by Marie Laval
Dancing for the Devil
Part Three:
Part Three:
Sword Dance
Marie Laval
Bruce McGunn, laird of Wrath in the far North of Scotland, is as brutal and unforgiving as his land. Discharged from the army, haunted by the spectres of his fallen comrades and convinced he is going mad, he is running out of time to save his estate from the machinations of Cameron McRae, heir to the McGunn's ancestral enemies.
When the clipper carrying McRae’s new bride docks at Wrath harbour, McGunn decides to hold the woman to ransom and use her to get more time to repay his debts. However, far from the spoilt heiress he expected, Rose is genuine and funny - a ray of sunshine in the long winter that has become his life. She is also determined to escape.
As Rose runs away to be reunited with her husband, she discovers there is a sinister side to the dazzlingly handsome aristocrat she married after a whirlwind romance. Why was Cameron so desperate to get her father's military journal? Why did he insist on keeping their wedding a secret? She is even more confused when Bruce catches up with her and she starts to feel irresistibly attracted to him. Soon she risks her marriage to help Bruce find the truth about his past and solve the mystery of the brutal murders committed on his land. Will her love be enough to heal his haunted heart?
Rose Saintclair’s tale begins in The Dream Catcher, and continues in Blue Bonnets, the first two parts of the Dancing for the Devil trilogy.
The story so far…
Cape Wrath, Scotland, November 1847
When her ship is caught in a terrifying storm off the far north of Scotland and she catches her first glimpse of Wrath Lodge, Rose believes she has reached the gateway to hell. Her encounter with Wrath’s laird Bruce McGunn does nothing to reassure her. A reckless officer discharged from the army, McGunn holds a bitter grudge against her husband’s family, the wealthy McRaes, and Rose is horrified to find out that McGunn means to hold her to ransom in order to save his estate from financial ruin.
Bruce’s health is failing, and he fears he is descending into madness as terrifying hallucinations torment him every night. Soon something else is keeping him awake – a growing attraction for his captive, and the gruesome discovery of two women’s bodies near the castle. One of them, Malika, is the childhood friend Rose last saw in Algiers the day before her marriage to Cameron McRae. How the women died, who killed them and disposed of their bodies is a mystery Bruce now has to solve.
Rose manages to escape Wrath, taking with her a posy of pine sprigs she believes was given to her by the Dark Lady, Wrath’s resident ghost, and her confused feelings for Wrath’s tormented master – the man she calls McGlum, whose mother committed suicide when he was a baby and who doesn’t know who his father was.
She is abducted on the way to the McRae estate and taken to an abandoned cottage where Bruce finds her. A blizzard forces them to stay in the cottage where Bruce suffers another bout of his debilitating illness. As Rose tends to him, she realises she has fallen in love with him, and she is relieved rather than distraught when she learns that Cameron McRae tricked her into a fake wedding and she isn’t his wife after all.
Bruce takes Rose with him to confront Cameron. On the way, they read the military journal kept by Rose’s father in which he mentions meeting Niall McRae – Cameron's father – on the battlefield and writing his last will and testament. Could the journal hold vital clues as to Cameron’s deception and the identity of Bruce’s father? And will Bruce find out at last who is responsible for the murders on his land?
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Marie Laval
Other Accent Press Titles
Chapter One
‘C’me on ye bunch of ragamuffins and dolly-mops, hurry up! What do ye think Lord McRae brought ye here for? Lazing around, playing yer godawful music or chattering all day? Come on, I said. I dunno ’ave time to sit around waiting for ye lot.’
Only Rose understood what he was saying, but the guard’s angry voice, the sheer brutality twisting his thick-set face and the impatient way he tapped the palm of his hand with a cropped whip were enough for dancers and musicians to hurry out of the cottage without protest.
Rose kept her head down as she walked past him to climb into the carriage. She had persuaded one of the dancing girls to swap places with her and wore the girl’s red and golden dress. Her thick blonde hair was safely tucked under a headdress which was secured with pins and decorated with chains and necklaces – some of them her own – which chimed and tinkled with her every move. Her eyes were lined with black kohl pencil like the other girls, but she would have to keep them down because, of course, they were blue. Although Ouled Nail dancers didn’t usually veil their faces, she had asked the other girls to make an exception for tonight. She couldn’t take the risk of Cameron recognising her – not until she had done what she wanted to do.
Once in the coach, one of the musicians leaned towards her and whispered in Arabic.
‘Are you sure you want to do this, Ourida? It’s not too late to change your mind, you know. We could pretend you’re ill or something.’
‘No, I need to do this,’ she replied from under the veil as the brutish man slammed the door shut.
‘What if he recognises you before you speak to the young lady?’
She shook her head, her throat tight with dread despite her apparent self-confidence.
‘He won’t even see me. I’ll slip away as soon as we get to the castle and hide until I find Lady Sophia. And if ever I have to dance, then I’ll just be one of the girls, and as you well know nobody will even glance up at my face – which is veiled anyway.’
