The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (short books for teens .txt) 📕

to get away from the disturbing Lord MacLean, she told herself. Just then, the rich mellow sound of his laughter mingled with the pipes and she caught a glimpse of his rare smile. A pity that she had never had much success as a liar, not even when she tried to deceive herself.

Duncan could feel her gaze, almost like the touch of a gentle hand on his shoulder, but he refused to allow himself to be drawn. Once again, the pain flooded him. It had been folly to believe that Kate had come to care for him, to trust him. “A friend,” she had called him, but any lackwit knew that there were degrees of friendship. His feet pounded the floor, slapping against the stone, giving vent to the force of his frustration and bitterness. Thought was willingly suspended and Duncan gave himself to the pulse of the dance.

He hardly noticed when the music stopped and the floor emptied. Duncan stood alone, waiting, drawing heavy breaths in anticipation. The drum began a solo staccato cadence, like rifle shots at first, hard and sudden, slowing as the pipes swelled to a martial clamor. The flute riffled with a sound that put him to mind of the flutter of a banner in the wind.

Duncan looked at Tam and the old man dipped his hoary head in acknowledgement. It was “Eachainn’s March”, otherwise known as “The Laird’s Dance” that the old piper played, banned by the guilty MacLean Lords since that fateful day at Culloden.

Tam himself had taught Duncan the forbidden steps long ago and the younger man prayed that his feet had not forgotten. But as the first notes echoed defiantly against the ramparts, Duncan forgot the watchers. A fierce joy possessed him and the music sang in his blood. His feet seemed to barely touch ground while his body moved with a lithe warrior’s grace. There was battle implicit in those steps, advance and retreat. The lunging, leaping mimicry of combat with an unseen enemy became a dance that was as old as warfare itself. The song ended abruptly, leaving Duncan standing at the center, his head thrown back, and a sheen of sweat beading his brow. A pledge had been made, a broken bond forged anew. He would fight, for himself and for them. He was their Laird. But there was someone else who deserved his pledge.

“MacLean! MacLean!” The cheer began as a whisper and rose to a shout as Duncan walked purposefully towards Kate, who sat holding Anne. He extended his hand in an unmistakable gesture of demand.

“Will you dance with me, milady?” he asked, when the clamor faded. “That is if the wee lassie can spare you?”

Before Kate could stop her, Anne nodded and slid from her lap. The crowd’s gaze was upon MacLean’s lady. Other than the insult of outright refusal, there was little choice. “I fear that I am not the best of dancers. I could never quite learn the steps.” Kate said, her eyes pleading, hoping that he would allow her to cry off. But the hand was not withdrawn.

“I hope you do not expect much of me,” she murmured, putting her fingers on his palm

“No more than you are willing to give,” Duncan said, capturing her fingers between his hands. They were cold as ice, fluttering with nervous appeal. “Trust me to lead, Kate and let the music in to help guide you.”

The pipes sighed once more as he led her to the center of the courtyard. As she stood, he began to dance around her, his spine ramrod straight as he turned to regard her with sultry fixation. Swiftly she became a prisoner of those smoldering glances, holding him in the corners of her eyes as the violin hummed passionately, countering the gentle caress of the flute. Kate could feel his body, the undulation of air as he flew round her, moving with a sinuous style that stole her breath. With each beat, he drew nearer, until the heat of his exhalation warmed the back of her neck. Yet, even as she braced herself for his touch, he would move away, tantalizing her, wooing her without words.

The world narrowed to a small spinning sphere with Duncan at its center. Somehow, all unaware, Kate’s feet had begun to move, seduced by the music and the man. All the rigid steps and patterns that she had thought of as dance were forgotten as the elemental rhythm took hold of her. The drum became a second heartbeat. Her hair flew loose from its moorings, to mingle molten with chestnut firelight against Duncan’s dark mane. Round and round they whirled, linked in the passion of the pipes until the sound waned into silence. Then suddenly motion ceased. Time stopped. Kate looked up at Duncan, waiting for the inevitable.

He saw himself in the green shadows of her eyes. He knew that his deepest secrets, his worst fears were plainly writ in his face for her to see. He loved her. Heaven or hell help him, he loved this woman and he did not even know her real name. She did not fully trust him or believe in him, but as his thumb traced the outline of her lips, nothing else seemed to matter except the feel of her, the sensuous whisper of silken strands against his shoulder, the scent of heather and smoke. He felt her hands stealing across the nape of his neck, the gentle tug as her fingers twined in his hair. He took all the sweetness that she offered, pulling her close, as if she could somehow fill the gaping void inside of him.

All at once, Duncan knew that what he had said at the outset of the dance was true. He would accept whatever she was willing to give, content himself with any bone that she would deign to throw him, if she would only stay. The thought of losing her made him wild with fear. Yet, Duncan understood that if he