by Amanda Scott
A hand gently touched her arm, and a masculine voice said quietly, “Forgive me, my lady, but his grace asked me to escort you to the dais.”
“How kind of him,” Nell murmured, laying a hand on the proffered arm.
As they approached, James looked up, his twinkling gaze meeting Nell’s. How he delighted in such petty intrigues, she thought as she made her curtsy.
“I would dance, madam,” he said, rising and offering his hand to her. Lines were forming for a reel, and as they moved to join the nearest set, he murmured, “It is unseemly for a female to attend a ball without a proper escort.”
“Indeed, sire? Even if she does so at her king’s command?”
“Even so,” he replied. “I shall have to scold you severely for this.”
“Will you?”
“Aye, so after we dance, you will go to my private chamber and await me there. I think I shall demand a forfeit as punishment for your impropriety.”
She chuckled appreciatively as the music began.
James loved to dance, and the reel was a fast one, requiring Nell’s concentration. At one point, however, as they paused to watch a couple skip up the line, she caught sight of a familiar-looking figure standing against the far wall, nodding in time to the music as he watched another set.
He turned his head, and her sense of familiarity was confirmed.
It was Patrick MacRae.
Beth swiftly recovered her confidence, and with Jock leading the way, she crossed the busy inner close to the main entrance of the great hall. She could hear lively music within, and the closer they got, the more excited she felt.
The double doors stood wide, but the entrance, with its screened, low-ceilinged vestibule did not prepare her for the lofty chamber beyond. The great hall boasted a spectacular hammer-beam ceiling, five splendid chandeliers, and an equal number of fireplaces. Red-velvet curtains draped the high windows as well as the bay flanking the royal dais with its elegantly accoutered high table. Musicians played from a gallery above the vestibule through which she had entered, and a veritable din of music, laughter, and conversation greeted her. The vast room was warm, too, thanks to fires roaring in all five fireplaces.
She had all she could do not to stop and gaze about in awe. She saw the King at once, for he sat in a magnificently carved, high-backed chair on the royal dais. A handsome man in scarlet and a younger man dressed with equal splendor occupied chairs on either side of him. Had she not recognized James from previous visits to Stirling, she might have mistaken one of the others for him, because his dress, although handsome, lacked their splendor.
She moved easily through the crowd, for no one challenged her. Indeed, except for an occasional curious glance, no one seemed to notice her.
Claud followed Beth, determined to obey his mother’s orders to the letter despite his companion’s displeasure.
“These mortals dinna ken wha’ they be about when they dance,” Lucy said grumpily. “Their fiddlers barely ken their instruments. I want tae dance proper, Claud, and ye promised we would if the lass came tae the ball. Well, there she be!”
“Aye, sure, but we dinna ken yet what will become o’ her here,” Claud said. “We certainly canna leave her until that Patrick lad takes note o’ her.”
“Well, where be the daffish man hidin’ himself then?”
“Yonder.” Claud gestured to where Sir Patrick stood watching the dancers.
“Can ye no winkle them together, Claud? Me toes be atwitchin’!”
“Nay,” Claud said, feeling wretched. “Ye ken fine that me mam were wroth wi’ me when I winkled the lass into his path that day in the woods.”
“And coaxed him along that path in the first place,” Lucy reminded him.
“Aye, sure, but me mam doesna ken that bit, and I hope she never does.”
Lucy was not listening. Her toes were tapping, and she said wistfully, “D’ye no hear the true music, Claud?”
He did hear it then. The screeching of fiddles and pipes faded away, and he heard a tinkling, distant melody that called hauntingly to him. His body responded to it, and responded, too, to Lucy’s fingers sensuously tickling his neck. The old Claud, he knew, would have gone with her to follow the enticing music.
The new, resolute Claud said, “Nay, lass, we’ll wait, I think.”
Lucy huffed and stepped back, grimacing, but to his surprise, she did not argue or walk away. She stared grimly at Sir Patrick instead.
