‘Alright. So what is your plan, my friend? Are you to stay here and let every scoundrel in this hall try his hand at seducing Tara Hennaut while you brood on your wounded pride?’
‘Aye. That is my plan. Now stop prodding at me and go and enjoy your uncle’s hospitality. I am in no mood for it.’
Bryce backed away into the crowd, all mirth and good humour. ‘Sometimes, Callum Ross, I wonder at being friends with such a fool as you,’ he said.
Callum’s gaze veered to Tara as if of its own accord. She had stopped dancing and was taking a drink, her face flushed and eyes bright. How grand she looked in her fine dress, which twinkled when the light caught it. And she was far above any other woman in the hall in looks. Yet it was her character that set her apart. Tara was gentle, kind and fragile, and when he looked at her, Callum yearned to be a shield against all her trials. And she was so graceful that he just enjoyed watching her move.
Yet his regard soured when any other man came near her, especially that slimy redcoat Lieutenant. The dolt was now whispering something in her ear.
‘Get back. You stand too close,’ growled Callum.
He wanted that attention from her. He wanted Tara to look at him without anxiety on her face. And most of all, he wanted her to see him, only him. Every time another man looked at her, mistrust and confusion wracked his body. What a fool. Why was he worrying about losing what he never had in the first place?
Callum hated his infatuation, and yet he was a slave to it. Tara was everything he had ever hoped for, dreamed of – beauty, softness, warmth and domestic bliss married to carnal gratification. She was perfection, and he wanted her with a yearning that tightened his throat and sent a dull ache to his heart, a real physical pain. What she did to his loins was more than torture. It was like a flame that scorched and stung and turned all his good sense to ashes. That flame could not be eased unless he was alone, and then he would have to expel his lust lest it eat him alive. Then he would feel shame at his animal urges, his lechery, his sinful way of looking at her.
Callum gulped down a whisky, enjoying its fire in his throat. The burn did nothing to distract him from the sight of Hew Gordon, Bryce’s arrogant cousin, taking Tara’s hand. Well, if that was the kind of man she favoured, she could go to hell.
Suddenly a scrap of conversation from some young men nearby made him freeze and strain his ears to listen.
***
Callum Ross was glowering at her from across the hall, and shame was like a snake coiled in her belly. Tara wished herself far away from all the people, the music and the candles blazing. If only she could run to a dark corner and hide. Perhaps she should go and talk to Callum, apologise for her rudeness and ingratitude, and make things right. Since they had parted badly, the memory of what had passed between them made her wince. She had to banish the demon that was Callum Ross once and for all. But before she could pluck up the courage to go to him, Hew Gordon reappeared with her uncle.
‘Miss Hennaut, the hall is damnably hot,’ said Hew. ‘Would you like to take a turn with me outside? There is a spectacular view down the glen from the east battlements.’
‘Oh, I think not,’ said Tara with a glance at her uncle. ‘It is rather cold this evening.’
‘Nonsense, child. The fresh air will do you good as you look very flushed indeed. Off you go.’
What was her uncle thinking, sending her off with a stranger? It was most unseemly, but Hew was holding out an arm for her to take, so there was nothing for it but to accompany him.
He led the way through the crowd, and as soon as they left the hall, the cold air hit Tara, setting her to shivering. As Hew led her onwards through barely lit corridors and upwards to the battlements, a queasy feeling came over her. It had a sobering effect, as did her companion, for he was tedious company, droning on about his accomplishments in London. Tara wished he would stop his chatter, and she longed to return to light and company.
Once the noise of the hall had faded away, Hew stopped and looked down at her. ‘At last, I have you all to myself,’ he said, grabbing her arm and steering her into a chamber.
Her throat closed in fear. ‘Where are we?’ she squeaked. ‘I thought we were going to see the view.’
‘No, you were right. It is too cold. Much cosier in my father’s solar with the fire and such.’ He came closer. ‘Aye, you are chill. Let me warm you.’
Hew took hold of Tara’s arms and tried to pull her close, but she leapt back.
‘Please don’t,’ she cried. She longed to run, but he was between her and the door. She was trapped.
‘Ah, you are modest indeed, Miss Hennaut. But do not be alarmed. I mean only to admire you. I have spent the night longing to be alone and declare, most sincerely, that you are beautiful beyond words.’
‘I thank you for the compliment, but I must return to my uncle.’
‘Not just yet,’ said Hew, taking a step forward. ‘We haven’t finished talking.’
‘I must insist on going back to my uncle, Sir,’ she said, her heart thumping.
‘So modest, so dutiful. I like that you play coy, but you know, us gentlemen tire of the chase. Eventually, we like to bring our prey to ground.’
‘If you don’t allow me to go, then you are no gentleman.’
‘Come on. We both know there is an attraction between us. I know you feel it. Come here.’ Hew pulled her into his arms and kissed her roughly.
It was utterly shocking and horrid – rough, wet and greedy, his lips grinding against her teeth, his tongue forcing entry to her mouth like a slimy fish flapping on a bank. Tara felt sick with alarm and revulsion. She pushed Hew away as hard as she could, but he was strong and took hold of the back of her head, forcing his kiss on her. She squealed against him as his other hand began to wander over her bottom.