Rescuing Mr. Gracey (6 page)

Sean was still huddled with a group of farmers, obviously unconcerned about Mary’s whereabouts. Her foot tapped with annoyance as she watched him, laughing, his head nodding in agreement to some boisterous discussion.

All other times, Mary ignored his inattentive nature. But not tonight! Tonight a gorgeous creature circled about and threatened her very existence—her courtship, her marriage, her future.

She released a little growl, imagining herself stomping Sean’s foot and slapping his face and shouting to all the single men to stop ignoring women who wanted to dance.

Folding her arms tight, she replaced her scowl with what she hoped was a serene and patient expression and turned her annoyed attention from Sean Dennison.

In the middle of the dance area, Mary noted, dancers seemed to be giving a wider and wider berth to the middle. She walked a little past her spot to get a clearer look at the cause and noticed a pair of dancers who were bouncing off other dancers, tripping about the floor, generally presenting themselves as ill-timed lumbering fools.

Mary gasped. The couple drawing so much attention was none other than Lily and Mr. Alexander, who, for all his suave and mysterious tendencies, did not have the vaguest notion about Irish country dance.

At first, she giggled, almost relieved that he was not, indeed, perfect. But then she noticed the reaction from the crowd, who whispered and pointed, laughed and imitated his clumsy moves.

Her stomach tightened with an odd worry.
He does not belong here.
He appeared ridiculous. Bewildered.

Vulnerable.

“How ’bout a dance, Miss Mary?”

Relief washed over all other thoughts as Mary shifted to Sean. Mr. Alexander could take care of himself. She must be about her future.

Remembering all the written instructions from her sister, Mary allowed her lashes to sweep down, then up again while displaying a well-practiced smile that was both sensual and mysterious.

Sean’s face blushed. His own smile broadened.

Look at that. Bridget knew what she was talking about.
Batting her lashes, she said in a soft voice, “I would love to dance, Sean.”

“Ya look mighty fine this night, Miss Mary,” he said, extending his hand to escort her to the floor. Admiring eyes lingered on her hair. “Ya rarely have yar hair down. ’Tis pleasin’ ta the eye.”

“
I thank you, Sean. I was hoping you would like it.”
Keep going, Mary Smyth. You can do this.
“You look grand yourself.” Was she trying too hard? The arrival of Mr. Alexander forced boldness.

Sean’s smile expanded as he escorted her to the dance area, then placed a strong, firm hand upon her waist. Mary felt very satisfied that Sean, unlike the stranger, knew exactly how to spin and twirl, and inside his arms, she felt comfortable and natural. Even his smaller, more compact size soothed her previously rattled nerves. Who needed someone who towered with height, stunned with a smile, and intimidated with his masculine appeal? Sean did none of that, but he was perfect for her.

As they made their last swirl, Sean joked about a dancer who looked as if he were stuck in a muddy field. She laughed, but worried that he was referring to Mr. Alexander. Just then, she was bumped in her back. Turning to accept the mumbled apology, she froze.

The crowd faded; the night disappeared. Sean’s attributes melted inside the vortex of Mr. Alexander’s intense blue eyes.

“Will you go round again, Miss Mary?”

Mr. Alexander simultaneously asked, “May I claim the next dance?”

Swallowing, she clutched the arm of her friend.
Be about your courtship, Mary Smyth.
“I am sorry, sir, I promised another round to Mr. Dennison.”

Sean smiled and tugged her into the middle of the floor. The next set was a long dance of skips and hops where the couple never parted hands, perfect for conversation and flirtation. Ever more intent on getting a courtship from her farmer, she concentrated on every tool given her by Bridget. When he joked, she laughed. Each admiring comment or glance he gave, she rewarded with fluttery lashes. Any bit of conversation or topic he brought up, she asked questions and probed with interest.

The dance set ended, and Mary, hopeful that he might lead her toward the bench beneath the tree for quiet conversation, smiled patiently. As if he had been away too long from his friends, Sean turned and waved to a group of farmers. “Excuse me, Miss Mary. I needed to talk with William.”

