She really shouldn’t, but the roar of the bagpipe derailed her reasoning.
“What do you do, Mr. Fraser, when you aren’t corrupting ladies into drinking?” she asked.
His blue eyes lit up. “I’m a getter,” he said. Getters were the men at the coal seam, she had learned, working the coal loose with their pickax.
“And he’s writing a novel,” Mhairi said proudly.
“Och,” Hamish said, and ran a hand over his hair.
“A novel—wonderful. About what?” Hattie prodded.
“About being a coal miner in Fife, ma’am.”
“There’s lots of novels about mining communities these days; I heard it in Inverness,” Mhairi said.
“But they’re all written by Methodist ministers and other dogooders,” Hamish said. “Wouldn’t know an ax from their arse, those people.”
“Hamish!” Mhairi cried.
“I should love to read it,” Hattie said earnestly, and Hamish chuckled. “My friends own a radical publishing house,” she added, and now he looked startled.
Another aisle was forming on the dance floor as men and women lined up to face each other, heat and unspoken promises swirling between them. Hattie raised the glass to her lips. The drink did not burn half as badly now. The warmth spread pleasantly; it seemed one felt less intoxicated the more one drank. Clap clap clap, stomp stomp stomp, round they went.
“I’m claiming the next one, if I may,” Hamish said to Mhairi, and offered Hattie his arm. His eyes were glassy, and she doubted he’d have dared otherwise, but the Scotch in her blood agreed that this was an excellent idea. She danced better this time, or she cared less, and another ale was pressed into her hand afterward. One reel blended into the next. Sweat glued her chemise to her breasts. She allowed Hamish to put his hand on her middle when it was his turn again because Mhairi seemed well fine with it.
It was how Lucian found her: galloping down the aisle with Hamish holding her at the waist while the other guests were cheering them on as if they were horses at a race. She nearly took a tumble at the sight of the familiar dark figure against the wall; Hamish, with his back turned toward the intruder, hoisted her off her feet for the last swing-around, then nearly dropped her when he saw. Then the musicians spotted him and ground to a halt, one after the other, until the bagpipe petered out like a sad trombone. Her stomach sank. For how long had he been standing there with his bland expression, watching her fraternize with the miners, frolicking with another man?
Lucian detached from the wall and raised a tumbler up high. “To the health and a long life of happiness of the bride and groom,” he said, the deep timbre of his voice carrying to the edges of the room. “Slàinte mhath.”
The whole party eased up again as one. “Slàinte mhath!”
He was coming toward her, stopping here and there to shake a hand and reply to a quip, but he was coming for her. For a brawny man, he had a sinewy quality to the way he moved, and she felt thoroughly stalked by the time he was in front of her. Mhairi and Hamish had disappeared like fairies in the mist. Her head spun, from the Scotch, or the penetrating look in Lucian’s eyes. The music had started up again, and so he leaned in close. “Amusing yourself, Mrs. Blackstone?”
Now she remembered. “I’ve forgotten to return before dinner, haven’t I?”
“You have, yes.”
“You ate alone?”
“I did.”
She looked up at him, sideways through her lashes. In the thick air, his fresh scent was a delicious respite, and the relaxed fullness of his mouth said he was in a—suspiciously—good mood.
“I suppose I must pay a penance,” she said. Her tongue had felt unwieldy in her mouth since her last pint, but penance still came out clear as glass.
“You do,” he said. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “You’ll have to dance with me.”
“Is that a euphemism for being put over your knee?” He had offered to do so once, and feeling his strong thigh against her own brought his words back.
His surprise gave way to a low laugh. He lowered his head and nosed her temple. “I’d put you over my knee all right,” he murmured, the velvet of his lips soft against her ear. “But you would have to ask me for it, and nicely so.”
Oh. “I had some whisky,” she said, feeling overheated.
“I know,” he said. His grip on her tightened, and he took her with him among the twirling couples.