The men still looked worried, and she now understood why. She linked her fingers in her lap and swallowed hard. The things they had told her about Cameron and Morven were shocking enough to make anyone scared, but they made her even more determined to warn Lady Sophia against the man she was about to marry.
It wasn’t long before the carriage stopped in the courtyard of the castle and they were ushered inside through the service entrance.
‘The ladies are all either tucked away in the drawing room or have retired upstairs, and the gentlemen are waiting in the music room,’ the manservant said. ‘By now I gather they’ll be more than ready for ye. I know I am.’
He clicked his tongue, let out a booming laugh and slapped one of the girls on the bottom.
Rose looked around in astonishment as they walked through the opulent reception rooms, slowing down deliberately until she fell to the back of the line. She had to find a good hiding place here before they reached the music room.
She had never seen such splendour, except perhaps in the palace of Dar Hasan Pasha or the Dey’s Palais d’Eté in Algiers. Every ceiling was stuccoed, every mantelpiece adorned with gilded griffins, every piece of furniture, chandelier, and mirror sparkled. Her optimism soon vanished however when she realised that although the rooms were filled with elegant furniture, there was nowhere for her to hide. The silk brocade curtains weren’t long or bulky enough to conceal her. The white and eau-de-nil sofas and chairs with their high backs and fancy carved legs weren’t close enough to the wall for her to hide behind.
‘Almost there,’ the manservant called as he turned back.
Immediately, her gaze fell to the floor.
‘Hey, ye at the back,’ he growled. ‘I know what ye’re trying to do, snooping around for
something to steal. Hurry up or I’ll carry ye on my shoulder.’
Bedbugs! She had missed her chance, and now he’d be watching her like a hawk.
He opened a door and gestured for them to enter a large, wood-panelled room, plunged in semi-darkness and filled with a thick, acrid smoke that brought tears to her eyes and made her throat sore. Glancing up for a second, Rose saw smartly dressed men of all ages chatting in groups or reclining in deep, leather sofas and armchairs. Some drank liquor, others lifted cups of tea or coffee to their lips, but they all stopped talking when the dancers walked in and turned to stare at them.
‘Here they are at last, our little doves,’ a familiar voice called from the other end of the room, making Rose’s heart beat hard and fast against her ribs.
Cameron stood near the fireplace, a crystal tumbler filled to the brim with liquor in his hand, his cravat undone and his shirt open, and the light from the fire casting an evil, sinister glow on his face. He might look the same as he had a few weeks before, distinguished and heartbreakingly handsome, but all she felt for him right now was fear and loathing.
Her eyes darted around the room. As she had expected, Bruce wasn’t there.
Cameron grabbed hold of a silver spoon and tapped it against his glass.
‘Gentlemen, I promised you a delicious surprise from a distant and exotic land, and here it is. You will not be disappointed, but be careful… You must say not a word to our charming wives and fiancées. They wouldn’t understand.’
There were a few chuckles, but mostly hot, expectant stares. Rose could feel the men’s eyes linger on her body –the way men everywhere gaped at dancing girls, whether they were wealthy aristocrats in a palace or sailors in a dockside tavern.
Cameron signalled for the girls to come closer and stand in the centre of the room, and to the musicians to sit in a corner. So she would have to perform after all. Gripped by panic, all her former confidence now deserted her. She slid behind the other girls and kicked off her babouches, shivering at the feel of the smooth, cool wooden floor under the soles of her feet.
‘Go on, my lovelies, dance… dance for us lucky devils,’ Cameron said, lifting his glass in a toast.
Music rose in the silent room. The beat of the drum was followed by the melodic, insistent, slightly hypnotic tune of the flute.
‘Don’t worry, stay at the back and dance, we’ll think of something to distract them,’ one of the girls whispered.
Rose’s chest felt too tight, and her limbs heavy and clumsy. The heavy bangles on her wrists jingled as she raised her arms, flipped her hands above her head and rolled her hips. She had done it many times, but always in secret and with Malika as her sole audience. Her friend used to say she was as good as any native Ouled Nail, that she felt the moves, the rhythm, the flow, the heart of the music the same way as they did. She could almost hear Malika’s voice when she’d said, ‘You could be one of us, Ourida.’
Malika…
She could do this. She would do this, for her friend – her sister. She would forget about the audience, follow the music and let her body remember and fly away.
Little by little the music surrounded her, seeped inside her, and she eased into the dance. Soon the only sounds in the room were the fast beat of the bendir drum and the long, winding notes of the gisbah flute.
He had stayed a long time on the terrace after his visit to the library, so long he missed the start of the performance. Yet the freezing cold night had done little to appease his feverish brain, rationalise the crazy thoughts that swirled inside his head, and help him figure out plausible explanations for Niall McRae wearing the other half of the Alexandria medal. The implications were staggering, life-changing and not just for himself.
He stared at the parterres scattered with fountains and lights. Beyond, the grounds stretched all the way to the sea several miles away. He turned to look at the castle, gripping the stone balustrade for support. If McRae had indeed fathered him, then Cameron was his half-brother – his younger half-brother. He really didn’t know what he felt about that. Damn it, he didn’t know what he felt about any of it!
