looked perplexed. “Milady, a laird’s lady must be strong, not just physically, but emotionally.”
“Aye, Finn’s right, milady,” chimed in Seamus. “It would not do to have Conor constantly tending to a weak woman sensitive to the goings on around her.”
Laurel was struggling to understand. “Weak woman? Laird’s lady?” she repeated slowly and distinctly. They could not mean what they were implying.
“What Seamus means, is that…,” began Loman when Conor cut him off.
“She understands.”
Laurel bristled at Conor’s arrogance. “I can assure you that she does not.” Laurel retorted.
“You do, love. You just have not accepted it.”
“What you are proposing…Just yesterday you said that you would never…that you refused, didn’t need to…” Laurel had trouble getting the words out. This couldn’t be happening. She was feeling elated and torn apart at the same time.
Conor also didn’t understand what was happening. His desire for her was so strong that everyone was picking up on it. Their assumption was understandable, but he recoiled from the thought of commitment and immediately went into denial.
“I am proposing nothing. Just a roof and protection.”
The alarmed side of her heart sighed in relief. But the part of her that wanted him, ached for his touch, cried as she realized that he just declared that it would never happen. Pride forced her to respond.
“Good. Because when we get to your highlands, all I want is somewhere to live for just a little while, until I decide what to do next. Just for the winter. I promise that by spring I will be gone.”
“But lass, you will be living with us,” said Craig, “at the main castle. Conor—won’t she be living with us?” he questioned, truly confused now. He had seen how his brother responded to her. She could bring him the softness and intimacy that had been lacking for so long in their laird and in their home.
Craig pressed on. “I mean she needs you, you need a wife, she’s more than pretty and…and…well—Conor, she’s not afraid of you.” He turned and directed the question to her.
“Are you? I mean, are you afraid of Conor?”
Laurel’s eyebrows furrowed at the notion. “Of course I am not afraid of Conor. What a ridiculous idea. I may be frequently aggravated where your brother is concerned, but I am not afraid of him.”
This answer resulted in a bunch of grinning McTiernays. These highlanders were really a baffling bunch.
“Laurel,” she turned to look at him when Conor spoke, “one more thing. You will be living in McTiernay Castle.”
His clarification was heard, but not well received. Her regal but defiant stance was unbending. “I will not. It would not be proper.”
“I thought you were disinterested in being a lady.”
“I may not be interested in society’s rules for proper conduct, but I still will not live under your roof.”
“You will.”
“No, I will not.”
Conor leaned down and whispered into her ear. “Love, trust me, you will.”
She twisted to reply. Pain suddenly ripped through her side, but it did not deter her from responding. “Conor, if you make me, you will rue the day,” she promised in return. Just as he was lifting his head to move away, Laurel grasped his shirt and kept him near.
“Conor, I really must leave,” she whispered.
Misunderstanding, Conor believed she meant to go her own way the next day, and that he would never see her again. Suddenly, he was full of panic. Although no one would know to look at him, he was seized with fear that Laurel would leave him—that she wanted to leave him, and soon. He instantly decided never to let that happen. Regardless of her wishes, Laurel was staying with him until he decided it was over.
“Never. You will never leave,” he stated with far more bite than he intended.
“I don’t think you understand. I should not have been so reckless, throwing the daggers,” she whispered back.
The daggers? What did the daggers have to do with her leaving? He decided that this discussion needed to continue in private. He gave everyone menacing glares for them to retreat to their previous activities. He then grabbed Laurel’s arm and started hauling her towards the river.
“Conor, please,” she softly cried as tears started welling in her eyes.
Immediate concern enveloped him. “Laurel? Why are you crying?”
“As I said, I shouldn’t have thrown those damn daggers. But I did. My pride always was a source of problems for me,” she sniffled.
“What about those daggers has you so wound up?”
“My ribs are killing me. I twisted too fast and the bindings gave. The pain is getting fairly unbearable. I didn’t realize how much the bindings helped, but it hurts even to breathe now. Can you—can you help me to the river and rebind them?”
Relief and then dread filled his veins simultaneously. She wasn’t leaving him at all. In fact she needed him! But his desire to touch her was barely controllable as it was. Whenever he was close to her, the elusive, womanly scent of her tugged at his insides, arousing him. If he were so near to her again, he would surely cave into his desire.
Through an extraordinary act of will, Conor suppressed his passions and led her to the river. Once he helped her unbind the twisted fittings, he waited out of sight while she bathed and prepared for the night.
He went farther down the river to bathe himself. Unfortunately, the cold water did little to calm his craving for her. Conor thought how alive he had felt the first time he had held Laurel. An overwhelming sense of rightness he had never experienced before—the need to have her—pulsed through him like fire. By the time he returned, his need for her was all-consuming. She had her all-too-feminine chemise on and was waiting for him to help with the bindings.
“Sorry,” he said roughly, referring to having kept her waiting.
“Hmm? Oh, that’s all right,” she said, staring at his shirt that was molded to his chest. He must have bathed as well and dressed while still wet. He was so solid and strong, and his semi-wet top emphasized the natural elegance of his powerful frame. The hair on his chest was dark and tapered as she lowered her gaze. She had not realized how much the loose linen shirt hid. What had not occurred to her was that she had dressed after bathing in the same wet state, her thin, lacy chemise clinging and revealing her well-formed body.
Conor, though, was well aware of her garment and how it hugged every inch of her. He could concentrate on little else. Her breasts were ample, and he could see the rosy nipples through the thin cloth. The chemise was molded to her hips, leaving him no doubt as to her curves and beauty. The tightness in his loins multiplied.
“Conor?” Laurel inquired as she innocently handed him the bindings
