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Authors: Michele Sinclair
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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
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
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