Her jaw dropped, and Mary watched Sean stride away without so much as a glance back at her.

Wait until I tell Bridget her tricks are worthless,
Mary thought, folding her arms tight against her chest. Pressing her lips together, she was trying to recall if she had missed some important instruction from her sister when a strong hand curled about her elbow and urged her toward the dance floor.

“Sir. Excuse me,” she said, trying to dig her heels against the powerful forward momentum.

“Madam, you must know that I am here for one reason, and I am determined to pursue that purpose.” Mr. Alexander leaned near, his voice just a whisper. “You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Smyth, unless you refuse me this dance.”

The fiddle began the slow, pulsing bars.
A waltz?
Her traitorous body reacted immediately with thumping heart and trembling hands.

His one-sided smile teased her. “I’ve arranged with the band to play a song with which I am familiar, and I hope to recover a bit of pride.”

She was stiff as a soldier facing a firing squad, her every muscle locked with fear. Yet Mr. Alexander grinned and lifted her hand, then placed it upon his shoulder. Next, long dark fingers slid down her other arm, securing her tiny hand deep inside his warm one.

Breathless, speechless, Mary submitted to his lead. She tried to keep her thoughts on the dance, on the music, on what Sean might be doing, but within a moment of Mr. Alexander’s slow twirling, round and round into an enchanted web of shining stars, scented air, and soft music, her thoughts scattered completely.

She licked too-dry lips and looked about, realizing that he had led them away from the other dancers toward the shadows of the open field. She should be worried, but somehow, she wasn’t.

His chin lowered within an inch of her cheek, his breath warm on her skin. Delightful clove-and-forest scent surrounded the night and made her mouth water. Her body seemed fragile yet alive, his legs brushing against her dress, her hip occasionally meeting his frame.

Perhaps if she had more experience with men, she would understand why her skin hummed, her excited heart rapped, and hungry fingers twitched to explore his hair, his chin, and that scar at his brow. Most difficult to control was her breathing. She sounded as if she had run across the field instead of slowly circling it.

Swallowing, she dared a curious peek at his face. Not surprisingly, his eyes had been probing her as if seeking answers, investigating, but when their gazes met, heat burned her from the inside out. His focus shifted down, lingering on her lips. Her stomach contracted as if expecting something delicious. His eyelids shuttered closed, and he exhaled some ragged tension.

Within the web that tangled her thoughts, Sean’s laughter traveled the field and slapped her conscience. As if falling inside a dream, she forced a larger space between them.
What are you doing, Mary Smyth?
Her thoughts cut through the hazy dream and warned her to clear her mind.
You can’t afford this pretend dream.

Now more vigilant, Mary kept her gaze averted—to the ground, back to his broad chest, onto the warm hand encircling her own, back out to the swirling earth. The temptation still too powerful, she next shifted back to her goal of marriage.
Sean is funny and witty and a good dancer.

She heard her own distressed breathing. She knew she frowned.
Concentrate. Concentrate on Sean Dennison.
Sean’s hands are rough, callused… A working man’s hands!

Not caressing fingers and smooth palms and intimate…

She slammed her eyes closed.
No…No.
Blessedly, the song ended. Scurrying like a rabbit being chased by a great hawk, she flew out of his embrace.

“Wait.” Mr. Alexander refused to release her hand. Mary waited, a prisoner of those long fingers.

With one dark brow lifted, he stared at her for a moment, then glanced at the crowd, his square jaw tight. “I…I would… Would you accept… That is to say, may I have another dance?”

“’Tis me turn on the floor.” Shooting him a flash of contempt, Sean Dennison captured her other hand and pulled until Mr. Alexander released her. “Watch and weep, sir.”

Jerking her forward, Sean’s arms clamped her to his chest in a possessive hold that almost frightened her. They spun in a circle, his speed increasing until she gasped for air, then he released his hold, grabbing her hands as she stumbled backward, her dress flaring. He supported them both within his clasped hands and whirled like the cyclonic wind.

