watched the two well-built men discuss something and wondered about Conor and the McTiernays. They seemed to be such a proud, close clan. The respect and admiration they had for their laird—both guardsmen and brothers alike—was almost tangible. She suspected that all Conor’s men responded to him similarly.
The way they spoke of their highlands, specifically McTiernay lands, made Laurel think she would like to live there until winter had passed. Would it be possible? Would she, an Englishwoman, be accepted? Cole was beginning to warm to her, but he had been forced to accept her company.
During their noon meal, Conor called a longer halt to give their mounts a rest. They had ridden the horses fairly hard for most of the morning. He also wanted to check on Laurel, her ribs, and how she was faring riding alone.
“Laurel, walk with me.” Conor commanded. His tone did not indicate that she had any option but to follow. He started walking away from the group towards some rocks surrounded by brush and elm trees.
“Yes, laird,” she retorted, responding cynically to his authoritative tone of voice.
He abruptly stopped and turned around. For some reason, he did not like Laurel calling him laird. Granted, that was how all the women of his clan referred to him. But when it came to Laurel, he wanted her to use his proper name. He didn’t want to be just laird to her. The idea that she saw him only as her protector and temporary leader unsettled him. Agitating him further was the concept of being disturbed by what a woman—especially an Englishwoman—called him.
“You will call me Conor,” he instructed, looking straight into her eyes. Would he ever get used to their ever-changing brilliance? One minute they were dark as a sea storm, and then the next moment they were as they were now, crystal clear, luminous, like the sun sparkling on a Scottish loch. The lass was bewitching his very soul.
“But Finn said that everyone refers to you as laird or Laird McTiernay, never as Conor.”
Conor’s jaw tightened. “Laurel, understand this. You will not call me laird. I am not your laird. To you, I am Conor.” He turned and started walking briskly towards his original goal.
Laurel was unsure whether this was a good thing or not. Not her laird? Was he not her protector? The hero who saved her each night in her dreams? She decided to look at his demand more positively. His brothers sometimes called him Conor. Maybe he only allowed those close to him to use his given name. No, Finn was definitely close to his chieftain. Mayhap, it was because she was a woman.
She frowned at the thought. It was unsettling to think of the many women in his clan calling him Conor. It seemed…intimate. “Does anyone else besides your brothers call you Conor?” she asked his back as he continued to lead her deeper into the woods.
“Of course.”
Her heart dropped suddenly and quickly. “Umm, do any females call you Conor?”
“You do.”
“Yes, yes. But besides me,” Laurel said, frustration mounting.
“Besides you what?”
Laurel pursed her lips together. “You are by far, the most aggravating, infuriating, large man. You think because of your size you can tell people what to do and they will do it. Well, I have news for you, laird, I will never be one of those people. You may be a giant, but I am not afraid of you.” She stopped and glared at him. When he didn’t respond and continued his march forward, she prompted, “So…?” Still no answer.
“Conor, are you trying to be obtuse? Are you trying to make me angry?” Laurel practically shouted at him. When he did not answer, she went over to a rock and refused to budge, letting her aggravation become even more evident. When he stopped and looked back at her, she gave him her most challenging smile.
In truth, Conor was not only interested in her train of thought, but the spirit she was exhibiting. He had only seen this bit of fire to her personality when they first captured her and she fought to free herself.
He suspected that this trait had been suppressed the past few days. She had been tired and in pain for most of the trip. That combination would typically make a person complain, whine, and, if they had it in themselves, allow their tempers to rise and take over. Conor was quite sure that Laurel had a temper, and a fiery one at that. Her ability to restrain it thus far in these harsh traveling conditions gave him a strange feeling of pride.
“Laurel, if you want to ask something, do so, straight forward.” He deliberately paused. “Or are you a coward?” he gently teased, goading her further. But once he saw the result, he realized that he had just put himself in serious danger. Laurel was beautiful and tempting in any state. But angry? He had never seen the like. Even the highlands could not compare.
Suddenly, she was standing right in front of him, gold hair waving in the breeze, the sun capturing its strawberry highlights. Her hands were on her hips accentuating her heaving bosom as she took deep breaths trying to calm her anger. But the soothing effects did not reach her eyes, which sparkled with fury. Gone was the innocent English maiden. In front of him was a gorgeous vision of regal defiance. If he didn’t leave immediately, he was in danger of grabbing her and giving her one more reason to be mad at him.
Laurel struggled for composure. “No one, not a laird nor a baron—not even you, Laird McTiernay—can ever call me a coward.” She meant what she said. The seriousness radiating from her was palpable. For some reason, the concept of her being called or considered a coward was completely unacceptable to her.
He smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. “Aye, my love. You are no coward. Indeed, you have shown more courage and strength of spirit than men have shown in similar circumstances.”
Laurel looked down to the ground absorbing his words. Relief poured through her veins. Of course he didn’t think her a coward. Conor would not allow a coward to travel with him, or would he?
“But, love…” The pitch of his voice forced Laurel to look up, her eyes widening. “…I will call you whatever I choose.” Conor then resumed his march, walking ahead towards some unknown destination.
She watched him, still refusing to move. “Conor,” she began, having regained her calm composure, “you underestimate me greatly.” Her words were spoken slowly and deliberately, laced with indirect warnings. She stood there for several more seconds before following him.
They were starting to do some light climbing now. Not anything too difficult, although the pain in her ribs was rising due to her heavier breathing. As he climbed ahead of her in silence, she again appraised his well-formed physique.
He really was quite a large man. Yet, when he stood close to her, she didn’t feel overwhelmed. Instead, she was reassured by his solid presence. He was gentle, yet firm. Controlling, yet giving. He was a man she could love quite easily.
His legs were bare and extremely distracting. They were powerfully strong, as were his arms and every other part of his body. Even his buttocks looked firm and hard under the thick pleated plaid skirt. She could see the strength in his shoulders and arms through his white linen shirt and had the crazy notion of taking her hand and caressing his back. No, the reality was she wanted to touch him anywhere—everywhere.
She imagined twining her fingers in his dark wavy hair and wondered how it would feel. Was it as thick and soft as it looked? It was such a perfect shade of dark brown and well suited to his skin tone, which was still slightly bronzed from the summer sun. His hair and skin coloring made his silver
