Page 79 of Ruined By the Ruthless Highlander
The joyful cheer grew closer with every step of the horse until it was no longer distant but all around them.
Marian’s eyes widened as they came to a stop in the vast courtyard. She took in the scene before her, straightening her back as she looked around in awe.
She turned her head back slightly. “What is this?” she asked Lachlan, her voice filled with quiet excitement.
She had forgotten about his closeness for a moment, but the sound of his voice near her ear quickly reminded her.
“’Tis a cèilidh,” he replied, the word rolling off his Gaelic tongue with an ease that was slowly becoming familiar to her ears.
Marian cleared her throat. She held on to the reins as he dismounted behind her, feeling the roughness of the thick material in contrast to her lace gloves.
She hadn’t expected to attend a Highland ball, but now that she was here, she was grateful to have dressed the part.
Lachlan held out his hand to help her off the horse, and she took it without thinking, giving him a small smile once her feet touched the ground.
“Thank you, my Laird,” she said, marveling at how much smoother it was than her ascent had been.
She held her cloak in one hand and straightened her gown as best as she could with the other. Her shawl nearly fell off her shoulders, and she adjusted it quickly, even as its flimsy material flailed in the wind.
A sharp sound escaped Lachlan’s lips, almost like a laugh, and she turned around to look at him, her eyebrow rising slightly.
“Have you something to say, my Laird?” Her voice held a hint of playfulness.
The corner of Lachlan’s mouth twitched. “’Tis nothin’,” he said, his gaze flicking to the cloak in her hand and back to her pouty lips. “Why do ye have the cloak if ye willnae wear it?”
Marian rolled her eyes, one hand rising to tuck her hair behind her ear.
It is no surprise that a laird does not understand the rules of fashion.
Her lips curled slightly as she thought of a more suitable answer.
“I cannot conceal my attire behind a cloak unless need be,” she explained.
Lachlan made a low sound in his throat, unimpressed.
“Aye,” he muttered. “And ye’ll break yer neck tryin’ to manage it.”
Her cheeks flushed.
She stood dumbfounded as he took the cloak from her and marched ahead as though he owned the place. Her heart skipped a beat at the gesture, though she did not dare to admit it.
He did not even ask.
Marian scoffed, though she could not help but notice how he held her cloak carefully, draping it over his arm rather than tossing it over his shoulder.
She cleared her throat, quickening her steps to catch up with him, and neither of them spoke again.
The cèilidh quickly soaked up all their attention.
It was already in full swing. Torches blazed along the walls of the castle, and laughter rose from every direction, mingling with the rhythm of boots striking the wooden floors in the Great Hall.
The chill of the evening air brushed against Marian’s cheeks as they walked up to the entrance, though the warmth spilling from the castle made it feel immediately welcoming.
A young laird strode forward the moment he saw them, his surprised gaze lingering particularly on Lachlan.
“Ye must be Laird MacLeod.” He stretched out his hand for a shake.
Lachlan took it firmly. “I presume ye are Laird Murray.”