The sound of cheers and applause drifted into the night from the ballroom as McRae announced his betrothal to Lady Sophia. The happy couple was fêted and congratulated. The orchestra resumed its series of waltzes, quadrilles and polkas, but he couldn’t make himself go back inside. Without thinking, he once again lifted his hand to his chest to reach out for his medallion, only to let it drop by his side with a curse. The medallion. He should not have thrown it on the fire in Rose’s bedroom. Now it was lost, probably melted to an unidentifiable mess.
Together with Colonel Saintclair’s diary and the portrait, the medallion could have helped prove his case. Of course, what he really needed were the elder McRae’s letters, especially the one addressed to the woman he loved – his own mother?
The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that the lawyers had deliberately ignored their late client’s wishes to provide for his illegitimate son. Lady Patricia probably bribed them into silence. The woman would never acknowledge that her husband had fathered a child out of wedlock – a child whose very existence could endanger the rights of her own son to Westmore and the vast McRae wealth.
What could he do to establish the truth? One way or another he had to know who he was.
The moon crept over the landscape, throwing its silver cloak onto the grounds, the woods and the distant sea. It was late. The orchestra had stopped playing, and most of the guests had left in their elegant carriages. He should go back inside. McRae – he couldn’t think of the man any other way – had hinted that the dancers would give a performance for a chosen few after the ball, and invited him to join them in the music room. He didn’t want to miss the chance to talk to them and the musicians about Malika – that’s if he managed to communicate with them at all.
However the moment he entered the music room, his brain stopped working. He stood mesmerised, blood pumping thick and hard through his body, like the men around him. He’d never seen women dance like that before, never watched such a blatantly carnal display. Their every move was designed to take a man down, set his senses on fire and make him beg – from the way their arms undulated above their heads, slim and snake-like, to the fast circling of their hips, reminiscent of lovemaking, and the playful, seductive manner they wrapped and unwrapped their silk scarves around their breasts like a caress.
‘They’re incredible, aren’t they?’ A young man next to him groaned. ‘I just want to get my hands on one of them, any of them.’
‘Same here,’ replied an older man whose face was so flushed it was the colour of beetroot.
‘McRae said we could take our pick later, if we were discreet,’ the young man started again. ‘He said he’d had them all, and they were just as good in bed as on the dance floor.’
He went on to describe the crude acts he intended to get the woman to perform for him, and on him, and it was enough to yank Bruce out of his trance. He’d never force or debase a woman, and he certainly wouldn’t stand there discussing lustful fantasies as if the dancers were slaves provided for his pleasure.
The music slowed right down as two of the women removed their tops, their movements slow and lascivious, and let them fall to the floor. Their breasts wobbled when they shook their shoulders, then jutted out when they leaned back, as supple as willow branches.
‘Good grief! I think I need another stiff drink.’ The old man turned to the console table behind them where Bruce and he had left their whiskies. He grabbed a glass at random, lifted it to his lips with a shaky hand and drank a long gulp.
The atmosphere in the room changed. It became heavier, darker, more threatening. Bruce threw McRae a glance and frowned. The man’s lips were twisted in a sardonic smile, the light from the fire made his eyes shine with a wicked glint.
Two more girls took their shirts off but didn’t remove the veils that covered their face.
‘Don’t you just w
ant to get a handful of that luscious female flesh?’ the old man sputtered, the beetroot flush now spreading onto his tubby neck.
‘I heard they get completely naked, you know,’ the young man breathed out next to him.
By now, only one dancer remained fully clothed. He had hardly noticed her before. Although as graceful and skilled as the others, she was somehow more restrained. There was something a little strange about her – something familiar.
He shrugged. He was just imagining things. Besides, the light was dim and she was veiled. Now he looked more attentively, he saw that that her eyes were closed. Was it because she was afraid, or ashamed, of being the object of so much male lust? Or was she just too engrossed in the music and her dancing to care?
The more clothes the other girls took off, the more she stood out. Soon she was the only one remaining who was fully dressed, and somehow she was the focus of all the attention.
‘What is she waiting for?’ The young man sounded impatient, angry even.
‘Maybe she’s shy!’ Someone shouted. A few men cheered and clapped.
‘Clothes off!’ someone called.
Bruce’s blood simmered. He tightened his fists, hardened his jaw. Never before had he been so ashamed of being a man.
‘Shut up and leave her alone,’ he growled.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ The young man next to him shrugged.
At that moment, two of the dancers unfastened their belts, their skirts slipped to the floor and they were naked. Now only their chains and necklaces covered their bronzed skin. One of them approached McRae who grabbed hold of her arm to pull her closer before stroking her heavy breasts and sliding a hand between her legs.
The woman smiled and slid away in a sleek, willowy motion, to retake her place in the centre of the room. Her companion approached the old man next to Bruce. She rolled her hips, faster and faster, lifted her arms above her head and shook her shoulders to make her breasts sway and quiver. Her long necklace moved on her chest, touched her dark, tight nipples, and snaked down towards the triangle of black hair at the top of her legs. She was so close they could smell her hot, musky scent.
