Page 79 of Steel & Surrender

Now … he wasn’t so certain.

“Why are ye wasting yer time standing here talking to me?” Ailean nudged Greig in the ribs with his elbow. “Go on. Ask her to dance.”

Greig snorted. “I can’t do that. I’m lame, remember?”

Ailean pulled a face. “Sounds like a poor excuse to me.”

Greig glowered at him. It wasn’t. He had done much to improve his mobility over the past year, but dancing was something he couldn’t manage—especially now, for the piper was playing a rousing jig.

Arabella rejoined Kenna and Lena. The lasses whirled around, their hair flying like flags behind them, while Davy and his friends started to clap and stomp their feet, encouraging them.

“If I tried that, I’d fall over.”

Ailean harrumphed, taking his point.

However, at that moment, the jig came to an end. Cheering followed, some of the dancers retreating to grab refreshing cups of ale, while others recovered their breath.

And then, a moment later, the piper began to play another tune—this one slow and lilting.

Ailean snorted a laugh and slapped Greig hard on the back. “Right. Enough excuses. Ye can’t tell me ye’re not up to dancing to this one.” He shoved him between the shoulder blades, laughing as Greig snarled a curse. “Ask the woman to dance … for pity’s sake.”

Brìghde had just left the dancing, out of breath after Ranald had swung her around as if she were a poppet, and was taking a grateful sip of ale, when she spied Greig making his way through the crowd. Toward her.

Shite.

The memory of his mouth on hers rose unbidden—followed swiftly by the sting of his rejection. Her pulse took off, and she cut her gaze away from him, pretending she hadn’t seen him.

What should she do? Leave? Race after Ranald and ask for another dance?

She looked around, panic fluttering up.

Her gaze alighted on Ian then. He sat alone upon an upturned log, face flushed with ale, a tankard in hand. And he was staring at her with a glint in his eye.

Brìghde’s fingers clenched around her own cup. Cods. She had to avoid him.

Suddenly, she cursed her mother for putting her in this dress and insisting she attend the gathering. She’d enjoyed the dance with Ranald but suddenly felt out of her depth.

Ian rose—and at the same moment, Greig stepped into her path.

“Brìghde.”

Pulse stuttering, she favored him with a brief, stiff curtsy. “Good eve, Maclean.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, his lips curving. “I thought we were past that?”

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she took another gulp of ale to hide her embarrassment.

“Ye look lovely.”

“Thank ye,” she replied stiffly.

Lord, this was awkward.

“It’s good to see ye here tonight … I didn’t think ye’d attend,” he said then.

“Neither did I, but my mother pushed me out the door.” Brìghde clamped her lips shut then.

God, why did she say that for? It made her sound like a sullen lass of fourteen, not a woman of three and twenty.