“Ye ken very well what it means.”
He stopped well before touching her, which angered her almost as much as the rest. “I leave ye alone for a day,” he said, his voice rougher now, “and ye get sick in a market.”
“That isnae what happened.”
“Then please tell me what happened, since ye have a different recollection.”
Violet opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
She could not mention her old sickness or how desperately she had needed the angelica. She couldn’t tell him that she had checked on John before dawn as if she were already preparing him for a world without her, or that when Connor found her at the herb stall, some terrible part of her had felt relieved before she had felt ashamed.
Connor looked at her face and took one step closer. His hand lifted and then stopped midair. He lowered it to his side.
“Daenae do anything stupid again,” he murmured.
“Was that another order?”
“It was.”
“Is it because ye are angry?”
“It’s because I found me wife about to collapse in a market and she still thought lying was the better choice.”
The heat left her cheeks.
He had seen her pale at the stall. He had seen her grip the post. He had even seenmorethan weakness. He had seen danger, and it had driven him across the market with murder in his eyes and care in his hands.
Violet looked down at the linen between her fingers. A drop of water dripped from her hair and hit the floor.
“Me Laird…” she trailed off. Connor’s eyes sharpened at the title, and she forced herself to look at him. “Connor.”
His expression changed by the smallest degree.
“Daenae leave,” she pleaded.
“Are ye saying that because yewantme here?”
She swallowed, but no joke came. The tavern creaked below them, and the bitter tea waited on the table.
“I want ye here,” she said.
Connor did not move.
That gave her the last inch, and the last inch had to be hers.
Violet stepped forward, still wrapped in the linen, and reached for his shirt. Her fingers curled into the fabric. He inhaled once, sharp enough for her to hear, and bent only when she tugged him closer.
Their lips met.
Connor’s mouth hovered over hers for one fierce breath, then he drew back enough to look at her.
His hands moved to her waist. The linen between them had loosened where her fingers clutched his shirt, and she was acutely aware of every poor defense left to her: damp cloth, bare feet, shaking knees, and pride that had stopped being useful several minutes ago.
“Do ye ken what ye are asking for?” Connor rumbled.
“I asked ye to stay.”
“Aye. And now?”