The music stopped, and Patrick waited for Barbara, who was approaching on her most recent partner’s arm, as other gentlemen strode purposefully toward her from different directions. He noted that the man pressing ahead of the others was Francis Dalcross, and had opened his mouth to suggest that Bab accompany him to find liquid refreshment, when he saw a familiar figure moving through the crowd some distance away.
“Bab, is that not Molly yonder?” he asked, trying to see where she had gone.
“She did not receive an invitation,” Barbara said, turning to smile at Dalcross. “And she would certainly not show herself without one.”
“But I am quite—”
Realizing that his sister was already walking off on Dalcross’s arm, he saw at the same time that the lady in shimmering blue-green silk had vanished in the crowd. Deciding that he had been mistaken and knowing it behooved him to keep an eye on his sister and Dalcross, he turned to see where they had gone.
He was still watching them when he caught sight of the blue-green silk gown again. The lady, walking with a page in silver livery, turned slightly toward him.
Surely, it was Molly, although she wore much more jewelry than he had ever seen her wear before, more than most Border wives wore.
Her gown was of surpassing elegance, too, and the jewel-decked French hood she wore covered her red-gold curls, emphasizing her creamy complexion and magnificent eyes.
Forgetting Barbara for the moment, Patrick strode toward the familiar-looking lady, but although she looked at him with a slight smile, she did not take a single step in his direction. Her expression looked strangely wary, and something about her was not right.
Oddly, the page at her side looked like Jock, but that certainly could not be the case. Even as the thought whisked through his mind, the page stepped into the crowd and vanished as if he had been a figment of his imagination. The young woman’s expression challenged him now. Her chin lifted defiantly.
Patrick’s world tilted, and he wondered if his unpredictable imagination had conjured up her presence, too, for he saw at last that she was not Molly but Beth.
“There, now,” Lucy said with satisfaction. “Come and dance wi’ me, Claud.”
When he hesitated, she pouted.
“Ye promised!”
“Aye, lass, I did, and—”
Again, the nearby sounds faded, and he heard the fascinating melody. His feet began moving, the music grew louder, and before he realized he had made a decision, he was dancing with Lucy to the strangely beguiling tune.
In no time, he was laughing and twirling her, hopping and skipping as he had never known he could. She teased him with a smile, and the music stirred the same feelings in his body that she could stir with a touch. The more he danced, the stronger those feelings grew.
At last, the music stopped, and as Claud tried to catch his breath and his wits, Lucy said, “Now, come along and meet me dad, love. ’Tis him wha’ were playin’, and he wants tae meet ye ’cause I told him ye want tae marry me, and so he…”
Claud’s knees threatened to give way, and he could not speak.
Beth had forgotten her fears in her enjoyment of the splendor of the hall, and with Jock moving silently at her side, she had wandered unmolested, watching the dancers until her gaze met Patrick’s.
She watched the play of expressions on his face as he strode toward her. First, he looked delighted, then puzzled, and then astonished. Then he fixed a stern gaze upon her and kept it there until he nearly walked into a woman who crossed between them. He stop
ped in time to avoid a collision but then continued toward Beth. Now, almost upon her, he looked furious.
He glanced around as he occasionally had when they had traveled together, as if he feared encountering enemies, then caught hold of her arm and pulled her out of the way of passersby. “Are you mad?” he demanded in an undertone.
“Good evening, sir,” she said calmly. “You invited me to attend the ball, but now that I am here, you do not seem pleased to see me.”
“Where did you get that gown? Do you not realize you could be hanged for stealing it, not to mention for stealing all that jewelry?”
“I did not steal anything,” she declared. “Everything I am wearing was provided out of kindness.”
“By whom?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” she replied, striving to remain calm. “Pray, sir, do not press me to tell you, for I cannot. Will you not dance with me instead?”
“What if someone recognizes you? What will you say?”
“Who else would recognize me in such finery?”
