On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

"You're returning to Scotland?" She let him lead her into the nearest set.

"Catriona doesn't feel comfortable leaving the Vale, and the twins, to their own devices for long."

He said it with a smile, one she returned. Of all her cousins, Richard was the most… not gentle, but understanding. And Catriona was a font of feminine wisdom; Amanda made a comment about speaking with her before they left.

"You'd better speak with her tonight, then, for we leave tomorrow morning."

At the end of the dance, she would have gone with Richard, but others gathered about and she stopped to chat. Then she heard the first strains of the waltz.

She turned and found Martin beside her. He raised a brow. "My dance, I believe."

There was a wealth of warning in the deep words, no drawl to soften them. Inclining her head, she gave him her hand, regally let him lead her to the floor. Let him draw her into his arms and start them twirling.

The orchids that continued to be delivered every day-a spray of three pure white blooms-rested on his shoulder, all but glowed against the black of his coat. She considered them, then lifted her gaze to his face.

To his eyes, green as ever but turbulent, harder-more agate than moss.

"I am not yours."

His gaze only grew harder. "That is a matter of opinion."

"Regardless, even were we wed…" She let her gaze drift over those about them, then looked again at his face. "I would always insist on being my own person."

"I wasn't aware the designations were mutually exclusive." He bit the words off, clipped and hard.

She opened her eyes wide. "You mean I could be yours and still act independently? That, for instance, matters such as how to deal with anonymous notes addressed to me would be mine to decide? That you wouldn't simply interfere as your right?"

"It's my right to keep you safe."

She glared. "If I agreed to be yours, possibly."

"There's no 'possibly' about it."

"I do not accept that such a 'right' extends to shielding me from harm as if I were an incapable lackwit."

"The very last thing I consider you is lacking in wit."

Their aggravated gazes locked, then the end of the room arrived; they both looked away as they negotiated the tight turns. Realized they'd been arguing in the midd

le of a dance floor, and there were interested eyes aplenty. Then they were sweeping back up the long room.

"This is getting us nowhere." Martin's jaw was set; he briefly met her eyes. "Neither this discussion, nor your latest tack."

Her latest tack? "What do you mean?"

The muscles in his jaw tightened. "I mean that you're going to have to exercise your independence and make a decision-soon." He caught her gaze. "You know what I'm offering-I've laid my cards on the table."

She understood-read in his eyes exactly what he meant, that he'd declared his hand, offered all he would, and there was no more to be gained, no more that he would risk in this game.

"It's your call, your lead." His expression, his eyes, were granite hard.

She didn't answer, looked away, let the revolutions of the dance sweep them along, then the measure ended with a flourish. She curtsied, he bowed, and raised her.

She met his eyes. Let him see her resolution, as set in stone as his. "You've forgotten. I have another option."

He frowned. Smiling lightly, she half turned. "I could resign the hand." Her eyes on his, she stated clearly, deliberately, "I could throw my cards on the table, and walk away."

On the words, she turned and walked to the chaise where her Aunt Helena sat, along with Lady Osbaldestone and Honoria, Devil's duchess.