Beneath a Dark Highland Sky: Book #3 by Kelly Jameson

was replaced by a fiddler and a drummer and people began to dance. Men lifted small boys onto their shoulders while plaids whirled. There was good-natured boasting from both clans, cheering, and toasting and stamping of feet, especially when one of the Maclean men grabbed the fiddle and a high-stepping Gaelic dance ensued.
    Sorcha left her cup, whisky untouched, on a stone near her feet. She felt the need for a moment of respite and slipped through the cavernous kitchens and outside to the walled, terraced gardens. The moon shone brightly as she made her way along twisting, seashell-lined paths and through areas filled with magnificent shrubbery and trees. She arrived at a wall at the far end of the gardens, one of her favorite spots, and watched the writhing sea far below, listening as the waves crashed and boomed on the shingle.
    “Sorcha,” a male voice said.
    She whirled in alarm. Someone had followed her. Tomas stood there, none too steady on his feet. His liene was stained with gravy. Sorcha glanced around but they were alone.
    “Tomas, dunna call me Sorcha!” she whispered. “I am the maid Nessa, remember?”
    He closed the distance between them, standing far too close. Music from the hall drifted on the night air, the beat of the drums pounding up her spine.
    “Dance with me.”
    “Nay! Get ye back inside, Tomas.”
    She presented her back to him but he grabbed her forcefully and turned her round to face him, his fingers digging painfully into her arms. Bending low, he put his mouth to her ear. “Kiss me, lass. Just one kiss. ‘Tis all I ask. I ha’e been besotted by ye since I was a wee lad.”
    “I must be back about my duties.”
    “Yer duties, eh? I can think of far more pleasant duties.” He lowered his head and forced a kiss upon her lips, painful and bruising, something he’d never had the audacity to do before. Sorcha struggled to be free of him.
    “It seems the lady doesna wish yer attentions.”
    Tomas lifted his head to see who had challenged him but did not release Sorcha’s arms.
    Malcolm stood in the shadows, his posture tense. How long had he been standing there? Sorcha thought. Had he heard Tomas call her by her real name?
    Malcolm stepped closer. He towered over Tomas.
                  Undeniable anger blazed in Tomas’ brown eyes and the drink made his tongue bold. “What care ye for a lowly maid, Malcolm Maclean? She isna yer concern.”
                  “I would ha’e a word with her, in private. If ye ken what is good for ye, ye’ll leave us. Now.”
    Even Tomas wasn’t foolish enough to challenge the Highlander. Sorcha held her breath, for Tomas could choose to reveal all now to hurt her. Of course that would mean she would have to marry the Maclean laird and she thought, even Tomas did not wish that upon her. Tomas had been trying to court her for three years, even though she’d given him no encouragement. He’d not want to see her with another man.
                  Tomas finally skulked off and Sorcha returned the Highlander’s gaze. Was the ruse up? Did he ken she was the real Lady Douglas?
                  It was agony waiting for him to speak. The sea-scented wind gusted, ruffling the edges of his dark plaid and his midnight-black hair. His jawline was grim, his eyes like smoldering topaz.
    She would not be the first to speak; she would not fill the awkward silence. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited. If he knew who she was, so be it.
                  “That man, who is he?” he finally said.
                  “His name is Tomas.”
    He stood silent again, his eyes traveling the length of her, lingering on her trim waist and the swell of breasts beneath her simple tunic, before returning to her face. “Is he yer lover?”
                  Sorcha nearly laughed with relief. That’s what he wanted to ask her? “Tomas? Nay. He would like to be but I dunna….fancy him that