Passion And Fury

Prologue

November 1591

He noticed her the moment she stepped gracefully into the ballroom.

The ballroom was a beautifully appointed one with crystal chandeliers and a creamy color palette which could accommodate up to five hundred guests but had just a tad over a hundred guests this evening which made the room mammoth than necessary.

Even in the large ballroom with many bonnie lasses draped in ball gowns, she stood out. And she wasn't clad in anything flashy. In fact, she wore a simple gown and kirtle of dusky rose brocade with a high-waisted bodice and fitted sleeves and an overgown with a long, trailing train. The square neckline of the bodice revealed her bosom – fine-textured and rosy –

He caught himself, realizing where his thoughts were heading and that he was getting surprisingly warm. Too warm for a chilly November night.

Ordinarily, nothing would have attracted him. He was hard to please, and even if something did catch his eyes, he got bored. But there was something about the way she carried herself that he couldn't over look. She wore a black mask that covered most of her face except her lips which was red and inviting –

Blister it, Warwick.

His gaze followed her as she moved towards two lads and a lassie, by the look of things, viscounts or lairds maybe, who smiled and made small talk with her. He felt indignation rise in his chest. Was she married? Was the other one who was not holding a lady her husband?

Of course someone as bonny as she would be hitched. He knew he was being forward by describing her as beautiful because he was yet to see her face, but with a skin that fair and exquisite as the delicate blossom of a rose in springtime, he was certain she was some beauty to behold.

She couldn't be more than a score and half, he thought to himself with a sinking feeling. Lasses that age can never be unmarried, not in Scotland, anyway. Lasses were betrothed at young ages, even as a bairn, if not immediately at birth, and married off at puberty.

But she, she looked so womanly, and lush, and seductive – she would be married.

With that conviction, Warrick knew he should tear his gaze off her, get his mind to focus and settle down for his mission here, but he couldn't. He just couldn't.

With a jolt of his heart, he realized his gaze was being returned.

He didn't look away, and neither did she for that matter. Despite the dancers that passed between them, and the distance separating the — as they were literally on separate sides of the room, they maintained eye contact for several seconds.

Warrick was stunned. Never in his two score and a decade years on earth had he experienced this nerve racking, jolting moment; that connection between two souls, the one that writers tired in vain to capture on paper and ink but could never. This was it. He was living it.

Then she abruptly broke it, her gaze straying to her hands. She fondled them nervously. A lad walked up to her and whispered something to which she shook her head and smiled politely. Apparently he had been asking her to dance. The bamstick had made her break their gaze.

Chagrined that he was feeling dissapointed over something as trivial as making eye contact, Warrick raised his pewter goblet to his lips and took a hearty gulp. Still, it did nothing to dispel his feelings.

He knew he had to do something; talk to her, get her name at least, see her face or something, but he couldn't. He realized he was...terrified.

Warrick almost laughed out loud at that notion. He? Afraid?

He was a war laird, and had fought so many wars since he was fifteen. He was strong and fierce and took control when he needed to. Never in his life had he backed down from a challenge, no matter how tough.

Warrick caught himself. Was he really gloating to himself?

"Oh bloody hell." He swore bitterly placing his goblet down harder than needed. "Bloody everlasting hell."

Just as he was about to move towards her, the musical band changed their harmony to something slow and steady. People went in pairs, dancing slowly to the solemn beat.

Warrick knew this was his cue. He had to make a move. But what if she turned him down? What if her husband showed up? Ignoring the warning bells going off in his head, he turned on his heels and started to move towards her. He had to get to her before someone else did.

She had turned down a dance before, but that was because the beat was hardly suitable for a leddie to dance without breaking a sweat – and leddies hated being sweaty when the night was still young. Now, the music was perfect. Fit for lovers.

Warrick almost laughed at the notion. An hour ago he would never have thought he would be feeling this way; head over heels and lusting for a mysterious and bonny woman. But he was. And damn him if there was anything he could do about it.

She hadn't noticed him coming towards her because she had turned away, maybe to leave, but Warrick caught her just in time by placing his hands on her waists. He then leaned down to whisper into her ears, the rose scent of her hair filling his senses;

"Care to dance, my lady?"

*

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