Unwilling by Kerrigan Byrne Page B

awoken to a dark mood.  Distraction seemed
to lift her spirits.
    They wandered with the crowd toward
the planks that had been assembled in a cleared field for dancing and carousing. 
The full harvest moon was bright enough to light their revelry and reflected
off Loch Fyne with glittering brilliance.  Long torches had been staked to the ground
and lanterns corded around the makeshift plank floor casting dancing shadows
about the night. 
    The evening was chilly, but hot
food and free-flowing ale warmed the cheeks and blood of the Lachlan clan.  Now
they gathered about, their merry voices drifting through the night as the cheerful
cacophony of tuning pipes, flutes, and fiddles rose in their midst.
    As though drawn by an innate
awareness, Lindsay immediately picked Connor out of the gathering crowd.   He
and Roderick stood at least a head taller than their kinsman who surrounded a
massive barrel of ale perched on an oak table.  Connor wielded a heavy mallet
while Roderick steadied a tap at the base of the enormous cask, pretending to
fear for the safety of his extremities.  Riotous laughter ensued as Connor
drove the tap home with a one-handed swing. 
    Lud! But his strength never ceased
to astonish her.   
    Were they not afraid, these fierce
highland warriors?  Did they not worry that Angus might, even now, be plotting
retribution?  A tremor stole through her.  What if she was the unwilling cause of
a deadly quarrel of clans?
    A brawny highlander handed Roderick
the first tankard, congratulating him for his bravery with a hearty laugh.  The
next one was granted to Connor for performing the honors.  He toasted his
brother and tilted his head back and drank deeply. 
    Lindsay tried not to watch the
cords of his neck work over the swallows, or notice the flex in his arm as he
lifted the tankard to his lips.  His impressive body was well displayed wrapped
in a tartan and naught else but his boots.  Across his chest, dark tattoos of
knotted design spiked and wended through the cords of his flesh, branding him a
chieftain in the old way.  Likewise bands of knots encircled his biceps.  They
entranced her for a moment before she broke the spell with a blink.  She
resented her awareness of him and this vital, inescapable connection between
them.   
    Evelyn linked arms with her and
steered them toward the men as the music began in earnest.  “They’re
magnificent, aren’t they?” she purred.  “I know you’re cross with Connor at the
moment, but I wish you’d at least lose yourself in the festivities.”  She cast
Lindsay a suggestive look from beneath her lashes.  “Berserkers are excellent
dancers.  It must be some primitive, innate rhythm they’re in tune with.”
    “Indeed?”  Lindsay didn’t dare to think
about it.  Something about the words ‘primitive’ and ‘rhythm’ sent a dangerous
thrill through her.
    Roderick’s entire demeanor lit from
within as they approached, “Evelyn, mo chroi, I hope ye doona mind that
I promised the first dance of the night to another.”  Several masculine sets of
appreciative eyes turned toward them, and Lindsay ignored one burning glare, in
particular. 
    “And who would that be?”  Evelyn
asked with a sweet smile as she accepted a sip of ale from her husband’s
tankard. 
    “This lovely lass, here, has
requested a dance of me and she’s so charming I canna refuse.”  He swept his
hand toward a gangly girl dressed in a clean, but shabby dress.  She couldn’t
have been more than eleven, and when she offered a shy smile a few spaces
showed that she’d recently lost the last of her child’s teeth.   
    “Well.”  Evelyn winked at the
child.  “I can’t say that I blame you, but don’t expect me to be sitting here
waiting for you to return to me.  I’m going to accept the first invitation I
have to dance!”
    With a possessive kiss for his
wife, Roderick swung his dance partner to the floor and opened the evening’s
festivities.