Somewhere My Lass by Beth Trissel

lasses.”
    “A hard life.”
    “Aye. Raw and savage like a wild beast. But I love the land and its people.” Would she see any of them again, she wondered, knotting her hands in her lap.
    Neil slid his hand closer and laid it across hers. Even the down on her skin tingled beneath his light caress. “I see.”
    Mora explored his perceptive gaze and it seemed to her that he did see. Was he just sympathizing with her or truly beginning to remember? She prayed it was also the latter.
    He blew out his breath, his chest heaving as if under a heavy weight. Then he straightened his shoulders and gave her an encouraging smile. “Enough of this depressing talk. You look so pretty and you’re all dressed up for a party. Let’s not waste that lovely dress. It’s meant for dancing.”
    If he’d suggested they attend the court of the English Queen Elizabeth, Mora couldn’t have been more surprised or unprepared. Dancing took much skill to perform properly with grace. The dance master had been an infrequent guest in their home, his comings and goings unpredictable, and her father more interested in her brothers’—and consequently her—scholarly pursuits. And matters of warfare and clan rivalry, which formal dance didn’t enter into in the slightest.
    “I was given little training in proper steps,” she stammered. “Still, I have some meager talent and delight in dancing.”
    She thought of the more informal assemblies. Even those required a number of dancers to exact the steps, a minimum of four to six couples.
    Did Neil have other guests in mind? Where were they keeping themselves? Circling her head at the room, she asked, “Who else will make up the set?”
    Fergus wore a half smile. “Don’t look at me. And, trust me, you don’t want to see Wrenie dance.”
    “I heard that!” she called from the kitchen.
    “I hear you too, moocher—scarfing my chips and dip! I suppose the last of the bagels is history.”
    “Saving that for something, were you?” Wrenie called back in between evident mouthfuls, with her usual disregard for her station.
    “Does the word deli mean anything to you?” Fergus rejoined.
    It didn’t to Mora.
    “Thought I was in one. You need to restock the shelves,” Wrenie replied in a saucy tone.
    Mora had given up making sense of the incomprehensible flow between them, or Fergus and Neil’s indulgence of the outrageous woman, but she had no inclination to include Wrenie in any social event. Nor did she think it seemly for servants to dance with gentlefolk.
    She returned her gaze wonderingly to the faint mirth in Neil’s. “Who then?”
    “Just us.”
    “Dancing— alone ?”
    He squeezed her hand. “It’ll be all right, really.”
    Unheard of. She was at a loss for words.
    *****
    Neil almost laughed out loud at Mora’s wide eyes and open mouth, but he made a considerable effort to conceal his amusement. He shouldn’t have shocked her. Someone as sheltered as she’d been couldn’t possibly have gone out dancing, unless it was to a square dance, if they had those in Scotland.
    But here she sat in that totally impractical dress, hair piled on her head in an equally inappropriate style, clearly uncomfortable with her unaccustomed do and outfit, but trying to be a good sport. And despite it all, achingly desirable. It seemed the true test of her beauty was to survive a morning at Wrenie’s hands with her looks unscathed. Relatively. That hair had to come down.
    The least he could do after her trying ordeal was to show the poor girl a good time, and escape the baffling mystery that hung over them and Mrs. Dannon’s horrific death for a few lighthearted minutes. Besides, he wanted an excuse to take Mora in his arms and, thanks to Wrenie’s fashion sense or lack of it, she was outfitted for dancing.
    “Pin a corsage to her dress and you could take her to the prom,” Fergus tossed out. “I’ll bet Mora missed hers.”
    “I’m contemplating something along the same lines,” Neil