She darted a quick glance around. Surrounded by all these oudandish strangers, she felt as though the two of them had become a single unit circumnavigating some strange new world. The other men cut fine forms on the dance floor, and yet they seemed to define the term popinjay, all grand birds in their jewel-toned velvet coats. They struck her as far inferior compared to Cormac. He wore only a plain brown waistcoat, a simple shirt, and muted tartan trews, and yet he made all these men in their peacocks' clothing appear weak and simply… less.
The reel was transitioning into a strathspey, and the music slowed, drawing couples closer together, the dancers gradually organizing into pairs rather than groups of four or more.
She and Cormac came together side by side. He brought his arm over her shoulder, taking her right hand in his right, and left in left. He stood so handsome and tall, held her so close, their real names forgotten amid this roomful of strangers, and it was a thing of magic. Marjorie imagined she could be this other person, could be simply a woman enjoying a dance with her husband. Her shoulders eased, savoring this brief respite from her worries, from her very reality. There on the dance floor, all thought about the night's goal faded from her mind.
The music began, and slowly they walked forward, their steps taking them across the dance floor. The heat of his thigh blazed along her own until it rippled slow and sultry between her legs, leaving her feeling agitated, breathless.
“Ease yourself, lass. ” The edges of his profile caught the firelight — his strong jaw, the uneven line of his nose —
and his bearing struck her as especially powerful in the shadows. And yet she saw an uncharacteristic lightness, too, playing in his eyes.
She managed a nod, pretending to concentrate on the dance.
He gave her hands a squeeze, and the heat between her legs spread to her belly, melting her from within. The floor was filled with couples, but for her, Cormac was the only other person in the room.
“You'll want to breathe, aye?”
Her eyes narrowed at the humor in his voice. “It's merely the cut of my gown that restricts my breath so. ”
“Ah, is that the only matter, then?”
The dancers began to pivot, and just as she wondered how her stunned body might manage to shift positions, he spun her, his movements sure and confident but gentle, too.
The only matter? Not nearly, she thought, trying for a deeper breath. “I had no idea you knew how to… “ Her voice tapered off, thinking about all the things she had no idea about. She thought she'd known Cormac, until she'd experienced his skillful kisses, his confident dancing.
Had he been doing more than waging war in their years apart? Jealousy dumped into her veins like sour milk.
“No idea how to dance?” Cormac pulled her tightly to him. The tempo shifted, and couples came together, chest to chest, to waltz about the room. “We danced as children, do you not recall?” He held her close, closer than was proper, and though her cheeks blazed red, she couldn't bring herself to push him away.
“I remember,” she said, recalling the many playful reels danced at the adults' heels. It had never been like this, though. Not even close. Even when her little-girl thoughts of him had turned to imagined smiles and kisses, she had never felt this. “But… “
But had he danced with other women? Had he held others in his arms like this?
“But… ?” he mused, crushing her chest closer to his. Cormac's hand glided from her waist to rest low on her back. If not for the layers of skirts, his fingers would be splaying just over the crest of her bottom.
A peculiar urgency bloomed to life in her core, pushing thoughts of other women from her head. She knew better than anyone: the only mistress in Cormac's life was the sea. But, in this moment, his body was hard against hers, and for now that was all she'd have a mind for.
As he swung her about the room, her breasts chafed against him until she thought she'd die from this feeling.
This unspeakable, almost angry need for him simply to stop, for all the others simply to disappear, and for him to get on with doing everything his body threatened to do.
He must've felt it, too, for he managed to pull her even nearer, cradling his manhood against her. He looked down at her, his slate-blue eyes dark with lust, and she fought to stay on her feet in time to the music.
“But it was never like this,” he said, giving voice to her thoughts. “I'd always—” The strathspey ended, and the guests cheered to hear the band breaking into the jaunty opening bars of “Strip the Willow. ” They were forced to part, and the moment her hand slid from his, Marjorie's chest felt hollowed.
She faltered, stunned from the intensity of their last dance. Reluctantly, they joined the others to form two rows, a line of men facing a line of women.
What had he been about to say? Always what?
Her careening thoughts distracted her, and when their turn came to meet in the middle, linking arms to spin down between the lines of dancers, she was a beat behind. She skipped a step forward to catch up, and when Cormac laughed outright, the delight in his eyes disarmed her.
When was the last time she'd seen such easy pleasure on his face? The sight of it startled a carefree laugh from her.
Always what? she mouthed when next she caught his eye.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, but there was darkness in his eyes. Her laugh stilled as that dark intensity wended its way straight to her belly. How did he manage it? How could a simple look from him stagger her so? Dancing with Cormac was by turns pure joy and utter disquiet, her body and heart experiencing such uncharted heights and wants.
Their turn came again to twirl arm in arm down the center column, and as he spun her, she fought to maintain composure. “Always what, Cormac?” she managed breathlessly.