herself wasn't that like driving a broadsword through the guts of the man who had got her this reprieve.Even if that man's presence here tonight had driven Ewen over here. God, no wonder her head was sweating.

For God's sake, it was a few sweeping steps of the floor. Maybe not time yet spent but time that soon would be. Ignoring the way her heart was hammering, she took a step forward, fixed a smile. A glide, a turn, another glide, then a half turn back. A glide, a turn, another glide, then a half turn back. Even she could do this under the chorus of watchful eyes, some so sullied by drink, they wouldn't know a step from a hop, from a kick, a clatter onto the floor. For Arland, remember? A glide, a turn … How the hell could the walls of her prison cell, rise up to meet her in that turn. Another glide.Dank. Slimy. Those walls she'd clung to looking for protection when there was none?

A glide, a turn. No she'd lost the turn.

Because specters lived in Ewen McDunnagh? In his hair? On his clothes? How was it she had plunged back into that nightmare, where deep in her heart, her soul, in places that nothing ever touched, what rose, what engulfed, was so swamping, her flesh crawled, her breath shortened.

A glide. A glide. Steps no-one in the swamping sea of faces around her could follow despite trying, because these were her steps and she'd lost them. She'd lost them all.

Five days?

There was still another three.

But she couldn't stay here. She was fleeing now.

This very night.