Emily wore a red silk gown trimmed with gold braid, and the diamond necklace and pearl pins Hamish had given her in London.
"I hope so," she said, still staring out at the chaos.
"How could you fail?" Marina said. "Coraggio, ragazza. These are your people now."
"Yes, you’re my wife, and the Lady of Glen Lyon." Hamish stepped away and held out his hand. He looked every inch the laird in his blue and gold kilt and his black velvet formal jacket. Her susceptible heart skipped a beat at how handsome he was. "Let’s show them the way to dance a reel, sweetheart."
When Emily looked into his eyes, she saw that he was proud to show her off to his friends and kinfolk. An uncertain smile curled her lips. "We haven’t danced together since our engagement."
When they’d seethed with mutual resentment and dread for the future. Now the future was here, and she’d never been happier, if she ignored the tiny niggle that Hamish didn’t love her. But compared to the joy these last three weeks had brought, that was a small niggle indeed. They passed their days in harmony and their nights in passionate communion. The marriage which had started so badly promised a lifetime of joy ahead.
"Then it’s time you danced together again." Fergus looked magnificent in the red Mackinnon plaid.
Diarmid had chosen to dress in the English style. He and Fiona made a spectacular couple, with her silvery beauty set off in pale blue organza and him so dark and brooding at her side.
The night turned into a whirl of excitement. The dances were different up here, too, but fortunately most people tolerated Emily’s mistakes. Once she’d danced with Hamish, she partnered his neighbors and even shared a jig with Big Billy, who swung her around so fast, she became dizzy. It was a relief to return to Hamish and feel his arms slide around her.
"Having fun?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she said breathlessly. "If this is what you grew up with, you must have found London balls very staid."
"Those Sassenachs have no idea how to celebrate. May I have this dance? It’s a waltz."
At Emily’s request, the band had played some of the dances she knew, amongst all the unbridled Scottish measures. She smiled at her husband. "I’d love to, but I promised the first waltz to—"
"To me." Fergus spoke from behind her.
"Hamish, caro, perhaps you and I can show the world how it is done," Marina said. She clung to her tall, redheaded husband’s arm, and her olive skin was flushed. She’d danced every set with a Continental élan that Emily admired.
Hamish released Emily and bowed to the gorgeous brunette. "It would be my pleasure, Marina."
Marina cast him a flashing glance from her bright black eyes. "By the way, I approve of this mane d’oro, Hamish. It makes you look like a Viking."
"That’s what Emily says," he muttered with the hint of self-consciousness that never failed to melt Emily’s heart. "She won’t let me cut it, although I told her I only let it grow because I was holed up in my peel tower stargazing. And pining for her."
Emily bestowed a smile of fond approval upon him. She believed he’d been pining for her. Hadn’t she been pining for him down in London? Although she’d been too proud to admit it, even to herself.
"It makes you look molto bello, like a hero from a Minerva Press novel." Marina surveyed Hamish with the strangely impersonal air she sometimes adopted.
Emily had come to realize that it usually meant that she’d moved into artist mode and her mind flooded with abstract shapes and colors. Having grown up with one scientist and married another, Emily didn’t find the change too disconcerting, but she’d noticed other people caught out.
"Before you cut it, let me paint you. Madonna, with all that hair, you look like the King of the Highlands."
"Pardon me, mo chridhe, but should I be jealous? Surely in my wife’s eyes, I am the King of the Highlands," Fergus protested.
Marina’s laugh was low and sensual. "Tesoro, you’re king of my heart. Don’t be greedy."
Emily had so much to be grateful for, especially when she thought back to her marriage’s unpromising start. But the look of love and perfect understanding that passed between Marina and her husband stabbed a knife through her. How she envied the love the Mackinnons shared. How she wished Hamish was devoted to her the way Fergus was devoted to Marina. Her husband’s burning hunger for her body thrilled her. But she wanted more, so much more.
Would she and Hamish ever enjoy that almost spiritual connection she saw linking the other couple? She reminded herself to be patient. They’d been reconciled only a few weeks. She had time to stake out her place in his soul.
Hamish looked thoughtful. "I don’t need another blasted picture of me, but I do want to talk to you about painting Emily."
Marina smiled. "Andiamo. We can discuss this while we dance."
Fergus extended his hand toward Emily. "Shall we, lassie?"
They whirled off into the throng, while the clansfolk, who considered these London dances complete drivel, drifted away to investigate the free-flowing ale and whisky and the long tables groaning with food. There was wine and champagne, too, but the locals scorned those as too much in the English taste as well, it seemed.