All eyes are on us as Roc leads me to the dance floor. I had expected we’d melt into the crowd of assembled dancers already in the middle of an Everland reel, but as soon as I step onto the floor, the band switches tunes, the violinist taking center stage.
The first introductory notes are the notes of a lively waltz.
I must make a face because Roc says, “What’s wrong, Your Majesty?”
The gleam in his eye says he already knows.
“You may remember I wasn’t very good at the waltz and I’m afraid I’m no better now.”
He hooks his arm around my waist, drawing me into his warmth, the solid, sturdy fold of him. He smells like an autumn night, like heady darkness and spicy warmth.
My belly dips.
“I will lead, Your Majesty. You will follow.”
Now it’s his turn to order.
Or perhaps I was kidding myself before.
Roc will never take commands. He gives them.
The assembled dancers fall into position around us, forming a loose circle in the center of the hall.
Roc holds up his hand and I slip mine into his and then the music is threading around us and Roc twirls me around and around until I’m dizzy, not just with the dance, but with his nearness, his scent, the weight of his hand at the small of my back, and the sure grip of his other as he steers me in the movements.
He is a skilled dancer. It doesn’t matter if it’s a reel, a waltz, or a landerwall. He knows them all and he is very, very good at them.
Everything Roc does he does with confidence.
I’m not sure he knows what it is to doubt himself.
Gods that must be freeing.
The band’s tempo shifts, and our footwork is required to match the beat as all of us assembled follow the flowing movement of the circle.
Roc spins me, then pulls me back and the skirt of my dress blooms out like the petals of a buttercup.
“Why are you afraid?” His voice cuts in through the music, raspy at my ear.
“What do you mean?”
He spins me again as the dance requires, then pulls me back.
“You are afraid of something. Tell me what it is.”
“You haven’t earned my secrets.”
He smiles and his arm shifts higher on my back so he can dip me in unison with the rest of the couples.
When he hoists me up, I’m dizzy with delight, but also on guard.
There is a look on his face like he’s found something that he wants to claim and he will not stop until he has it.
“Tell me how to earn your secrets, Your Majesty.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You abandoned me.”
“Is that what you believe?”
With my hand firmly in his, I spin out to the center of the circle with all of the other women. And then Roc twirls me back in.
“I asked you to stay,” he says. “You refused me.”
“You cut off James’s hand.”
“If a hand touches what’s mine, then the hand is mine too. And you were mine first.” There is still a smile on his beautiful mouth, but the look in his eye has turned dark.
“I didn’t belong to you.”
He clucks his tongue. “Yes you did.”
My insides clench at his words. I don’t want to be a silly, simpering girl beneath Roc’s attention and his assurances that I did in fact belong to him, but I’m not sure I can fight it, even all these years later.
But I’m not willing to give up just yet.
“And what about now?” I counter. “You and James?”
The darkness in his gaze lights like a bonfire. “Oh Wendy Darling, you haven’t earned my secrets.”
I scowl.
He turns me once, then twice as the song reaches its climax.
When he pulls me back into him, I careen with his hard chest and let out a huff while my entire body burns hot. There is no air between us now. Not an inch of open space.
A lock of Roc’s dark hair falls over his forehead as the waltz crescendos. Our pace is fast now, the footwork complex, the spins and dips coming so quickly, the room blurs.
The violinist comes to a sudden halt, timed perfectly to us women spinning out from our partners, arms held aloft.
The crowd roars in delight, clapping and whistling.
I’m breathing heavily and a little sweaty. But Roc looks like he could dance another dozen waltzes.
“For someone who thinks she doesn’t know how to dance, you did well.”
I swallow and then words are tumbling out of my mouth. “Are you with him?”
Roc’s green eyes burn like emeralds in the sun. “Oh, Your Majesty. Jealousy does not become you.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“No?”
“You took his hand!”
“Yes, everyone keeps reminding me of that.”
“Are you playing games with him?”
He gets in close to me and says, “Are you?” I’m taken back by the protective edge of his words as if I’m the one to watch out for.
My teeth grit together. I yank my hand out of his and leave the dance floor, excusing myself from the supper hall.
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