“Just who the devil are you?”
“Do not be absurd. You know perfectly well who I am.”
He hesitated, frowning, staring at her as if he had never seen her before. She wanted to smooth the frown from his face, but although she felt like a different person in her finery—almost as if Elspeth Douglas of Farnsworth Tower had never existed—she knew that a gesture of such familiarity might draw unwanted attention.
Patrick said, “What happened to Jock?”
“Jock?”
He gave her a shake, apparently not caring if he drew attention. “Do not try to deceive me. I saw him, dressed as finely as you are, pretending to be your page.”
“I don’t know where he went,” she said honestly.
“So you are here alone now.” He continued to frown.
She understood his dilemma. He was not a man who could leave a woman to look after herself in such a crowd. He would believe her defenseless, and she could say nothing to contradict that notion without betraying Maggie Malloch, who surely must be watching. If she did betray Maggie, Beth had no doubt that she would instantly find herself standing right where she was, wearing only her smock.
Claud faced a huge dilemma. He felt the distinct tug of duty calling him to keep his eye on Beth, but he had to deal with Lucy first.
“What d’ye mean ye told your father we’d marry? I never asked ye.”
Lucy giggled. “Claud, ye canna bed a lass without ye marry her afterward.”
“O’ course I can. I ha’ done it afore, many times!”
“Well, ye canna bed me without marrying me,” she said calmly. “I did tell him that ye wanted a wedding, though, so he willna be wroth wi’ ye. If ye dinna want tae do it, ye’ll ha’ tae tell him. That be him yonder, a-waiting for us.”
Claud stared at the man she indicated. He was tall and muscular-looking, with a shock of green hair. His face was long and thin, and his beard was white with green flecks in it. He carried a fiddle in one hand and a set of pipes in the other.
“Well, come on, ye dobby,” Lucy said impatiently. “He’s a-waiting!”
Suddenly, sweet Lucy put him forcibly in mind of his mother. What in the name of the wicked Host, he wondered, had he gotten himself into?
Seeing Sir Patrick had stirred a tumble of thoughts in Nell’s head. When the music stopped, they were at opposite ends of the hall, and her first thought was to wonder if he was there as himself or as Sir William Smythewick.
She quickly realized that too many people here would know him to allow for pretense. Thus, as James led her toward the royal dais, she said, “I thought I saw Sir Patrick MacRae amongst the company, sire.”
“Aye, very likely,” James said. “It was he who trained Zeus so thoroughly.”
“I know he is a fine falconer, but why is he at Stirling without Kintail?”
“We’ll discuss that anon,” James said. “You owe me a forfeit first.”
“I could claim Sir Patrick as my escort,” Nell said. She glanced back at the crowd but no longer could see him.
“Nay, madam, it is too late. You will leave now, and you will await me in my chamber.” Leaning near to murmur in her ear, he added, “I will come to you in an hour, and I want to find you waiting naked in my bed. Do I find you so, sweet Nell, I will answer all your questions about Sir Patrick or anything else. Now, go.”
“Please, sir,” Beth said. “This was your idea. Won’t you dance with me?”
She was so beautiful, so alluring, and Patrick’s body had reacted instantly. He wanted nothing more than to dance with her, unless it was to take her instantly to bed with him, but his senses and thoughts were spinning. He could think of only one reason that he might have mistaken her for Molly, and if he was right…
He could not think straight. The possibility that she could be Molly’s long missing little sister stirred his emotions in so many directions that he could not focus. He was furious with her one moment, crazy about her the next, and whenever he tried to bring order to his reeling thoughts, her perfume would waft to his nose and his thoughts would whirl into chaos again. Only one part of him knew exactly what it wanted, and that part was stirring hungrily, sending heat through his body that made it impossible to think about anything but the way her soft, creamy breasts rose above the lacy edging of her low-cut bodice. His fingers itched to caress them.
