Page 83 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

A man stepped forward, speaking to Daphne and then to her sister. Hunter blinked, feeling like a fool for not having noticed Laird and Lady McKane before. But no, there they were, with Lady McKane’s arm wound around Daphne’s.

They looked so much like sisters, twins even, but at the same time there were so many differences that he could not understand how anyone could mistake Daphne for Ceana.

He imagined that Laird McKane felt exactly the same, only the other way around.

The man extended a hand, and Daphne took it, before he led her to the dance floor.

The jig had already begun, but they joined seamlessly. Hunter watched her twirl across the dance floor. Her blue and yellow skirts billowed around her, hair streaming out around her shoulders. She laughed with delight, tipping her head back. She moved to the music like she’d danced all her life.

The dress was a new one, something that his mother had commissioned, if he remembered correctly. It clung to her breasts and hips, cinching her waist. He could almost imagine how her body would respond to his touch, warm and supple, wanting.

The dance called for them to change partners, and Daphne did so, moving seamlessly onto another man.

He rose gingerly to his feet. River jumped down from his knee and threw him a long, reproachful look.

No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he reminded himself that people would be looking, he couldn’t drag his gaze away from her. She lifted her skirts a few inches, allowing her feet to move more nimbly.

I should be dancing with her, he thought sourly, even though he had to admit he’d probably not be as good a dancer as the trim young man dancing with her at that moment.

He let himself imagine walking over to her, pushing the man aside, and pulling her in his arms. What would she do? Would she laugh and take his hand, or walk away, annoyed?

“She looks a real beauty tonight, does she nae?”

He flinched at his mother’s voice at his elbow, and glanced down to find her smiling fondly at the dance floor.

“Aye,” he said, when it became clear that she wanted an answer. “Very pretty.”

Helena chuckled, as if knowing full well that very pretty barely scratched the surface of how Daphne appeared at that moment.

“That’s Laird Gordon she’s dancing with. With him being a neighboring laird, they’ll live nearby.”

Hunter blinked down at his mother. “What?”

“If they were to marry, of course,” she added, with the faintest smile. “And then they would be close by, and we could see Willow often.”

He curled his fingers into a fist, squeezing tighter and tighter. “Why do ye think she’ll wed Gordon? Has he shown interest?”

“Oh, nothing beyond what’s friendly,” Helena answered comfortably. “But we ought to think about what would suit Daphne, shouldnae we? I’d be glad to see her safely wed and settled, and I ken that Edith would, too.”

Abruptly, Hunter turned away, snatching up a glass of whisky to distract himself. He took a long sip. “Enough, Mother.”

“Enough of what?” Helena asked innocently. “Hunter, ye cannae expect Daphne to remain unwed for the rest of her life. Most women marry. Perhaps she’s lonely.”

“Why would she be lonely?” he snapped, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Daenae push yer luck, Mother.”

Of course, Helena had never done what either of her children had told her and wasn’t about to begin now.

“If she married a laird, both she and Willow would be safe and probably happy forever,” she pushed. “It’s for the best. Ye should want this for her, Hunter. I am surprised ye didnae think of it yerself.”

Stinging-cold whisky dripped down his fingers. Hunter barely registered the sensation before his mother looked down at his hand and gasped.

“Hunter, the glass!”

He flinched, glancing down. Sure enough, the glass had cracked in his tight grip, and the whisky was leaking out.

He was bleeding, too. A glass shard had pierced the base of one of his fingers. Not a bad cut, and no glass pieces left under the skin, which was better than he could have expected.

Tutting, he set down the broken glass and wiped his bleeding finger on a handkerchief.