She laughed, her head back, her hair flying freely, giddy and young.
Aye. Sean will not be dangerous or confusing.
She trusted him. This man was her destiny.

Once they broke the spin, Sean glided them into a larger group for several hopping steps.

“So, who’s the
bàthiaoch
?”
he asked.

Skipping a glance at Mr. Alexander as she hopped around another couple, Mary noted a dark scowl upon the stranger’s handsome face. “I hardly know. I just met him this afternoon. I believe he’s from the south.” She exhaled guilt but returned her attention to Sean. “But I don’t think I would call him an idiot.” She sounded defensive, even to herself.

“Well, he looks like one. Doesn’t even know how ta dance. Did ya notice?”

He certainly knew how to waltz, Mary thought, nibbling her lower lip. Daring another quick peek at the darkly brooding Mr. Alexander, his hands at his hips, his gaze never wavering from her, Mary wished some other girl would catch his fancy and release her from the stress of his focus.

It was not to be. As soon as the last musical note ended, Mr. Alexander physically urged her from Sean. And so it went for the better part of an hour. Mary danced one after another, but thankfully, she had little trouble resisting Mr. Alexander’s charm, which deteriorated with any native tune.

“I am winded, sir,” she finally admitted to Mr. Alexander in the middle of a dance.

A boyish smile confirmed that he was relieved to hear it. Turning, Mary intended to hunt down Sean. The night was nearly over, and she had not gotten his commitment to court yet.

“No,” Mr. Alexander barked as if he read her thoughts. He cleared his throat and weaved a hand through his hair. “That is, I hoped you would allow us a moment of conversation.” He pointed toward a warped wooden bench beneath the shadow of a tree—the same bench she had hoped to share with Sean.

Dread tightened her shoulders.
Don’t risk it, Mary Smyth. You’re no match for the likes of him.

“I don’t bite, Miss Smyth.”

His expression, pleading and teasing at the same time, gave her the oddest urge to laugh. Not wanting to be rude, Mary resigned herself to one short moment of conversation. “I would be most pleased with a cool drink, sir.” She could only hope Sean would stop talking long enough to attend to her before Mr. Alexander worked his magic, she thought as he led her toward the bench but then paused and glanced back at Sean.

“I agree that a drink may be refreshing, but I fear some other lad will take my place while I retrieve the beverage.” He crouched onto his haunches so that his eyes met hers. “Do I have your promise to be here when I return?”

Just then, Mary saw Sean emerge from a group of men and wave to her.

~ 5 ~

“To see so many Orangemen

 
all willing for to fight…”

Upon his departure from Dublin yesterday morning, Alec knew with certainty that he possessed intelligence, wit, and, according to the many women who begged his company, persuasive…charm.

Even this very afternoon—bathing, dressing too formally, pacing, changing his mind, and redressing in casual clothes—he was assured that those aforementioned abilities would provide him easy access to Mary Smyth and thus an exciting diversion for the evening.

As he rolled his neck against bunched muscles, every part of his aching, highly frustrated body seemed too tight. Standing here in line for refreshment, he realized all his aforementioned confidence had been shattered by a deceptive little sprite who stole his thoughts and turned his tongue to mush!

He’d spent hours watching her, waiting—like a puppy begging for a scratch on the ear—while a dirty farmer collected all her smiles and laughter.

Groveling…pathetic.

Yet he stayed.

Closing his eyes, Alec exhaled and released frustration. By all that was merciful, why did he continue to punish himself when he could be spending the evening relaxing, enjoying his family’s company, perhaps a drink at the pub?

Alec cast an impatient glance down the very long drink line that refused to move forward. Mumbling beneath his breath, he noted a group of men disregarding the needs of those behind them, entertaining each other with some apparently hilarious conversation.

If this were a ballroom, he would strut forward and loudly reprimand the men.
I say, rude sirs, please remove yourselves from the line so that others may go forward!