Her rosy lips pouted, and her lovely eyes twinkled, as if she sensed his dilemma. The twinkle stirred his temper and briefly cleared his thoughts.
He still held one arm, and he pulled her close, saying curtly, “I will dance with you, mistress, but only until I can see you safely back to your room. My sister is here, and I must see that someone with sense is looking after her, but then I will return you from whence you came. It is too dangerous for you to stay.”
“But I do not want to go, and there is no reason to do so yet,” she said. “The night has barely begun, Drusilla and Jelyan will not leave until after supper at least, and I doubt Lady Farnsworth will let Sir Hector to take them away even then if there is a chance that one or the other might meet someone wishful to marry her.”
“It is not her ladyship or her shrewish daughters who concern me now,” he retorted. “You are too finely dressed to escape notice, and since you will not tell me where you came by that finery, I must suppose that you dare not tell anyone.”
He waited, but when she only nibbled her lower lip and avoided his gaze, he knew he was right, and the thought terrified him. Her jewelry was too valuable. He had seen Lady Farnsworth and her daughters earlier, and none of them wore anything half as fine as the gems the lass displayed, so it was unlikely she had borrowed theirs. The King might own such jewelry, but even Molly did not, and she had been Scotland’s greatest heiress when Fin married her.
“I do wish you would stop frowning, sir,” she said. “People will think I am saying rude things to you.”
He looked into her face and was conscious of a strong desire to kiss her and to hold her close. Whoever she was, he wanted more than anything to protect her from the consequences of her actions.
The music stopped, and automatically he glanced toward where he had seen Bab. She was looking at them, and she grinned and rolled her eyes as she took the hand of yet another partner. With relief, Patrick saw that it was Alex Chisholm and understood why she had rolled her eyes, but he could trust Alex to look after her.
He turned back to Beth.
She smiled, and the musicians began to play music for a galliard.
“Do you truly want to dance, lass?”
“Aye,” she said.
He had a sudden urge to teach her a lesson. Taking her hand, he drew her into the nearest set. The dancers had lined up as they would for a reel, ladies facing the gentlemen. But unlike a reel, couples would move from set to set, dancing all around the huge room. The musicians began to play in double time, which was fast enough, but Patrick knew the pace would quicken as the dance progressed. T
he galliard was for experienced dancers.
As the first notes sounded, he saw Beth frown, but when the ladies all sprang to their left, she sprang with them, crossing her right foot in front like the others as if she had danced the galliard for years. When her left foot was supposed to point to the ground, it did, and when it was supposed to point up, it did. She was easily the best dancer in the female line, and when it was her turn to dance to the other end of the room, Patrick had to exert himself to show his usual skill as he followed her.
Her feet fairly twinkled, and she seemed to have no concern for her skirts, as they swirled and billowed without once entangling her legs. Even her madly swinging pomander caused her no trouble.
As they faced each other again, she kicked high and he kicked higher. She grinned, catching up her skirt and executing an intricate step, daring him to match it. Other couples also competed with each other, and men competed against men, each trying to leap higher or execute more difficult patterns than the one next to him. In time, as the energy level and the pace of the music increased, couples paid less heed to other dancers and more to each other, teasing and flirting.
The musicians took turns, playing solo pieces, showing off their skills, and as they did, the dancers vied with them. And when the pipes began again, individual dancers began to display their own virtuosity.
“Papa, this is Claud,” Lucy said happily. “This is me dad, Tom Tit Tot.”
In a growl that sent a chill through Claud, the big man said, “So ye’re wishful tae marry wi’ Lucy, are ye, lad? What manner o’ life d’ye offer her?”
Claud stammered, “J-just an ordinary life, sir. I be nae one special, and I ha’ nae fortune tae boast about.”
“Ye dinna sound verra enthusiastic about this wedding, lad. Dinna ye love her wi’ all your heart?”
“Aye, sure,” Claud said. “That is, I do an’ all, but I’m no so sure I’m ready for marriage, sir, or that me mam will let me.”