“Would it be difficult to learn a reel, you think?” Hattie asked, leaning in close.
Mhairi gave her an odd look. “You’ve never danced at a ceilidh?”
“What is a ceilidh?”
Mhairi burst out laughing. “It’s a gathering, of course. Hamish!” She stretched out her arm and tapped the shoulder of a red-haired lad who was in a shouty conversation with a group of young men.
When he turned, a glass of ale in hand, Hattie recognized the man behind Rosie Fraser’s kitchen window. His eyes were a striking, rich, cornflower blue. And he had discarded his jacket. Who could blame him, she thought, the inn was dripping hot.
“Hamish, imagine,” Mhairi yelled over the bagpipe, “Mrs. Blackstone here’s never danced at a ceilidh before. She doesn’t even know what it is.”
“Of course not,” Hamish said, but he said it with a smile dimpling his cheeks, and she found she was smiling back. Lucian must have gained the respect of the men, for smiles were hardly required.
Hamish gently nudged Mhairi’s shoulder. “I reckon Ma’am has never had whisky before, either.”
“I have not, in fact,” Hattie confessed.
Mhairi’s eyes widened. “Never had a wee dram?”
“No.”
“Haven’t you tried the Auchtermuchty? From the basket?” The girl looked disappointed.
“I’m saving that for a special occasion,” she said quickly. “I have had plenty of sherry, however. My aunt is very partial to it.”
“Sherry,” Hamish drawled, and said something in Scots that made Mhairi thump him in the chest.
“Very well,” Hattie said. “I shall try it.” What harm was there in one wee dram? It sounded quaint enough.
“Guest of honor, guest of honor,” Hamish was shouting on his way back from the bar, holding three tumblers up above his head. “To your health.”
Hattie drank. Fire. Her mouth and throat were on fire, and she was coughing and wheezing like an old woman.
“Be good,” Mhairi said to Hamish, who had swallowed his Scotch in one smooth gulp. “Go and fetch Mrs. Blackstone some ale.”
“Ale?” Hattie croaked, fanning herself.
It turned out to be a dark ale with a creamy top, and it did soothe her throat. After a few sips, her head was spinning, but she was no longer coughing and could finish her whisky.
“How about dancing?” Hamish said.
“Oh, you must,” Mhairi said. “I shall dance with you.”
Hattie’s gaze flitted between Mhairi and the whirling, stomping, clapping couples. “Now?”
“Nah, the next one. Hamish, why don’t you go and ask Archie what dance is next.”
Hamish tipped two fingers to his brow and winked. Hattie watched as he made his way through the crowd, and she liked how the sweat-dampened linen of his shirt clung to his straight shoulders. She swilled beer around in her mouth, feeling breathless and depraved to be standing around drinking ale and ogling men. Would Lucian know how to dance?
“Do you think me too forward, asking you to take a spin?” Mhairi yelled into her ear, her breath smelling of sugar and spirits.
Hattie lowered her glass. “I’m very pleased that you asked me.”
Hamish returned with more whisky, and he said something guttural in Scots.
Mhairi squealed. “Oh, that one is a favorite. May I, ma’am?” She took Hattie’s hand. Both their palms were damp, from the condensation on the glasses and because they were overheated.
“I’ll tell you the steps now, so you’re prepared,” Mhairi said. “Do you see how all the couples are lining up, facing each other?”
“I do, yes.”
Mhairi’s fingers felt rough in places. I have forgotten to put on my gloves, Hattie thought. How could she have forgotten her gloves? She sipped whisky while Mhairi talked about spinning and kicking feet and changing partners at a turn.
“Are you following, Mrs. Blackstone?”
“Not at all.” Her brain was tied in knots from the Scotch and the instructions, so when it was their turn, it was a disaster; she spun in the wrong direction, stepped on toes, and some long-forgotten ballet classes resurfaced and made her footwork look so strange that Mhairi and her friends were falling over each other, howling with laughter. When it was over, Hamish presented her with a refilled tumbler, and she shook her head. “I shouldn’t.”
“But, ma’am,” he protested, “this one’s been sent to you by Boyd, father of the bride.”